The three men sitting in front of me, all wearing fident grins, made it clear that this iation wouldn’t be easy.

  “I think half a million would be the perfect remuion for you,” David Friendly, the man on the far left, said. He was in his fifties, with a stocky build and a round face.

  “Absolutely,” Peter Saraf, seated in the middle, agreed. He looked simir to David in terms of age and build. “You know we only have an 8 million budget after ating for state subsidies. So half a mil es to about 6% of the total. No one’s getting paid more than that, so you will be the top-billed star in this ensemble.”

  While that might have been true, it couldn’t be ighat I wasn’t an ordinary ay name on the film would sell tickets—that’s why they offered me the role. But I couldn’t e across as too aggressive and risk alienating these producers. Beside me, Tobias fidgeted nervously. He had volunteered to iate on my behalf, but I’d deed. Betweewo of us, I was the better iator any day.

  Had they offered me at least 2 million, I would have gdly accepted the pay and gone ahead with rehearsals. But half a million was far too low. My expenses during the produ—private pne, security, hotels, and staff saries—would already exceed that amount. Adding a great film to my repertoire was valuable, sure, but I wasly short on offers.

  After [The Perks of Being a Wallflower], I’d been receiving offers from multiple studios, none of which offered me less than 5 million—one eve up to 15 million. Some studios had tried to book me in advance for year, once [Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix] and [Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince] were ed. But I’d turhose offers down; I didn’t want to it to scripts or in some cases just ideas that I had no idea about.

  “How about we eliminate an upfront sary entirely?” I offered. “Instead, give me 25% of the film’s revenue, and we’ll call it even. For the upfront, just pay me basic SAG rates.”

  The way the three producers exged gold me immediately they wouldn’t agree. Nor did I want them to. I had a much better proposal in mind, but to push them toward it, I o suggest something impossible first.

  “Twenty-five pert is too much,” Mark Turtletaub, the third man in the group, said. “At most, we do 10%.”

  “That’s too low for me,” I replied with an apologetic smile. Before they could interject, I tinued, “Try to see it from my perspective, Mark. Every other studio is me at least 5 million, and that’s on the lower side. I uand this is an indie film with a limited budget, so I’m willing to an upfront sary if I expect solid profits. I’ll accept 10% if you give me a 3 million upfront sary. That’s the minimum extra revenue you’ll make because of my presen the movie.”

  David shook his head without even sulting his partners. “That’s preposterous. We’ll be screwed either way. We don’t have 3 million for you.”

  I smiled inwardly. It was time to reveal my trump card.

  “Then I suggest an alternative. How about I pay you 8 million to take over the film produ under my produ house, Phoenix Studios? All of you stay on as producers, and I’ll pay you a fixed sary for it.”

  The three exged gnces. I khey’d o discuss this among themselves before reag a decision. Film produ was ily risky, but if I bought them out before the film was even made, it would save them from all that uainty.

  “We have two more producers involved,” Mark said. “Albert and Ron. We’ll have to talk to them as well before making any decisions.”

  “Alright,” I said, rising from my seat. “Think it through a bae. I’ve given you three options—decide whie works best for you.” Then, turning to Tobias, I added, “e on, we’ve got a meeting with Sony bia as well.”

  I caught the flicker of fusion on Tobias’ face, but he wisely stayed silent in front of the three men. Only after we were outside their office did he ask, “We have another meeting?”

  “No,” I replied with a grin. “They just o think I have other films I’m sidering. It’ll push them to make a quicker decision.”

  “Then why didn’t you say it was with Warner?”

  “Because they might assume it’s about [Harry Potter]. I haven’t done any films with bia yet, so they’ll think it’s about a new project.”

  Tobias looked at me, surprised, as we walked toward the car. After a moment, he said, “You’re very devious.”

  “I’ll take that as a pliment,” I said with a grin.

  “This just proves I made the right decision quitting as your manager,” he quipped. “By the way, don’t you think you should get a new manager ent?”

  “What’s the need?” I asked. “I already have a good wyer to draft and review all my tracts, and I’m doing a det enough job managing myself. Maybe when [Harry Potter] is over, I’ll sider it. Right now, what I really need is an i mao handle my online presence.”

  Tobias gave me a dubious look. “There’s no such thing as an i manager.”

  “I know,” I said with a nod. “I’ll create the role. Your job is to find me someone who is easygoing, dedicated, good with puters, and has solid writing skills. Their writing should be retable tur people.”

  “I’ll see what I do,” Tobias said, jotting something in his notepad. “Anyone else you want to hire?”

  “Not at the moment,” I replied as we reached the car.

  (Break)

  “That fug brat!” David growled. “Who does he think he is? ing in here like a prang peacod demanding we hand over our movie to him.”

  “Calm down, David,” Mark said in a soothing toroy didn’t demand anything. He just offered us a few alternatives to make it worthwhile for him.”

  “Worthwhile?” David shot bagrily. “Is half a million too little for him? If he’d just been a bit more patient, we would’ve raised his pay to a million.”

  Mark met his gaze evenly and said, “He has a worth of around 400 million. He’s already one of the wealthiest actors in the world—definitely iop three. Do you think he cares about mo this point?”

  David gaped at Mark in disbelief. That was an obse amount of money for a teenager—more than the bined worth of all five producers. No woroy didn’t hesitate to offer to buy the movie ht.

  Peter hummed thoughtfully. “Mark’s right. I think Troy wao buy us out from the start. That’s why he quoted such a high fee for the movie.”

  David rubbed his forehead. “Then what should we do? We ’t just hand over the film at cost.”

  “He offered us a sary as well,” Peter reminded him. “But I have a better idea. How about we let him buy us out for 10 million and a 10% cut of the reveer on? That way, each of us recover our inal iments—not to mention the residuals. Troy’s films tend to do great business so that only be good.”

  Mark houghtfully. “That’s a good offer. If Troy accepts it, that is. I have no doubt he’ll try t it down. It’s better if we ask for 20% from the start.”

  David interjected with angestion. “What if we go back to Paul Dano for the role? He was very good.” David had been Dano’s stro advocate initially, but the other producers had overridden him, f his hand.

  Mark shook his head. “We don’t have any other superstar attached to the film. Who knows Steve Carell? He’s a TV actor. An Arkin, Toni Collette, and Greg Kinnear are character actors at best. We need someone like Troy to put this movie on the map. With him involved, we could easily sell the film to a big studio for 20 million at least, before it’s even shot. He’s us this money because he knows exactly what he’s worth.”

  Peter nodded along. “You’re right. Let’s float the idea with Albert and Ron and see if we all want to sell. Personally, I’m in.”

  “So am I,” Mark agreed. “As long as he agrees to give us residuals.”

  They both turo David, who mulled it over for some time before finally nodding. “Let’s sell.”

  With the majority vote cast, the film was as good as sold to Troy Armitage. The only thio discuss was the prid profit participation.

  (Break)

  Back at my LA home, I was rereading the script for [LMS], immersing myself in my character, when Mum interrupted my tration.

  “I think you paid too much for this movie,” she said, sitting beside me on the living room couch. “The script is very good, but these types of movies rarely even break even.”

  “That’s eople said about [Perks] too,” I replied. “Besides, 8 million is its produ cost. I only paid 1 million more than that, so I don’t think it was excessive.”

  The five producers had initially demanded an eous 12 million plus 20% of the revehat offer was ughable. After intense iations, we finally agreed on 9 million plus a 10% revenue share—2% for each producer. As per our deal, I’d pay them 7 million upfront and the bance upon receiving the pleted film. If they saved some money from the initial 8m, good for them. If they go over budget, then they will have to pay from their own pockets.

  At first, I’d sidered them a fixed sary instead of a profit share. But after some thought, I realized they wouldn’t give their best uhey had a stake in the project’s success. Producers, uors, don’t necessarily face direct repercussions for poor performance, but profit participation has a way of motivating them.

  I looked up from the revised script for [Little Miss Sunshine] when the main door opened, and in walked Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris. The husband-and-wife director duo seemed awestruck by the extravagany home. I bmed Mum for that.

  I personally disliked ostentation, but redecorating had bee her favorite pastime. Without any budget straints, she teo go overboard, filling the house with antiques and artwork she sidered iments. Acc to her, these pieces were just as valuable as stocks in top panies because their worth only increased over time.

  I still couldn’t fathom why anyone would want the hideous horse statue by the entra was ghastly. And worse, it had cost a small fortune.

  “Jon! Val! So good to see you,” I greeted, standing up to shake their hands before motioning to the seats. “Please, make yourselves at home.” Turning to our maid who had just e in, I added, “Martha, could y uests some refreshments?”

  “Just water will do, thank you,” Valerie said quickly before Martha could leave. She then turo Mum. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Kloves.”

  “Thank you,” Mum said, beaming. “It’s a green home—pletely sustaih sor energy.”

  The directors looked genuinely impressed. Before the versation veered too far into home decor, I steered it back to the reason for their visit.

  “I assume Peter, Mark, and David have updated you on the ret ges?” I asked.

  Jonathan grinned. “Of course they did, Mr. Producer.”

  “Executive Producer,” I corrected, smiling. “This is just an iment for me. I won’t be participating in the filmmaking in any other capacity. And please, let’s keep this arra under s until filming is pleted. The other producers have agreed to that dition as well.”

  I didn’t want my fellow actors or crew members to treat me differently. It was better for them to think of me as just another cast member. Typically, there are two types of producers: those who oversee produ and those who merely fi. The tter are called Executive Producers.

  In rare cases—usually with indie films—the roles of Executive Producer and Producer overp, which almost happened with [LMS]. However, I chose to avoid the additional stress of produ responsibilities, especially with less than two months to shoot the film.

  “Of course,” Valerie agreed easily. “Other than Jonathan and me, no one in the cast or crew will know.”

  “That’s all I ask,” I nodded, steering the versation forward. “So, what was it you wao discuss that couldn’t wait until rehearsals in two days?”

  Valerie g Jonathan and nudged him lightly. He nodded, looking a bit like an obedient puppy, before speaking. “We uand that every acts a unique perspective to their role, and we respect different ag methods. However, your role is quite distinct—especially in the first half, where you have no dialogue. We wao discuss your approach to the character. Even without speaking, we want to ehe focus on you is equal to, if not greater than, the other characters.”

  I hummed thoughtfully. Their emphasis on my character was likely a nod to my dedicated fan base, which wouldn’t take kindly to me pying a minor role in an indie film. But with only two weeks until filming began, major script ges weren’t realistic.

  “I’ve prepared reas for every se,” I said after a moment. “Take a look.”

  I handed Valerie my copy of the script. It rinted only on the left side of each page, leaving the right side free for my notes. On these bnk pages, I had detailed what I believed my character would feel and do in each se. This method helped me dissed uand my role better, especially in the early stages of filming. By the time we were a few weeks in, I would know the character better than anyone else—even the writer.

  “This is good,” Valerie said, passing the script to Jonathan, who looked equally impressed.

  “Anything you’d like to add?” I asked.

  “Just ohing,” Valerie replied. “It’s something Paul, the actor cast before you, suggested while preparing for the role. You don’t have to do it—it’s just an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “He nning to take a vow of silence himself,” Jonathan expined. “His idea was to refrain from speaking to ail the day we filmed the se where the vow is broken. Because of this, o shoot all the ses of the first half before we shot the sed. So we wanted your opinion about how you will proceed because we would adjust the dire of the film based on that.”

  “That’s some serious dedication from Paul,” I noted, raising an eyebrow.

  “It is,” Valerie agreed.

  The more I thought about it, the more the idea intrigued me. I had never gone a day without speaking—not even in solitude. Even when I was away from home promotions or something, I would usually hum, sing, or practice lines, always engaging my voi some way. Taking a vow of silence would be difficult, but it recisely the kind of challenge I relished.

  Before I could respond, Mum interjected, “I think that’s unnecessary. Troy doesn’t need such stunts. He gives incredible impressions even without speaking. He even imitate Charlie Chaplin perfectly. What more do you need?”

  I smirked, grabbed a notepad from the table, and scribbled down a senteurning it toward them, I revealed the words: Challenge accepted. I won’t say a single word until the day we film the se.

  “Troy, don’t do this,” Mum pleaded. “You’re not a method actor.”

  I shrugged and wrote another quick reply: I am now.

  Mum’s gre could have melted steel, but I was unbothered by it. The directors seemed both amused and impressed by the turn of events. They quickly excused themselves, leavio bask in my resolve—and Mum to grumble about my decision.

  _____________________________________________

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