Life's been rough for Bill Mechanic lately.
*Fight Club* cost $65 million to make, with another $40 million sunk into marketing, $15 million for prints, shipping, and insurance, plus $11 million in taxes and fees tied to the investment. Grand total? A staggering $130 million!
Bill had big dreams for this one. Even when Twentieth Century Fox execs pushed back hard, he doubled down, greenlighting it anyway. After internal screenings got shaky feedback, he still poured cash into promotion. His logic? Simple. He wanted to prove his golden gut once again.
Take *Independence Day*. He backed Roland Emmerich to the hilt, even handing over final cut. Boom—box office champ of the year. Then *Titanic*. Everyone doubted it; it raked in $1.88 billion worldwide—a world record! And *My Big Fat Greek Wedding*? Fox brass thought he'd sold out the company with cushy distribution terms for an indie flick. Result? $420 million globally, over 5 million DVDs sold, and nearly $100 million in profit for Fox.
This time, though, Bill's facing a wall of skepticism—and he's still betting on *Fight Club* to win big.
It hit theaters October 15th. A month later? Total disaster.
North American box office barely scraped past $30 million, now dipping below $1 million a week. Final tally's looking like $35 million, tops. Overseas? It's an R-rated flick, so limited markets—only $13 million so far. One month in, the market's already declared *Fight Club* DOA. Fox's team predicts a $60 million loss, minimum.
You'd think Bill's track record would earn him a mulligan. He's been a rockstar for Fox. But public companies don't play that way. Profits are expected; losses demand accountability. If Fox let this slide, shielding Bill from the fallout, investors would lose faith, stock would tank, and the damage to News Corp and Fox would dwarf that $60 million hit.
So, chaos reigns at Twentieth Century Fox. Everyone's bracing for the inevitable: Bill Mechanic's toast.
Heavyweights like Tom Rothman and Jim Gianopulos are teaming up, dead-set on taking him down.
Bill's holed up in his office, smoke curling around him, staring blankly. In the purple haze, a young face flickers—Dunn Walker. His heart jolts. Suddenly, it clicks. No wonder Tom Rothman groveled to Dunn for *Wedding Crashers*' distribution rights. Dunn's not just a director—he's a kingmaker in Fox's power games!
"Dunn…" Bill squints, piecing it together. Every film Dunn's touched, every Dunn Films production—it's all struck gold.
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Post-production's a breeze compared to shooting, especially for a movie like *Spider-Man* with lighter effects work. As director and producer, I mostly oversee things, set the framework, and let the team run with it. With Morgan Carey assisting, it's practically a vacation.
The UK's film industry lags behind Hollywood, so I brought my post-production crew from the States. But their gear? Cutting-edge, outshining Hollywood's aging setups. Big-name directors over there cling to decades-old tech—nostalgia or cluelessness, who knows? Even Spielberg's still snipping film by hand. Me? I've been digital for ages.
I don't have many UK pals, but Kate Winslet's my closest. I gave her a call—turns out she's chilling in London on break. Score! Kate and I go way back—way beyond a few flings. *Titanic* launched her, me, and Leo into the stratosphere. Our bond's deeper than most.
She was thrilled to hear from me and invited me over, all warm and bubbly. Her place? A quiet, decades-old villa in a posh London suburb. Nothing flashy, just gorgeous scenery.
We locked eyes, grinned, and went for a big hug. "Whoa, Kate, you're looking… fuller!" I teased, eyeballing her chest and giving a playful squeeze.
She swatted my hand away, glaring. "Big-shot director, my foot! No manners at all!"
I smirked. "Hey, I'm a big deal out there—always posing for the crowd. Exhausting stuff! Can't I let loose with a good friend?"
She laughed, exasperated. "What, so I'm supposed to cheer on your jerk moves?"
"Nah, just don't mind 'em," I grinned, reaching out again.
She rolled her eyes hard and dodged. "Dream on!"
We hit the living room. "What's to drink?" she asked.
"Booze!" I flopped onto her plush silk couch. "Gets you wild, right? Perfect."
She shoved a Coke in my hand. "Take it or leave it!"
I chuckled, eyeing her. "So, Kate, what's new? Any projects?"
She caught my wandering gaze but let it slide. "Just wrapped *Quills* with Geoffrey Rush—an Aussie actor. It's a biopic."
I raised a brow. "Award bait?"
She shrugged. "Who knows? I'm 24—can't expect another Oscar already."
I laughed. "Kate, you're too self-aware."
"What about you? Heard you stirred up a storm—Bill Gates, Michael Jordan, all tangled in it?" She gave me a sly look.
I blinked. "Gates, sure, but Jordan?"
"You didn't hear?" Her surprise flashed. "*The Times* just dropped it—Rodman too, and oh, Madonna!"
"Pfft!" Coke sprayed everywhere.
"Dunn, my floor!" Kate growled, teeth clenched.
I waved it off. "Pop queen Madonna?"
"Who else?"
"She… hit up the Golden Club?"
"Paper says she took their top dancer, Bush, to a hotel room."
I was floored—speechless. Kate, though? Cool as ever. "It's the biz," she said, puzzled by my shock. "Same-sex flings for kicks after the usual gets old. Jodie Foster's been out forever."
"Me? Women only!" I shot back, then glanced upstairs, drooling over her curves. "Can I check out your bedroom?"
We dated for half a year once—she knew my game. "Dunn," she snapped, "is *that* why you're here?"
I sighed. "No, Kate, I… fine, truth? I've been dry for two weeks."
"Huh?" Her perfect brow arched, confused.
With my appetite, charm, and clout, Hollywood starlets line up for me. Like Leo—her other buddy. I've seen his parties: he picks five leggy blondes, they're thrilled; the rest sulk. I'm not as pretty as Leo, but I've got more pull.
I spilled it—Natalie's hang-ups, our Aussie trip. Kate cracked up, then gaped. "You and Natalie… for real?"
"Yep!"
"Why her?"
"Why not?"
"No, *why her*?"
I paused under her sharp stare, then got it. "Lots of reasons. Big one? She's pure. Means a lot to me."
"Dunn, you're *pathetic*!" She hurled a cushion at me, stormed upstairs, and left me hanging.
I froze, then grinned, slinking after her quietly.
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