5:38 p.m.
Owen was in his apartment, inside his office. The blinds were shut, not a single line of light came in from outside.
He rested his elbows on the desk, hands buried in his hair. In front of him lay a mess of pages covered in crossed-out lines, notes on top of notes, ideas that started and died within the same sentence. On the monitor, an open document: another rewrite that hadn't gone anywhere either.
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could force an answer out of it. Nothing came. He slowly opened them again and let out a long sigh, leaning back into the chair.
"I don't know…" he murmured, almost under his breath.
He was at a crossroads.
He had made the decision months ago: his next project would be Friends. In this world, it didn't exist, and in his previous one it had been one of his favorite sitcoms. Not just that, one of the most successful in history, top five sitcoms without question.
And yet, there he was.
Months later, he had barely made any progress.
It wasn't a lack of experience. When he decided to make Good Will Hunting, pre-production, even without a budget, just with discipline and focus, had been immediate: script, shooting script, production plan, budget… everything had flowed. He'd faced challenges, sure, but he overcame them and completed that phase in a very solid timeframe.
This, on the other hand, was completely blocked. He didn't even have the first season's script ready.
There were too many signs against it. Too many doubts he couldn't ignore.
The first was the cost.
One of the few things he had managed to estimate with some accuracy: around two million per episode. The original series had twenty-four episodes per season, but in 2023, that made no sense.
So his idea was to adapt it.
Twelve episodes, double the length. Forty minutes each. A kind of hybrid between a classic sitcom and a modern format.
That left the budget at around twenty-four million dollars.
In theory.
In practice, he knew it wouldn't be that clean. Recreating the nineties meant wardrobe, specific props, constant set dressing, corrections to eliminate any trace of the present… the real number would probably land somewhere between twenty-five and forty million.
That alone was already a serious problem. He would have to wait for his box office earnings from Good Will Hunting, since his current net worth was under thirty million.
But it wasn't the worst part.
Worse would be selling it.
If he invested, say, thirty-five million into producing it in full, he'd have to place it with a streaming platform under a five- or seven-year deal, and get them to pay more than that. Not impossible, but far from a sure bet.
Not in 2023.
Platforms weren't really looking for that anymore.
They wanted short seasons. Six, eight, ten episodes at most. A more cinematic narrative.
Twelve episodes were already pushing it, and the format itself was another issue. Everything that had once defined its success was now starting to feel outdated. Like he was trying to sell a product designed for another era.
On top of that, the humor of the nineties was another factor he couldn't ignore. It could work, but not necessarily for today's audience.
Younger viewers might not connect, or worse, not fully understand why something was supposed to be funny.
Casting didn't help ease those doubts either.
Replicating the Friends model with unknown actors in 2023 was a much riskier bet. That's why, from the beginning, Owen had considered being one of the leads himself and surrounding himself with young, recognizable actors, not superstars, but at least somewhat known.
Though that would probably drive the budget up even more.
Then there was the issue of laughter.
Canned laughter, the way it used to be done, now felt artificial, almost annoying. Owen had never fully liked it. If he was going to do this, he wanted to do it right: film with a real audience, like a stage play, and let the reactions be genuine. No boosting them, no manipulating them in post-production. Let the laughter exist only when it needed to exist.
Even so, he knew that for part of the audience, it would still feel outdated.
'And that's not even everything…' he thought, bringing a hand to his forehead.
Playing one of the leads was another dilemma.
Typecasting itself didn't worry him. He didn't see himself getting stuck as a Chandler, a Ross, or a Joey, he trusted his range as an actor far too much to believe a single role could define him. Besides his confidence in his acting ability, he had, quite literally, hundreds of films and series he could bring into this world.
He knew he could walk away from it whenever he wanted.
The problem was time.
A sitcom like that wasn't a one, or two-year project. It was ten seasons. Ten years. A sustained commitment that would consume a large part of his schedule.
Ten years in the same role. Assuming he released one season per year.
Just a few days ago, in his speech after winning Best Actor at Cannes Film Festival, he had said he was going to become one of the best actors.
And now he was going to lock himself into a sitcom for a decade?
He fell silent, processing the contradiction, and then the last doubt surfaced, the most uncomfortable one.
What if it failed?
It wasn't just the money, though losing tens of millions wasn't a minor detail. It was what would come after: perception. A big, personal, ambitious project that didn't work.
A hit to his credibility.
A shift in how the industry would see him.
He knew every actor failed at some point. It was inevitable. But this wouldn't be a small stumble. It would be a massive, visible gamble. On the level of Babylon.
His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the desk.
He had to make a decision. He couldn't keep postponing it. He'd taken this idea the year before, held onto it for months, and still hadn't moved forward. Turning it over again and again wasn't going to change anything.
He went completely still, in silence. Seconds stretched, turned into minutes. He just thought.
Nearly fifteen minutes passed, and then he decided.
'Friends canceled,' he thought, letting out a faint sigh.
At least for this year. It wasn't a permanent abandonment. But it was enough to free him.
Second Take Films would have its first release of the year this very week with Good Will Hunting.
Then in October, Lights Out would premiere, directed by Matt and starring Anya Taylor-Joy.
The original plan had been to close the year with his first series in November or December. But with Friends so underdeveloped, there was no way to meet that timeline. And trying to force it now, with all the doubts that had piled up, was risky.
Canceling was simply the most logical choice.
Even so, he wasn't out of options.
There was a backup plan. Black Mirror.
The first episode was deep in post-production. In fact, at that very moment, the director and editor were probably working at the Second Take Films offices. He had set up two editing rooms: one for that project and another for Lights Out, both progressing in parallel.
According to Uta, the episode's director, the final cut would be ready between June 18 and 20.
Filming had wrapped on May 14. About five weeks of post-production.
His original plan had been simple: finish the pilot, pair it with scripts for five more episodes, and go out to sell the IP. Immediate money, positioning himself as a television writer, and a way to strengthen his profile ahead of his next starring series.
But that plan no longer fit.
Without Friends on the immediate horizon, the equation changed completely.
Owen stared at a fixed point on the desk as the idea fully took shape.
Why sell an IP like Black Mirror before even exploiting it?
It didn't make sense.
The first episode had cost him around two million. If he produced the remaining five, the full season would land somewhere around twelve million. A figure entirely manageable for him at that point, even without relying on Good Will Hunting's box office returns.
Compared to what it would take to launch Friends, this wasn't just cheaper, it was a far more controlled risk. Practically minimal. The concept had potential, it fit the format current streaming favored, and it carried his name behind it, something that was already starting to have weight on its own.
The format also worked in his favor personally.
As an anthology series with self-contained stories, there was no sense of long-term commitment.
He could pick one episode. One of his favorites, something that genuinely appealed to him and challenged him as an actor.
Then he thought of Jenna. As the producer of episode one, he was sure she'd love to act in one of them. He could choose an episode that fit her. Or even something for both of them.
An episode where they were both the leads. The combination of their names alone already had value. It would increase interest, media buzz, and the appeal for any platform.
A faint smile, the first in days, at the thought of his next steps, formed on his face.
Now, yes.
The path was clear.
Finish the first season on his own. Six episodes. Then go out and negotiate, license it to a platform for a few years while keeping the IP.
If it went well, and everything suggested it would, given he knew the success of Black Mirror in his previous world, then he'd sell the IP.
But not from the idea. From success. At a much higher value. And he'd still keep the passive income from the first season.
Owen was going to focus on moving forward. Have the second episode ready by the time post-production on the first one wrapped. He already had several options, but then the doorbell rang.
He blinked, as if suddenly pulled out of that state of concentration. He stood up from the chair and left the office, crossing the hallway to the apartment door.
He stopped at the intercom and pressed the button.
"Yes?"
"It's me, Larry."
Owen frowned slightly, surprised. He didn't have any meeting scheduled with him.
"Come up," he replied, pressing the button to unlock the building's entrance.
He waited, and a few minutes later he heard footsteps in the hallway, then a soft knock on the door.
Owen opened it without delay. "Hey, come in," he said, stepping aside to let him through.
Larry returned the greeting with a brief nod and walked into the apartment. Owen closed the door behind him, and they both moved to the living room, taking a seat.
"What's up?" Owen asked, curious, resting his forearms on his knees.
If Larry had come in person, it wasn't random. He didn't make unannounced visits without a reason. That narrowed the possibilities down quite a bit: a major role, something he knew would truly interest him, or a big sponsorship.
Since Cannes, those kinds of offers hadn't taken long to appear.
His profile had changed. He was no longer just a promise or emerging talent. Now there was prestige behind him. And that attracted brands, but not just any brands. High-positioning ones, aligned with a more refined image.
One of the first had been Rolex, to Owen's liking, since he was already a customer.
A one-year deal worth two million dollars. Eight hundred thousand upfront. The rest distributed across campaigns, shoots, and public appearances, red carpets, events, even his YouTube videos, where the watch would be visible. And a final payment at the end, contingent on fulfillment.
Nothing invasive, nothing that required dedicating time like it was a full job. Just association, and the occasional photoshoot that might take a day every so often.
Larry was even wearing a Rolex himself now. Three years ago, he had been in a rundown apartment struggling to get clients and pay rent. Now he had more than enough money to buy a Rolex.
Then came Saint Laurent.
One million for a year. Half upfront, the rest staggered across campaigns and appearances. But the value there wasn't just money, there was free clothing, guaranteed invitations to events like the Met Gala, among other things.
Owen hadn't accepted many more. He didn't want to oversaturate himself, and he chose brands carefully.
"DC Studios wants you to audition for Superman," Larry said, serious, hands clasped together.
Owen stayed silent for a few seconds. He didn't react immediately. He processed it first.
"DC? Seriously?" he finally asked, with a hint of disbelief.
Larry watched him for a moment, already used to it. 'That's about as much as I'm going to get out of him,' he thought, slightly amused. And even so, it was enough. Owen wasn't the type to jump up or celebrate just for landing an audition for a major role.
"Yeah. Seriously," Larry nodded a couple of times.
"Go on," Owen said, now interested.
Larry explained the email and the likely process.
If they confirmed interest, DC Studios would send over material. The first stage would be remote: several scenes, two to four, to work both Clark Kent and Superman. A classic self-tape.
"We don't know for sure," Larry added, "but they're probably not seeing too many people. Fifteen, twenty at most."
Owen gave a small nod. If he passed that stage, there would likely be one or two more.
Owen gave him the green light.
He was interested.
Having his own franchise. Something like what Timothée Chalamet had with Dune, or Tom Holland with Spider-Man. And this was Superman, no less, within a rebooted universe led by James Gunn.
Which, from what was already being seen, would be a more classic, brighter Superman, not the darker approach of the Zack Snyder era.
Even so, something about it still didn't fully click for him.
Those kinds of contracts meant three, five films if the universe worked. Years of commitment.
On top of that, superhero roles, for a prestige actor, or one who wanted to be the best, were often seen as one of the least respected choices.
They were underestimated. Very few had managed to break that barrier.
Heath Ledger.
Joaquin Phoenix.
Both for the Joker.
He also remembered Angela Bassett, nominated for Best Supporting Actress for Black Panther: Wakanda Forever. He had seen her at the ceremony in March.
Exceptions.
Even so, he was going to audition. There was nothing certain yet anyway.
The conversation with Larry stretched on for nearly another half hour, fine-tuning details, until he stood up, ready to leave.
And at that moment, the door opened.
Jenna walked in. She was wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, sunglasses, simple jeans, and white sneakers. She shut the door with her shoulder, took off her glasses with one hand, and upon recognizing Larry, greeted him without surprise.
"Hi, Larry."
"Hey," he replied with a small wave. "Everything good?"
"Yeah, all good," she said, dropping her keys on the table. "You?"
A brief exchange, almost automatic. Larry didn't linger, he knew he had shown up unannounced. He said his goodbyes and left.
The door closed.
Jenna took a few steps toward Owen, without saying anything else.
"Hey, hubby," she said, rising slightly on her toes to kiss him.
"Hey, babe," Owen replied, leaning down toward her.
The kiss was short. When they pulled apart, they both stayed still for a second, looking at each other, and then reacted the same way: an instinctive recoil. Jenna rubbed her arms as if trying to shake something off. Owen made an uncomfortable face.
"That was awful," Owen said.
"Yeah," Jenna nodded. "Hubby sounds worse out loud than I imagined."
Hubby is short for husband. A nickname couples use, often criticized, especially when used by people who aren't even married.
Then she raised an eyebrow. "'Babe?" she repeated, now with a faint smile. "That's the king of normie nicknames. Never thought I'd hear you say that."
"I know. That's something that idiot Ryan would use. Babe? What kind of dumb nickname is that? Is your partner a baby?" Owen said with a grimace of disdain.
Jenna let out a laugh.
A few days earlier, already back in LA, they had gone to a get-together with some of her friends, Mikey, Melissa, Dylan, Jack, that group.
And a couple had shown up that both of them had disliked within five minutes of meeting them: overly clingy, sweet in an artificial way, like every gesture was calculated to be seen. They spoke to each other in constant diminutives, touched each other every second, and looked at one another as if they were in a scene.
The complete opposite of them.
At one point, they had even pointed them out for not being affectionate enough, like they didn't seem that close.
That alone had been enough for both of them to spend the entire night hating them, criticizing them between the two of them.
Then Owen had come up with a game. Every time they greeted each other, they'd use the most ridiculous nickname possible. Something that kind of couple would say without hesitation, without realizing how stupid it sounded.
"We need to raise the level, we've already used the classics…" Jenna said, thoughtful.
"Next time I could go with something like… hello, light of my eyes," Owen said, adopting an overly sweet tone, almost unrecognizable. "And in public."
Jenna immediately winced, raising a finger in warning. "No. That's too much. That's a level of embarrassment I'm not willing to experience," she declared.
They both laughed, dropping onto the couch. For a few minutes, they kept mocking the couple, going over details, and imitating them.
They were both more petty than they seemed, especially when they teamed up.
Until, naturally, Owen changed the subject, "How did it go today?"
He knew she had a photoshoot with one of the major brands sponsoring her.
Jenna told him, relaxed, resting her head against the back of the couch.
Then she asked, "Why was Larry here?"
Owen hesitated slightly, as if wanting to stretch the moment.
"He came to talk to me about a role I was offered. A big one," he said, in a mysterious tone.
Jenna's eyes widened, but immediately she said, "Superman, right?"
Owen froze, completely blank for a second.
He looked at her, confused.
Jenna, seeing his face, couldn't help but laugh. She leaned toward him and tapped his cheek with her finger. "Surprised, Pumpkin?"
Owen ignored the nickname. "How do you know?"
"Because my agent called me today too," she replied. "They offered me an audition for Lois Lane."
Owen slowly raised his eyebrows. "That… explains a lot."
Jenna nodded. It hadn't been an impossible deduction. He told her it was a big role, and she had just received a casting offer from DC Studios, the pieces fit. So she took a guess, and got it right.
"I have to admit, I'm surprised," Jenna said, now more serious.
"Yeah," Owen nodded. "I thought that even being a couple, it would take longer for them to consider us for something together. And not something like this."
Clark Kent and Lois Lane.
The romance in the film.
"Although… we're a bit young, aren't we?" Jenna said, trying to understand how they were approaching the casting. Whether it was a general decision from the team or something more specific, maybe even a direct preference from James Gunn.
Owen shrugged slightly. "If they're looking for versions in the twenty-five to twenty-eight range, we can play them," he replied calmly.
They were twenty-one. Not ideal on paper, but not impossible either. They didn't look like teenagers, nor did they have an immature presence. They could hold that range without a problem.
The issue would be if the characters were written to appear more like young adults in their early thirties.
They kept talking about it, analyzing it from different angles. It was an interesting situation, but also uncertain. There was always the possibility that one of them would advance further than the other, that only one would end up getting the role.
Even so, there was one scenario where they aligned.
If they reached the final stages, it was almost certain that DC Studios would organize chemistry tests between the Superman candidates and the actresses auditioning for Lois Lane. And there, at least in theory, they would have a clear advantage: there was already a prior understanding, a real chemistry that didn't need to be built from scratch.
It didn't guarantee anything.
But in a process where that kind of connection could tip the scale, it wasn't a minor detail.
When the conversation naturally ran its course, Owen changed the subject and told Jenna about the decision he had made regarding Black Mirror. Not to sell the IP. To finance the full first season himself.
She loved the idea. She had always thought the series had great potential. The concept was strong, and the first episode had been excellent.
That was exactly why she had never fully understood Owen's urgency to sell it so quickly. Immediate liquidity made sense, but in this case it felt unnecessary, not when he could cover the cost without overcommitting himself and complete a full season in less than a year.
The rest of the day passed without much more to it, and soon the next day arrived, the day of Owen's interview on Jimmy Kimmel Live!
-------------------------------------------------
You can read 15 chapters in advance on my patreon.
Link: https://[email protected]/Nathe07