The Maker: Hollywood

The Burbank office of Miller Studios no longer smelled of fresh paint; it smelled of high-stakes logistics.

Large-scale blueprints of starships were pinned to the walls of the ”War Room,” alongside concept sketches of desert planets and forest moons. In the corner, a 3D printer whirred constantly, spitting out prototype models of helmets and droids. This was the scale of Star Wars. It was an all-consuming beast. Even with Legendary Pictures providing a $100 million buffer and technical support, the sheer inertia required to get a ”Space Opera” off the ground was staggering. It wasn’t just a movie; it was an industrial undertaking.

Work moved slowly but surely. Daniel had spent the last two weeks in a dual-track existence: by day, he met with the ”Grandmasters”—the veteran department heads he’d hired to mentor Sarah and Sam. These were men and women who had built the epics of the seventies and eighties, people who knew how to manage a crew of five hundred without blinking. By night, he retreated to his bungalow in Toluca Lake to work on the ”other” side of his career.

It was nearly 1:00 AM. The only light in Daniel’s living room came from the glow of two monitors and a small desk lamp. Tom was hunched over a keyboard, his eyes bloodshot, his fingers tapping out the final lines of a new script.

”And... scene,” Tom muttered, hitting the save button with a definitive clack. He leaned back, his chair groaning under the weight of his exhaustion. ”That’s it. That’s the final pass. I still can’t believe we just did this.”

Daniel walked in from the balcony, a cool breeze following him. He’d been on a call with a VFX house in London, negotiating the costs of matte paintings. He walked over to the desk and looked at the title page sitting on the screen.

JUNO

”It’s a far cry from lightsabers and Death Stars,” Tom said, rubbing his face. ”I spent the last two weeks thinking about Wookies, and then you hand me a script about a sixteen-year-old girl with a ’distinctive’ vocabulary and a penchant for SunnyD.”

Daniel picked up a printed draft of the script. On Earth-199, Juno had been a sleeper hit, a movie that cost almost nothing and made a fortune while winning an Oscar for its screenplay. But more importantly for Daniel’s current trajectory, it was a palate cleanser.

”The industry is already trying to stick me in a box, Tom,” Daniel said, flipping through the pages. ”After 12 Angry Men, everyone thinks I’m the ’Gritty Crime Guy.’ If I go straight into Star Wars, I’ll be the ’Spectacle Guy.’ I don’t want a label. I want them to be afraid of guessing what I’m doing next. Juno is the curveball. Star Wars is going to take a long time in production and post production anyway.”

Tom sighed, reaching for a lukewarm cup of coffee. ”I’ll be honest, Dan. This is the first time I’ve read one of your scripts and thought, ’I have no idea if people will actually like this.’ It’s so... normal. It’s mundane. It’s a girl talking to her stepmother about ultrasound appointments and a boy who likes orange Tic Tacs. It’s not ’high-octane.’ It’s just... life.”

Daniel offered a small smile. ”That’s exactly why it works. Everyone in this industry is trying to out-scale each other. They’ve forgotten that a conversation over a kitchen table can be just as intense as a trial or a space battle if the characters are real. Trust me on this.”

Tom looked at the script, then back at Daniel. ”Of course I trust you. I’m just saying, the jump from a $100 million space epic to a movie about a pregnant teen is going to give the trades a collective stroke.”

”Good,” Daniel replied. ”Let them twitch.”

The casting for Juno was going to be the real challenge. Unlike Star Wars, which relied on archetypes and mythic presence, Juno required a terrifying level of ”normalism.” The lead role of Juno MacGuff needed someone who could deliver fast-paced, quirky dialogue without sounding like they were reading a script. The role of Paulie Bleeker needed a specific kind of awkward, gentle sincerity. Vanessa and Mark Loring needed to feel like a real couple struggling with the silent fractures of their marriage.

Daniel sat down at his desk and pulled up the Miller Studios business account. The numbers were healthy—healthier than he’d ever dreamed. Aside from the $100 million Legendary had put in a dedicated escrow for Star Wars, the company account held roughly $12.1 million. This was the profit from the 12 Angry Men theatrical run and the initial OTT licensing fees.

He had moved $100,000 into his personal account—enough to live comfortably and pay the rent on the bungalow—and after the substantial bonuses he’d given the crew, the remaining $12 million was sitting there, waiting to be used.

”We can make Juno for $5 million,” Daniel mused, looking at the spreadsheet. ”Maybe even $4.5 million if we’re smart about the locations. We don’t need a studio for this, Tom. We do exactly what we did with the first one. We produce it entirely under Miller Studios. No studio notes, no executive interference. We make the movie we want, and then we show it to the highest bidder.”

”You want to go the indie route again while you’re literally building a studio franchise?” Tom asked, a hint of admiration in his voice. ”You’re a glutton for punishment, Dan.”

”I’m a glutton for creative integrity,” Daniel corrected. ”If I take Legendary’s money for Juno, they’ll want to cast a twenty-five-year-old pop star as the lead to ’ensure the demographic.’ If we pay for it ourselves, we cast the person who is Juno.”

Tom nodded slowly. ”It’s a smart play. It keeps the ’indie’ brand alive while the ’blockbuster’ brand is in development. It shows we aren’t Legendary’s pets.”

---

The weeks that followed were a study in the transience of Hollywood fame. The initial explosion of news regarding Daniel Miller—the ”UCLA Miracle,” the ”Chateau Success,” the ”Maroon Suit”—had begun to fade into the background. The Big Five studios had moved the public’s attention toward their own upcoming summer slates. Julian Vane’s Cheese Louise was everywhere, with billboards popping up all over the Sunset Strip.

In Hollywood, you were a god on Monday and a ”Where are they now?” trivia question by Friday if you didn’t stay visible. Daniel saw the cooling of the press as a blessing. It gave him the cover he needed to work. He didn’t want to be a celebrity; he wanted to be a player. And players didn’t just chase the buzz—they controlled it.

The hiring for the Star Wars production team was nearing completion.

As soon as the charges on [Talent Hunt] had recharged, Daniel had used them to find a few people he desperately needed. Sarah and Sam had been paired with their ”Grandmasters.” Sarah was currently shadowing Robert ”Bob” Elswit (a parallel for the veteran DP of Earth-199), a man who had shot everything from gritty dramas to sprawling Westerns. He was a gruff, no-nonsense veteran who had taken one look at Sarah’s work on 12 Angry Men and told her, ”You’ve got an eye, kid. Now let’s see if you’ve got the stomach for a six-month shoot in the desert.”

Sam was working under Dante Ferretti (the legendary production designer parallel), who was currently obsessed with Daniel’s descriptions of ”used-future” aesthetics.

”Most sci-fi is too clean, Daniel!” the old designer had shouted during a meeting. ”Everything is chrome! Everything is shining! But your vision... this ’Millennium Falcon’... it’s a junker! It’s a piece of trash that flies! It has character! It has history!”

The team was solid. The veterans provided the stability, and the ”Miller Originals” provided the spark. But the most important part of the process was about to begin: The Official SAG Public Auditions.

Because Star Wars was a union-sanctioned production with Legendary’s backing, the auditions were a massive affair. The Screen Actors Guild had been notified, and thousands of actors—from established character players to fresh-off-the-bus hopefuls—were vying for a spot in what was being called the ”Project of the Decade.”

Daniel walked through the lobby of the Legendary casting building in Burbank, Tom at his side. The hallways were already lined with people clutching headshots, their faces a mixture of desperation and dreams.

”Look at them,” Tom whispered. ”We were them six months ago. Now you’re the guy they’re all terrified of.”

”I’m not the guy they should be terrified of,” Daniel said, looking at a young man in a worn denim jacket. ”I’m the guy looking for a reason to say ’yes.’”

As they entered the audition room, where Sarah, Bob, and the casting director were already seated, Daniel felt a familiar hum of the System in his mind. He wasn’t just here to find a secondary pilot for the Rebellion or a Grand Moff for the Empire. He was here to find the ”normalism” he needed for Juno. This was a two in one audition that the actors auditioning weren’t aware of.

It was Daniel’s way of spending Legendary’s money while benefitting himself.

”Alright,” Daniel said, taking his seat at the center of the long table. ”Who’s first?”

”First up is a list of about three hundred for the role of ’Imperial Officer #4’ and various Rebel pilots,” the casting director said, handing Daniel a thick stack of headshots. ”But we’ve got a few ’wild cards’ mixed in who didn’t quite fit the archetypes we sent out.”

Daniel flipped through the photos. His eyes were scanning everyone’s faces like a hawk. He wasn’t just looking for the mythic weight of a Jedi today. He was looking for the girl who walked with a slouch and a hoodie. He was looking for the boy with the headbands and the track suit.

”Let’s start,” Daniel said.

For the next eight hours, the room became a revolving door of human ambition. Daniel watched them all. He watched the way they entered the room, the way they handled the ”sides,” and the way they reacted when he asked them to improvise.

Most were ”good.” They were professional, they were polished, and they were utterly forgettable. They were doing ”acting.”

But then, about halfway through the afternoon, a girl walked in. She was around twenty, wearing an oversized flannel shirt and jeans that had seen better days. She didn’t look like a Rebel pilot. She didn’t look like an Imperial officer. She looked like she’d accidentally walked into the wrong building on her way to a library.

”Name?” the new casting director of Miller Studios, John Davis, asked.

”Ellie,” the girl said, her voice possessed of a flat, dry wit. ”Ellie Page.”.

Daniel unintentionally chuckled. He couldn’t recognise her due to her haggard appearance at first glance. But the main actress of the film had walked to him on her own. He didn’t even have to use [Talent Hunt], of which he still had one charge left.

”You’re auditioning for a Rebel pilot, Ellie?” Daniel asked, leaning forward.

”I mean, I can fly a ship if you want me to,” she said, shrugging. ”But I’m mostly just here because my agent told me I needed to ’get out more.’ I don’t really do the whole ’pew-pew’ space thing.”

Tom looked at Daniel, his eyes wide. He recognized that tone. It was the exact tone they’d been writing for the character of Juno.

”Forget the pilot sides,” Daniel said, sliding a different piece of paper across the table. ”Read this. It’s a scene about a girl in a pharmacy. She’s just taken a pregnancy test. It’s her third one. She’s not happy about it.”

John looked confused. ”Daniel, that’s not for Star Wars.”

”I know,” Daniel said, his eyes fixed on Ellie. ”Read it, Ellie.”

The girl picked up the paper. She looked at it for ten seconds, her expression neutral. Then, she looked up. The ”actor” didn’t emerge; the person did.

”Third time’s a charm,” she read, her voice perfectly capturing the mix of bravado and underlying panic. ”I’m like the ’Etch-A-Sketch’ of fertility. One shake and I’m pregnant again.”

She delivered the line with a deadpan quirkiness that made Sarah laugh out loud. Even Bob, the crusty veteran DP, cracked a smile.

Daniel watched her through the [Director’s Lens]. She was perfect. She didn’t have the ”Face Card” of a movie star, but she had the ”Reality Card” of a human being.

”Thank you, Ellie,” Daniel said, making a note on her headshot. ”We’ll be in touch. Soon.”

As she walked out, the room was silent for a moment.

”Was that for the ’Other Project’?” John asked.

”That’s for Juno,” Daniel said, feeling a surge of excitement. ”That’s our lead.”

”But Dan,” Tom whispered. ”We haven’t even officially announced Juno. We haven’t even looked for the boy yet.”

”We’ll find the boy,” Daniel said as he marked the profile of Ellie Page.

The SAG auditions continued. For the rest of the world, Daniel Miller was currently working on a massive ’Soap Opera’ gamble. But in that room, he was a filmmaker building two worlds at once—one in the stars, and one in the quiet, messy corners of a high school hallway.

He checked his watch. It was a long road to the premiere of Star Wars, and a long road to the release of Juno. But as he looked at the stacks of headshots and the folders of blueprints, he knew he was doing exactly what he had set out to do.

He was making movies, and he was having the time of his life doing so.

-------------------

A/N: I think we will meet the 300 PS goal. Remember the extra chapter drops with the regular chapter tomorrow.

Read two weeks ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS