John leaned back in the booth, stretching out his legs, resting his head on the ledge. Relief flooded through him at her response. She was asking questions as if he could actually get the thing made. “Second lead. It’s not a romance. There’s no happily ever after—not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Then you haven’t seen Last Night in Cincinnati.”

“You directed that?” He’d heard about it. The romantic comedy had been panned in the press.

“Yes,” Anna said, cringing and changing the subject. “Look, your taste in movies isn’t terrible—”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know how much the American public loves thoughtful movies about addiction and recovery.” Anna gazed at him, a sad smile on her face. “The only things studios are buying these days are superheroes and witty quips.”

“I’m pretty good with the witty quips.”

Anna smiled, but John could tell she wouldn’t be dissuaded from telling him what she thought. It was, after all, what he had asked for.

“Why do you need a studio or a star? You could make this on a shoestring budget. Find some unknowns. You could rent the equipment you need.”

John shook his head. “I’ve already seen what happens when you compromise on your vision.”

“I’m guessing you aren’t willing to cut down on the size of the cast either?”

John shook his head.

“Then what you’ve got is an incredibly expensive, incredibly depressing movie. This will only get made if someone persuasive convinces one of five well-known actors to accept the lead in the hopes of winning an Oscar. There are three studios in town that could make your movie.” She scowled. “An agent could package it if he got the right star attached.”

“I’m not an idiot, Anna.”

Anna held up her hands as if in surrender. “Have you pitched to them yet?”

“Not all of them.”

“Stick with indies.” Anna flipped over the script and gently nudged it toward him. “If you rely on one of the bigger studios to get your picture made, it won’t belong to you anymore.”

“An indie can’t afford the budget.”

“Better to revise the script now, lower the costs, and try to make it yourself. Hitching yourself to a major studio means major rewrites.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Anna tilted her head at him.

“I’m not selling it unless I can keep creative control.” John knew he was asking for a lot, and the chances were he wouldn’t get it. “Better not to give up on your vision than entrust it to someone else.”

“I’m all for artistic integrity and a healthy ego—you won’t survive this industry without it—but screenwriters don’t generally have that kind of power. Movies don’t get made without compromise.”