The crew rented two rows of old public housing on the front and back streets for filming. This way, they could not only use them as shooting locations but also as accommodations for the crew. It had to be said, Miramax's financial situation wasn't great—they were stingy to a ridiculous degree.
"Harvey gave us a $20 million investment, and the funds haven't even fully arrived yet. After paying the crew, there's barely any money left for the actual shoot. I wish I could split a penny in half!"
In the dining hall of the apartment where the main crew lived, a dinner was underway. Since investment matters weren't exactly confidential, David Fincher sat at the table complaining about the financial strain.
"Twenty million dollars really is a bit tight."
Ryan echoed his sentiment. He vaguely remembered that in his previous life, the investment for this film was around sixty or seventy million. Of course, the dollar ten years later couldn't be compared to the current one.
"Even so, Harvey told me we'd better save on promotional costs. My God! He might as well sell me outright."
Clearly, David Fincher was troubled by the funding issues. It wasn't something others could help with, so they simply responded with a round of good-natured laughter.
"Nicole's bacon and eggs aren't done yet? I'll go check the kitchen." Ryan remembered Al had also gone into the kitchen. Although that guy was witty and easygoing, he was an old-school playboy.
Sure enough, just as Ryan reached the kitchen door, he heard Al's voice: "Nicole, your cooking's really something. These bacon and eggs have a unique flavor."
"Really? I didn't used to cook much, but over the years I've had to take care of Ryan, so I gradually got better at it." Nicole's laughter drifted out.
"You two have such a good relationship. Have you ever thought of finding a father for Ryan?"
"Don't joke, Al. Ryan is just my little brother."
Ryan simply walked in, first glancing at Nicole preparing the bacon and eggs, then at Al standing beside her, and said bluntly, "Hey, Al, don't even think about hitting on Nicole! Or I'll make you pay."
"Hey, Ryan, you cheeky little rascal." Al widened his eyes comically, looking just like the blind colonel in Scent of a Woman.
"I'm serious, Al. I know Chinese kung fu!" As he spoke, Ryan struck a clumsy tai chi pose.
Al Pacino laughed heartily, gently patted his head, and walked out of the kitchen first.
"Alright, Ryan, stop messing around. Help me carry a plate out." Nicole took off her apron and handed Ryan a white porcelain plate full of bacon and eggs.
Though the dinner wasn't lavish, it was lively thanks to the crowd. Especially halfway through, when producer Harvey Weinstein drove in from New York. The chubby man's career was only just getting on track at the time, far from the bloated egomaniac he'd later become. With his smooth-talking charm, the living room atmosphere grew even more festive.
"Dealing with the Child Welfare Association is driving me crazy. Not only do they restrict Ryan's daily working hours, but they also ask about the tutor situation and his study progress. They'll even be sending someone over soon. I'm losing my mind." Harvey Weinstein sat at the table, venting to Nicole and Ryan.
"That's not my problem." Ryan shrugged.
"Not your problem? Ryan, you can't say that. You were the one who refused to let us hire a tutor and told me to tell those damn Child Welfare people to go to hell."
"I said that? I don't remember." Seeing Nicole's face start to darken, Ryan immediately denied it flat-out.
"Uh..." Harvey Weinstein was momentarily stunned before saying, "Fine. When the Child Welfare people come, I'll just throw the movie script at them and ask, 'Would a kid who wrote this still need a damn tutor?'"
"Relax, Harvey. Just get a stand-in to pretend to be a tutor when they come. With my abilities, handling them will be a piece of cake." Ryan was full of bad ideas.
"Wait a minute!" Al Pacino suddenly raised his hand to interrupt. "The script? You mean the script for The Sixth Sense? Ryan Jenkins... no way!"
Al looked over in astonishment, eyes wide like saucers, as if he'd seen a Martian. "Harvey, are you saying the Ryan Jenkins credited as the screenwriter is the same Ryan Jenkins sitting across from me?"
"Yep." Harvey Weinstein nodded and asked curiously, "You didn't know? Nobody told you?"
"Oh my God!" Al Pacino slapped his forehead. "I always thought they were just two people with the same name. Damn it! Ryan, why didn't you ever say you wrote the script?"
"Hey, Al, you never asked!" Ryan looked innocently aggrieved. "Should I have run up to you wagging my tail and said, 'Mr. Al Pacino, I wrote The Sixth Sense. Please praise me, I beg you to compliment me?'"
His words, paired with his exaggerated gestures and expressions, were hilarious and made everyone burst into laughter.
After the laughter died down, Al was still in disbelief. He looked from David Fincher to Harvey Weinstein, then to Nicole Kidman. All three nodded, confirming it.
"Surprised, right, Al?" Harvey Weinstein seemed to understand. "David and I were just as shocked when we first found out. And..."
He looked toward Ryan, Nicole, and Kinsley. "You three are something else. Keeping such a big secret from me?"
"A big secret?" The three exchanged glances, clearly unaware of what he meant.
Harvey didn't bother explaining. He swiftly pulled out a weekend edition of The New York Times from his briefcase, flipped to the bestsellers list, and pointed: "This week's bestseller list. Jurassic Park is at number five, The Ryan Story Collection at thirty-one, and Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone hasn't charted yet."
"If I hadn't bought the paper last weekend, if I hadn't noticed how similar the writing style of those books was to The Sixth Sense script, if all three hadn't been credited to Ryan Jenkins..."
"Alright, Harvey. I admit, I wrote all three books." Ryan shrugged. It wasn't something shameful, nothing to hide.
"Oh my God!" Even though he'd already suspected the truth, Harvey Weinstein couldn't help but gasp.
Al Pacino and David Fincher were no better. Especially Fincher, who had been holding a fork with bacon and eggs poised for his mouth—now frozen in place like someone had hit pause.
Al outright snatched the paper from Harvey's hands, needing to see it with his own eyes to believe it.
It was several minutes before the others in the dining room calmed down, but their gazes at Ryan had completely changed. If he'd only written The Sixth Sense, it could be chalked up to inspiration and personal experience—but what about those books?
Jurassic Park was published back in 1986. How old was he then? Barely six or seven. Most kids that age were still playing pretend and messing with Transformers or Barbie dolls. And he was already writing books?
If it were someone else, they might suspect a ghostwriter. But Ryan had been an orphan in a welfare home, with no money or connections. Who would ghostwrite for him?
Besides, after so many days of filming, everyone had seen how precocious, intelligent, and wildly imaginative this boy was. They often felt like they were talking to an adult. And his acting—his performance was undeniably brilliant. What did all this mean?
Had God closed a window on him only to open a door—and not just any door, but the Arc de Triomphe?
By then, aside from Ryan and the other two, no one else had any appetite left. They left the dining room, deep in discussion.
Despite the surprise, shooting still had to continue. At Ryan and Harvey Weinstein's request, the others tactfully kept the matter quiet.
But after Ryan helped the crew deal with the Child Welfare officials, he started to feel like the chubby producer was plotting something. Especially the way Harvey looked at him—it was like a hungry wolf spotting fresh meat.
As mentioned before, actors' performances naturally fluctuated. Al, the seasoned pro, was best at self-regulation. Ryan came second. Surprisingly, Nicole ranked last among the three main actors.
"Ryan, you really are a born actor." It sounded like praise, but her next sentence revealed her real feelings. "You lie so well it's seamless!"
Clearly, Nicole was remembering past incidents. Thinking back, the little guy had been pulling her leg the whole time. Fortunately, they were just small things and no harm done.
"Is that so, Nicole?" Al Pacino popped up out of nowhere, gave a gallant little bow, and said meaningfully, "Would you like me to help discipline this mischievous little rascal?"
"Oh, damn it." Suddenly, Al felt a chill in the costume he'd just put on. He reached into his abdomen and pulled out a thin green object. "What is this?"
Just as Al bowed, Ryan had already leapt to a safe distance, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "Hey, Al, stay away from Nicole! Or next time it won't be a de-thorned cactus leaf!"
The whole crew burst into laughter. After so many days together, they'd long realized that Ryan and Al had a great relationship. The two often pulled harmless pranks on each other—and Al was clearly the more frequent victim.