He leaned back in his chair, staring at the scribbled title at the top of the page: The Blair Witch Project.
It looked rough. Uneven. Barely real.But the idea was there—like a shadow taking form just beyond the light.
However, as Ben truly began sketching out the project in earnest—typing scenes, jotting dialogue, sketching locations—he realized a cold unavoidable truth rising like steam off the page.
This film was far too simple.
Too barebones. Too raw. Too stripped-down.
In terms of story, The Blair Witch Project was not more advanced than the experimental short film he'd made during film school.
There were no elaborate sets, no character arcs, no well-known actors to give it commercial appeal, and certainly no cinematic flair that would impress traditional Hollywood producers. Not even a strong emotional hook that could carry it by word-of-mouth.
Nothing "traditionally" marketable. If anything, the concept bordered on amateurish.
There was no visual spectacle.
"This is the kind of film they'd laugh out of the room," Ben muttered. "No spectacle, no hook, no face to put on a poster."
And he wasn't wrong.
There wasn't a single scene that screamed Oscar-worthy or even critic-friendly. No gripping emotional monologue, no visually stunning sequences, no big twist to ignite watercooler conversations.
And yet…
He knew the truth.
He knew this was one of the most iconic marketing success stories of the 1990s.
This wasn't about the story. It was about the myth.
In his past life, he'd watched how Blair Witch exploded into theaters and onto television sets, how it became a cultural phenomenon, not because of the film itself, but because of the myth that was built around it.
He'd lived long enough—twice now—to understand how the right myth, wrapped in the right packaging, could eclipse even the most brilliant screenplay.
"This film lives and dies by its marketing," Ryan muttered under his breath.
It wasn't a film—it was a campaign.
A whisper in the woods. A tape found in a backpack. A page on the early internet claiming three film students vanished.
A mythos. A psychological suggestion embedded into pop culture. But knowing that didn't make things easier.
The true value of this film wasn't in the script, or even the final product—it was in the way it would be marketed.
The genius wasn't in the dialogue. It was in the illusion of truth.
A psychological trick buried beneath layers of ambiguity and paranoia.
Something real enough to haunt, yet unreal enough to deny.
The fear. The mystery. The illusion of realness.
The genius was in the myth. But myths don't sell themselves.
"The marketing is the movie," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
And that's where the real problem emerged. Even if he somehow scraped together the resources to shoot the damn thing—how would he convince a distribution company to take it seriously?
He'd lived a lifetime in the film industry before this. He knew how these things worked.
But this was 1993. There were no streaming platforms here. No digital word-of-mouth.
Just cold calls. Film reels. And executives who could kill your dream with a glance.
Most small films ended up dumped onto home video shelves, or forgotten in regional theaters.
He understood that to sell the movie, he would have to manufacture the myth. The illusion that something terrible had actually happened. That these tapes were found footage. That the actors had disappeared. That the film wasn't a film at all, but a real urban legend captured on VHS.
"I need to ensure it's marketed like it was previously or it won't be a blockbuster"
He rubbed his temples. What he needed now wasn't just a script.
He needed a strategy. A full publicity plan.
"Unbelievable… a director forced to wear a marketer's hat." Ben said to no one. "Imagine being a director… and spending more time writing a marketing plan than a screenplay,"
Still, there was no escaping it.
Without a powerful promotional campaign—one that made The Blair Witch Project feel real, dangerous, legendary—no one would care.
He let out a long breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
The actors would need to disappear—on paper, at least.
The camera footage would need to look found, degraded, handheld, borderline incoherent.
The story would need a fake website, police reports, maybe even newspaper clippings.
"It can't look like fiction," he whispered. "It has to feel real. Like something unearthed, not made."
But saying that was easy. Executing it? That was a mountain. And he'd be climbing it alone.
He rubbed his temples, a sharp ache blooming behind his eyes.
Without a compelling promotional campaign—one that made The Blair Witch Project feel like a real found tape, like something forbidden and true—no one would care.
Not the audiences.
Not the festivals.
And definitely not the distributors.
He let out a long breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. He looked at the title again, half-formed and scribbled.
"No way I'm selling this for a check and a handshake" he said firmly, almost as if drawing a line in the sand. "No buyouts. I want a share. If they want this film, they're going to split profits."
Of course, that was easy to say and hard to enforce—especially for a nobody with no hits under his belt. If he wanted to negotiate like a player, he needed leverage. And that leverage would come from a rock-solid marketing plan.
But the thought of it weighed heavy.
"They'll call me a genius if I pull it off," he whispered, leaning forward again, his eyes glittering with fire.
And yet,
"But right now… I just feel like a broke guy with a dream and a ballpoint pen."
------
Ben leaned back once more, letting his pen fall to the desk with a soft clatter. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, watching the cracked plaster like it might hold an answer.
The script was complete. The marketing plan was written down. The budget was at $40,000.
But, the marketing, the connections, the money—it was too much for one person. Not without help. Not without credibility.
He hated to admit it, but he couldn't do this alone—not all of it.
"Helen…?" The name escaped his lips like a question.
He hadn't heard from her in days—not since she called to ask if he wanted to be an extra.
At the time, he'd turned her down flat. He didn't regret it… but still.
Helen had power. Maybe not all the power, but certainly enough to get someone's foot in a door, or at least introduce them to someone who held a key.
"If she believed in the short film… if she at least saw the short film…" Ben murmured.
That was the only anchor he had.
If Helen had actually watched Buried—not just nodded politely at Amanda's complaints or skimmed through the tape—then maybe, just maybe, there was a chance.
A slim thread to hold onto.
He remembered what Amanda had said in passing—that Helen had smiled while watching it. That she didn't stop halfway through. That, for 45 minutes, she sat there quietly with popcorn, watching a no-name kid's claustrophobic short film and didn't walk away.
That meant something, didn't it?
Ben shifted in his seat, leaning forward now, momentum gathering behind his thoughts like wind catching a sail.
If Helen had seen Buried, if she really saw what he was trying to do—trapped soldier, isolation, survival as metaphor—then she understood his voice as a filmmaker. And if she understood that voice, maybe she'd be willing to help him get this next one off the ground.
"Helen… you're in the machine already. All I need is a lever. Just pull one lever," he muttered, the words half-prayer, half-plea.
She might know someone. A junior exec. A producer's assistant. A cousin of a cousin who owed her a favor. That's how things got done in this town. Not through agents or query letters or festival submissions.
Maybe she could introduce him to someone in distribution.
Or someone who could finance just a fraction of the budget—just enough to make the illusion real.
Even a small-time PR person, someone who knew how to spin a story, craft a legend, plant a few rumors.
"You've got connections, Helen. Pull a few strings. Just one intro. One meeting. That's all I need."
No—through whispered names and closed-door coffees.
He stood up and paced across the room, hands in his pockets, thinking.
He exhaled slowly. It felt pathetic, hoping someone else would come through. But this was Hollywood. Talent mattered, sure. But so did access.
And right now? Ben had none.
He stood up and paced across the room, hands in his pockets, thinking.
Should he call her? Would that make him seem desperate?
He was desperate. But desperation was poison here. You had to play it cool, like you already had ten other offers lined up.
"Maybe I send her the script," he muttered, turning back toward his desk. "Package it clean. Include a cover letter. Let her know I've got more than just an idea—I've got a vision."
It was risky. But it was the only move on the board.
Ben sat back down, rolled his sleeves, and added one more item to his growing to-do list:
→ Prep packet for Helen: script + marketing concept.
He stared at it, chewing the end of his pen. "You saw something in me, Helen," he said softly. "Don't turn your back now."
But another idea bloomed in his mind, more immediate. More urgent.
Why send something and hope she reads it when he could try the old-fashioned way?
Talk. Face to face.
"No more waiting around," Ben said aloud, pushing himself up from the chair. He grabbed his notepad, flipping through the rough script pages, the early marketing beats he'd drafted—everything from "missing posters" to "archived police reports."
His fingers hovered over the phone on the kitchen counter.
Amanda. That's the only path to Helen.
He hesitated.
After all, the last time they'd talked, he'd sworn he wouldn't bring up Buried again. He promised he wouldn't be a nuisance. And he had still sent his experimental short film for Helen to have a look.
But things were different now. This was something new. Something real.
Ben picked up the phone and dialed the Star Talent Brokerage's number from memory. After a few rings, a familiar voice answered—dry, vaguely suspicious, but unmistakably Amanda's.
"Star Talent, Amanda speaking."
Ben took a breath and smiled like she could see him.
"Hey Amanda, it's Ben Gosling."
Long pause. "You again."
"Yeah… me again. Look, I was wondering if I could schedule a quick meeting with Helen. I've got something I'd like her to look at—script, concept, the works. It's a new project."
"New project," she repeated, flatly.
"Different from Buried. This one's commercial. Marketable. Scalable."
He hesitated, then added, "And I'm not asking her to fund it. Just… fifteen minutes. That's all."
Another pause. "You're lucky she didn't tear Buried apart."
"She watched it though, didn't she?"
"She did," Amanda admitted. "Ate half a bag of Cheetos while doing it."
Ben grinned. That was something. "So… can you fit me in?"
Sigh. "Alright. Come by Tuesday, 11:30 a.m. Don't be late. Don't bring props. Don't talk my ear off. And dress like someone who owns a mirror."
Ben laughed, relieved. "Thanks, Amanda. I owe you."
"You already owe me. Now you just owe me twice." The call ended.
Ben set the phone down and leaned over the cluttered table, looking at the mess of script pages and scribbled marketing notes.
Tuesday. 11:30. Showtime.
He'd have to work through the night. Today was already Saturday.
But for the first time in days, he didn't feel like he was spinning in circles.
There was a door in front of him.
And finally… he had a foot in.