Anyone who visited Zach and Mallory Horwitz in 2019 would have said that they had made it in Hollywood. They lived in a six-million-dollar home on Bolton Road, within walking distance of Beverly Hills; there was a screening room, a thousand-bottle wine cellar, and a cabana laced with flowering vines by the pool. The Horwitzes had hired a celebrity decorator and installed a baby grand piano and framed photographs of Brigitte Bardot and Jack Nicholson. On social media, Zach posted pictures of himself courtside at Lakers games; Mallory shared images of their toddler playing in the California sun. For Mallory’s thirtieth birthday, Zach paid the R. & B. artist Miguel to perform for friends at the Nice Guy, a voguish restaurant in West Hollywood.
The couple, college sweethearts from Indiana University, had arrived in California seven years earlier, in search of a new life. They had started the cross-country drive with their dog, Lucy, on New Year’s Eve. In L.A., Mallory trained to be a hair stylist, like her mother and grandmother back home in Santa Claus, Indiana. Zach, who had secretly wanted to act ever since he saw his first Broadway play as a child, landed a few tiny parts: he played Demon 3 in one film, an unnamed basketball player in another. He was not quite movie-star handsome, but he had gleaming teeth, an aquiline nose, imposing biceps, and turquoise eyes. For a stage name, he chose Zach Avery.
Although Zach was not an overnight success, bigger roles came soon enough. In 2017, he flew to Serbia for a film directed by Ralph Fiennes, then he was off to Virginia to shoot a movie with the Hollywood veteran Bruce Dern, in which he played opposite Olivia Munn. Before long, he starred in a thriller featuring Brian Cox, who played the patriarch Logan Roy on “Succession.” In an interview after the production, Zach praised Cox for “taking me under his wing,” and marvelled, with self-flattering deference, “When you’re sitting across the table from him, doing scenes, you almost have to pinch yourself and say, ‘How is this real?’ ”
Like many young stars, Zach dabbled in tech investments and started companies to produce and distribute films; he named his enterprises 1inMM, after his favorite saying, “When odds are one in a million, be that one.” Eventually, he encouraged Mallory to stop working at the salon. They had forty million dollars in the bank, he told her. Why go to work? All the while, Zach kept in touch with the friends who’d been with him during his rise. He took them to parties by private plane and always paid their way; he even made some of them rich, by dealing them into his businesses. In 2018, during a dinner in Montreal with three old friends from Indiana, one of them proposed a toast to Zach: “You’ve changed my life, my wife’s life, my children’s lives.”
But even in Hollywood, where professional envy is as ubiquitous as dental veneers, people around Zach were unusually puzzled by the divide between his success and his talent. “He is the worst actor I’ve ever worked with,” a former colleague told me. Sharing a scene with Zach, he said, was like interacting with a banana. The director Michele Civetta, who worked with Zach, told me that he was forced to invent ways to help him unlock emotion; otherwise, it was like “dealing with a dead horse.” Audiences reached a similar conclusion. After Zach appeared with Cox, in “Last Moment of Clarity,” one reviewer wrote that he delivered “such a dull, unappealing performance that the movie has a void at the center.” A viewer of another of his films declared, “Zach Avery’s acting was like a cancer to this movie. Every time he was on screen it died a little more. Good god, how did he make it past the auditions?”
Still, many people who encountered Zach thought that he seemed like just another lucky beneficiary of the capricious entertainment business. Gina Dickerson, a real-estate agent who met with him and Mallory, said, “In L.A. more than anywhere else, nobody really ever knows where the money is coming from.” Her colleague Tracy Tutor told me, “In Hollywood, the more you fake it, the more people actually buy it. You have the right car? You’re wearing the right suit? You know the right people? No one does the diligence.”
If anything, Zach struck people as too blandly genial to be anything other than what he appeared. Civetta, the director, noticed that he seemed determined to project wholesome simplicity—“milk and apple pie, his wife, his kids.” Tutor, the real-estate agent, who often appears with her clients on a reality show called “Million Dollar Listing Los Angeles,” considered casting Zach but concluded that he was too undistinguished to put on TV: “I said to the show, ‘This is the most boring, vanilla person.’ ”
As a teen-ager on the outskirts of Fort Wayne, where subdivisions give way to farmland, Zach Horwitz was an athlete, not a theatre kid. The Carroll High School yearbook featured a picture of him shirtless in the gym, under the headline “Best Bodies.” He was popular, but prone to telling fanciful stories that seemed engineered to draw attention. According to a classmate named Steve Clark, Horwitz once told peers that he had met the baseball star Derek Jeter at a mall in Florida, and that Jeter had invited him to dinner. The story seemed ludicrous, but Horwitz was beyond reproach. “He was handsome, and he was a football player, which is to say he was high-school royalty,” Clark said.
Horwitz’s parents, Susan and Howard, had divorced when he was young. For a time, he lived with his mother and sister in Tampa. During a visit to New York City when he was in grade school, he thrilled to a performance of “Annie Get Your Gun.” He asked his mother about the actors, and she explained that they were professionals, paid to entertain the crowd. Back home, he took to memorizing lines from movies like “Forrest Gump” and “Jerry Maguire,” and he talked of quitting school to become an actor, but his mother insisted that he get an education. By his sophomore year of high school, they had moved to Indiana; his mother had married Robert Kozlowski, a prosperous manufacturing executive. The family lived comfortably, with a vacation house on a lake.
In 2005, Horwitz started college in Bloomington, majoring in psychology. One day at the gym, he met Jake Wunderlin, who, like him, was a brawny former athlete from Fort Wayne. Unlike Horwitz, though, Wunderlin did not come from money. He was a scholarship kid—a tall, reserved honors student in finance who worked at the campus food court to help pay expenses. They grew close, and Wunderlin joined him on visits to his mother and stepfather, who had a big house near Zionsville, the richest town in Indiana. Horwitz gained a reputation for spending freely on friends, covering late-night drinks and pizza. “He was the one that would pay for everything,” Wunderlin told me recently. “He loved it. He never was mad about it, like, ‘Are you going to pitch in?’ ” Joe deAlteris, a business student who had been friends with Wunderlin since kindergarten, grew close with Horwitz, too. “I knew him as the guy who had a ton of family money,” he told me. “It felt like every semester he came back with a new car.”
“Would you like for me to talk to the posse when they get here?”
Cartoon by Frank Cotham
Horwitz also had a knack for identifying a need in another person, a point of emotional access. DeAlteris was outgoing, a wide receiver on the Indiana team and a member of the Beta Theta Pi fraternity, but in 2009 his stepfather died, and he was overwhelmed with grief. It was not a subject that he discussed easily with the college-gym crowd, but Horwitz lost his own stepfather around the same time, and the two bonded. At social occasions, Horwitz liked to pose questions that generated moments of self-revelation. He once asked a circle of friends, “How much money is enough? How much would it take in your life to do whatever you want?”
Mallory met Zach at a tailgate party in 2008, just before her twentieth birthday, and was taken with his attentive manner. “Everyone loved him,” she recalled. “If there was a homeless person on the street, he’d say, ‘Let’s give some money.’ I felt like I had an extremely deep, rare connection with this person.” After graduating, she followed Zach to Chicago. She walked him to classes at the Chicago School of Professional Psychology; when he told her that he was dropping out, after less than a year, she strove to be supportive. He harbored fantasies of getting into the Chicago improv scene, but kept them to himself. Instead, he talked enthusiastically about a job as a salesman, providing accounting software to small businesses.
Wunderlin was working in the Indianapolis office of the wealth-management division at J. P. Morgan, and Horwitz called periodically to compare notes. Among friends, he let it be known that he had inherited money—as much as ten million dollars, some said—and Wunderlin got used to hearing him talk about the “crazy returns” that his mother’s financial team had achieved. In fact, the family’s money was contested. Horwitz’s stepbrother Steven had filed suit against several relatives, alleging that they had shortchanged him on his inheritance. He accused Horwitz’s mother, Susan, of fraud and manipulation, suggesting that she may have forged his father’s signature on a will while he was sick, in order to secure most of an estate that totalled more than eleven million dollars. Lawyers for Susan called the allegations “false and distorted” and fought the case; in 2011, they reached a confidential settlement.
As the case was nearing resolution, Horwitz called Wunderlin and told him about an enticing opportunity: he had attended a small-business convention, where he’d pitched a chain of fast-casual healthy restaurants—in effect, juice bars with supplements. He said that he’d caught the attention of venture capitalists backed by Howard Schultz, the founder and C.E.O. of Starbucks, who had a sideline as an investor in food startups. (Not long before, a V.C. firm that Schultz co-founded had put almost thirty million dollars into Pinkberry frozen yogurt.) Schultz himself had expressed interest, Horwitz told him. “He said, ‘I have a meeting with Howard,’ ” Wunderlin recalled.
Days later, Horwitz reported back that the meeting had gone well; if he could get a restaurant built, Schultz would consider an investment. Horwitz invited his friend to join the venture, saying, “I need to build a team.” Wunderlin wasn’t about to leave J. P. Morgan for a juice bar, but then Horwitz put him in contact with Schultz directly. In March, 2011, Wunderlin got a long e-mail from Schultz’s account, reflecting on the lessons of building Starbucks and declaring, “I have faith in you. Your team has faith in you.” It ended on a note of inspiration: “Be the person that you have always dreamed of becoming, Jake, and all the rest will fall into place.” Elated, Wunderlin showed the e-mail to his parents, quit his job, and moved to Chicago.
The restaurant, called FÜL, opened that summer. Mallory, who got her own galvanizing e-mail from Schultz, had signed on, and Horwitz recruited other friends. In the next six weeks, he shared exciting news: undercover test shoppers had visited and approved the restaurant; Schultz was preparing a thirty-million-dollar offer. Better yet, they had received a rival offer from a private-equity firm in Florida.
Though the business consisted of a single storefront, Horwitz gave out grandiose titles, naming himself the C.E.O. and Wunderlin the C.F.O., with a starting salary of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He leased an office capacious enough for each of them to have a suite. While Mallory ran the restaurant and Wunderlin plotted its growth, Horwitz spent most days in his office, with the door closed. One afternoon, he invited Wunderlin to join him at the bank, but had him wait in the lobby while he signed documents to prepare for a deal.
Then, all of a sudden, it was gone. The private-equity offer had collapsed, Horwitz said, for complex reasons involving his inheritance, his private investments, and the Securities and Exchange Commission. Worse, he added, when FÜL looked unavailable, Schultz had moved on to another health-food chain. Wunderlin was devastated. Without new investments, the restaurant would be finished by the end of the year. “We were left to fend for ourselves,” he said. He began looking for other work.
The only good news, Horwitz said, was that Schultz had offered him a job at Maveron, his venture-capital firm. Mallory later recalled that he showed her a contract for a position at the firm’s “Entrepreneur Outreach Program,” based in Los Angeles. It would be perfect, he told her: he would visit campuses and small-business conventions, cultivating young strivers. He did not mention that the move would also allow him to pursue his dream of being a star.
Acting is a discouraging business, but Hollywood aspirants have sustained themselves for decades with tales of predecessors who outhustled the competition. Dick Van Dyke danced to stardom in “Bye Bye Birdie” despite having never before taken a class. Eddie Redmayne got cast in “Les Misérables” by claiming that he was a seasoned equestrian, even though he hadn’t been on a horse since childhood. Making it through an audition often requires bluffing not just the casting director but also yourself. It’s a mentality that Ryan Gosling once called “self-mythologizing”—the ability to face a “hundred other people that are better-looking and more talented and somehow think that you should get the job.”
When Horwitz got to Los Angeles, he set about bluffing two audiences: his old friends at home and his potential new friends in Hollywood. Soon after arriving, he wrote on Twitter, “I normally wouldn’t name drop BUT I asked H. Schultz this AM what his goal is for me in my role, he simply says, ‘Just be good. Don’t stink.’ ” Before long, though, he started telling Mallory that he was bored with his job and talking about shifting his attention to acting. “I’m, like, ‘O.K., if this is going to make you happy, do what you want to do—as a hobby,’ ” she recalled. He tried acting classes and auditions. Then, when he struggled to get parts, he changed tack. Ever since Warren Beatty produced “Bonnie and Clyde,” it has been common for accomplished actors to develop movies and then star in them. Horwitz wondered, Why can’t I produce, too? He befriended two brothers, Julio and Diego Hallivis, who were looking to establish themselves in the film industry. Diego, who wore his hair in a tall black pompadour, was a fledgling director. Julio, wiry and intense, ran the business side. Horwitz recruited them for 1inMM Productions to make low-budget independent films—essentially B movies in which he might star. He leased office space in Culver City and three black Mercedes coupes for them to drive to meetings. When Horwitz wasn’t around, Julio spoke scathingly about him. An associate recalled that he often said, “He’s such a terrible actor. But he’s the money guy. He has family money, and he knows rich people.”
Horwitz had arrived in L.A. at a time of unusual opportunity. Five years before, Netflix had started streaming films and television shows, and, as Amazon worked to keep up, the two companies competed for talent and content. By 2019, Netflix would be spending more than twelve billion dollars a year on programming. Disney launched Disney+, and WarnerMedia created HBO Max. All told, there were more than two hundred and fifty online video services in America, feeding a seemingly inexhaustible demand. Money was coursing through the industry, the Times reported: “Florists, caterers, set decorators, chauffeurs, hair stylists, headhunters—it’s gravy train time.”
In March, 2013, Horwitz announced a partnership to buy the rights to cheap movies and distribute them to the Latin American divisions of Netflix, HBO, and other platforms. His new partner, Gustavo Montaudon, was well suited to the endeavor: he had spent decades at Twentieth Century Fox, distributing content across Latin America. The deal was covered in the trade press, helping to secure a transformation of Horwitz’s image. The struggling actor with a failed juice bar was identified, in Variety, as “the entrepreneur behind fitness-driven lifestyle brand FÜL.” (Some of his marketing materials went further, describing FÜL as a “multi-million dollar, multi-pronged fitness brand” with “seven locations” and “apparel sold in Target, Dick’s Sporting Goods and Sports Authority.”)
One of the first people Horwitz approached with his venture was Jake Wunderlin. By the spring of 2014, Wunderlin was in Chicago, working as a trader. He had just received a bonus of thirty-five thousand dollars, and he was engaged to be married. He and Horwitz remained friends, but they rarely talked business anymore, until Horwitz started dropping hints that Schultz was backing his work in the movie business. “Zach said, ‘I can let you in on a deal,’ ” Wunderlin told me. It was small by his usual standards, Horwitz said, but, if Wunderlin could put up thirty-seven thousand dollars, he could make nine thousand dollars in ninety days. The contract showed that Horwitz was selling Sony the rights to a Mexican rom-com called “Deseo,” described in the official summary as “A succession of erotic encounters weaved into a daisy chain of delightful sensuality.”
Wunderlin had recovered from the failure of the juice bar, but he was still wary: “I said, ‘I can’t lose this money. This is everything that I’ve ever saved.’ ” Horwitz persuaded him by pledging his own assets in case anything went wrong. The deal went through as promised; Wunderlin got his money, which he put toward a down payment on a house. He was hooked.
That fall, he flew to Los Angeles to be a groomsman at Zach and Mallory’s wedding, at the Four Seasons. Wunderlin was awed by his friend’s new life: “He was doing three-hundred-thousand-dollar deals.”
Back in Chicago, Wunderlin sat on a roof deck one night with some of their other college friends, including deAlteris, who was working in private equity. He asked if they wanted to pool their money on a larger film deal. “None of us had the gift of inheritance or anything like that,” he told me. “All of us were focussed on what’s next in banking or private wealth or sales and trading. We were all trying to figure out how to be successful.” They agreed to buy into a series of deals, and got lucrative returns, often twenty per cent or higher. Soon, they started taking out loans to fund more of Horwitz’s investments, and thought of quitting their jobs to do it full time. DeAlteris said, “We’re getting paid on time. Real cash. Without fail.”
Before long, they were encouraging their parents to put money in. DeAlteris’s mother, a widow and a retired physician’s assistant, invested forty thousand dollars. Wunderlin’s parents put up half their retirement savings. Within two years, the college friends had profited on twenty-seven of Horwitz’s movie deals. To handle the business, four of them formed a company—called JJMT Capital, for the initials of their first names—and started bringing in money from outsiders, including wealthy investors on Chicago’s North Shore. “People were banging down our door—‘I hear you guys have this great opportunity. Do you have any room for me?’ ” deAlteris sa