461-465

Chapter 461: Oscar Nominations  

At some point, Alan Horn, the president of Warner Bros., had sidled up to Dunn. 

Dunn’s eyes lit up. “Mr. Horn? Got any advice?” 

The blockbuster strategy’s biggest real-world champion in Hollywood was Alan Horn, and a lot of Dunn’s talking points came straight from him. 

Alan shook his head. “Advice? Hardly. Your blockbuster strategy is mind-blowing. I’d bet that for the next 30 years, Hollywood filmmakers will look to your ideas as their guiding light.” 

Dunn gave a modest smile. “Mr. Horn, you’re too kind.” 

Alan’s expression turned serious, though he hesitated. “But… you said the era of superstars is over. I’m not so sure I agree. Last year’s hits like Speed 2, Hannibal, The Unsinkable, and Mr. & Mrs. Smith—they all leaned hard on big stars.” 

Dunn mulled it over for a moment before replying slowly, “When I say the superstar era is done, I’m not doubting their draw. I’m pointing out how filmmaking itself is evolving. Take Warner’s The Lord of the Rings, for example. The heavy lifting’s shifted from actors, cinematographers, lighting, and props to computer animators.” 

“Think about it—compositors, visual effects artists, motion capture specialists, modelers, renderers, software engineers, digital compositors—these are jobs that didn’t even exist in old-school film crews. It all proves one thing: Hollywood’s future depends more on computers than cameras!” 

Alan furrowed his brow, processing. “So you’re saying… the superstar glow will fade, and CGI will take center stage?” 

Dunn grinned. “For commercial movies—popcorn flicks, yeah! In those, the star might be a monster, an alien, or a masked Spider-Man. Human superstars end up as sidekicks, nowhere near as crucial as they used to be.” 

Alan thought it over, then sighed deeply. “Warner’s prepping Terminator 3 right now. Schwarzenegger’s contract… ugh, it’s a headache!” 

Dunn couldn’t help but chuckle. 

With a sequel like that, no contract caps mean actors can name their price! 

“Signed yet?” 

“Yeah,” Alan said, clearly unhappy, shaking his head. “The Terminator series without Schwarzenegger—could it even work?” 

Dunn blinked, lowering his voice. “Mind sharing the details?” 

Alan hesitated, then muttered, “$29.25 million flat fee, $1.5 million in perks, and 20% of the profits.” 

Dunn’s eyes widened like he’d seen a ghost. “Twenty percent profits? Not just box office?” 

Alan nodded heavily. “Yup—VHS, DVDs, ticket sales, TV rights, the whole peripheral package.” 

Dunn sucked in a sharp breath, gritting his teeth. “Cancer! That’s a cancer on the industry!” 

As a studio boss himself, he despised this kind of “extortion.” 

With Arnold Schwarzenegger’s acting chops and pull, if Terminator didn’t depend on him, his Hollywood payday would top out at $15 million! 

Alan gave Dunn a curious look. “What about you? Didn’t you just greenlight a sequel? Spider-Man 2 is about to drop—never hit this snag?” 

“Me?” Dunn’s lips curled up slightly. “Nah, I don’t run into that.” 

“Oh?” 

“To sign on for my comic-book superhero flicks, it’s a 10-picture deal minimum! Don’t like it? I’ll recast! I don’t coddle anyone. Like I said, film value trumps director value, trumps star value. Marvel’s comics? That’s the real gold!” 

“Maybe…” Alan wasn’t fully sold yet. 

It was too far ahead of its time. 

Mel Gibson, Tom Cruise, Will Smith—these guys still had insane box-office clout. 

Dunn shrugged casually. “Wait ‘til Terminator 3 hits theaters. You’ll see.” 

Terminator 3: $200 million production, $130 million marketing. North American box office? $150 million. Worldwide? $430 million. With ancillary revenue, it wouldn’t lose money, but profit? Slim chance—just enough to cover interest. 

After a beat, Dunn grinned. “By the way, Mr. Horn, your Warner contract’s up soon, right?” 

Alan shot him a glance. “Three years left.” 

“Oh, well, next time you’re renewing, give me a heads-up.” Dunn didn’t hide his intent. “I think Time Warner’s been pretty unfair with your position!” 

“The Truth of Commercial Cinema: The Blockbuster Strategy.”  

“Dunn Walker’s First Lecture Unveils a Bold New Vision.”  

“Storming Into a New Era With Blockbuster Thinking.”  

“Film Theory Pioneer: Dunn Walker—ooh, I like that one!” Scarlett plopped into Dunn’s office again, perched on his lap, flipping through magazines and newspapers with glee. 

“At USC’s film forum, famed Hollywood director Dunn Walker introduced a groundbreaking concept: the blockbuster strategy. It’s a standardized playbook for big-budget commercial films—and the secret behind his jaw-dropping success over the past few years… Hey, why aren’t you listening?” 

Noticing Dunn’s eyes drift shut, Scarlett huffed in protest. 

Dunn chuckled, pulling her close and whispering, “These articles are all the same. Let the press hype it up—we’ve got to stay grounded. Don’t let the noise mess with your judgment. When you’re a big star someday, don’t sweat the outside chatter either.” 

Scarlett’s eyes sparkled with delight. “You really think I can be a big star?” 

“You’re my girlfriend! If you want to be a star, you think I won’t pull out all the stops?” Dunn teased, tweaking her nose. 

She shook her head in mock defiance, then asked excitedly, “So when can I get as famous as Natalie?” 

Dunn gave her a look. “How old are you? Focus on honing your acting first—give it a few years!” 

“Oh.” Scarlett pouted, then perked up. “Could I get an Oscar nomination someday?” 

“You will.” 

“Hehe, so Natalie’s Oscar nod is in the bag, right?” 

She snuggled closer, tilting her head up at him. Her breath was warm, her gorgeous face still youthful but already hinting at an irresistible charm. 

A few more years, and she’d be unstoppable. 

Especially with her squirming on his lap, twisting her hips. 

She was playing with fire! 

“Sit still, don’t wiggle, or I’ll have to deal with you right here!” 

“Deal with me then—who’s scared?”  

Unlike Natalie, Scarlett didn’t care one bit that this was an office. 

Dunn surrendered. “Alright, stop it—I’ve got a meeting soon. We’re picking a director for Ant-Man.” 

Scarlett whined, “You didn’t answer me! Is Natalie getting that nomination?” 

Dunn paused, thinking. “Shouldn’t be an issue. CAA says the feedback’s solid. Plus, after my lecture laid out the blockbuster strategy, the big studios have been playing nice. They won’t block Nat’s nomination too hard.” 

Scarlett blinked, confused. “What about Kirk Douglas?” 

Dunn smirked dismissively. “My connections reach the White House. The Big Six are kissing up to me—what’s one old geezer got on that?” 

“You’re swearing!” 

Scarlett giggled. 

Dunn teased, “Oh, by the way, Saw II is about to drop. Want me to grab a copy for home so we can watch it tonight?” 

“No way! That stuff’s terrifying!”  

She shot it down without a second thought. 

Tomorrow was February 1st. 

Saw II, from Rampage Films, was hitting theaters soon, and the Oscar nomination deadline was closing in. 

Natalie… she’d snag at least one nod, right? 

But just an hour later— 

Dunn was in a meeting with the production, writing, market analysis, and Marvel Studios teams, hashing out the Ant-Man director pick, when his phone buzzed with a text. 

From CAA’s Bryan Lord. Short and sweet: “All good!” 

“哈哈哈哈!” Dunn burst out laughing. 

The room froze, staff staring in bewilderment. 

What was up with the big boss? 

Dunn coughed, a little embarrassed. This wasn’t something to spill—Bryan must’ve pulled some ultra-discreet strings for that update. 

He hesitated, then said decisively, “Alright, it’s settled then. Doug Liman’s our guy! I saw his Bourne Identity footage—solid stuff. His quick-cut style’s on point. Just one rule: keep the story fun and the vibe in line with Spider-Man.” 

“Spider-Man and Ant-Man go for witty and light; Daredevil and Ghost Rider are serious, epic vibes. Marvel Studios mapped this out ages ago,” Nina Jacobson nodded, though her face was grim. “But we’ve got a new problem.” 

“What?” 

“Nicolas Cage doesn’t want to do Ghost Rider!” 

“Huh?” 

Dunn was floored. 

Bill Mechanic shrugged calmly. “Not surprising. Nic’s an action star—he won’t lock himself into a superhero role and box in his image.” 

Nina added, “Exactly. He’s especially against a multi-picture deal. Doesn’t want ‘Ghost Rider’ stamped on his brand.” 

Dunn rubbed his temples, exasperated. 

Nicolas Cage was at his peak now—proud, picky, a far cry from the broke, take-anything phase of his later years. 

“Forget it. If he’s out, we’ll recast,” Dunn sighed, resigned. “Grab a second- or third-tier actor, lock them into a long deal. Saves us some cash—works out better!” 

Chapter 462: The List Revealed  

The Oscar nomination voting was over, and the committee was tallying the final results. 

Ten days from now, the list would drop. 

In the meantime, entertainment papers were buzzing with predictions about this year’s Oscar nods. As for the blockbuster theory? That was niche stuff—entertainment sections mostly gave it a quick mention, nothing deep. 

But on February 6th, something big hit the stands. The Los Angeles Times, The New Yorker, The Hollywood Reporter, Entertainment Weekly—they all ran a full-page photo! 

There was Dunn Walker, decked out in a red doctoral robe and black cap, holding a big certificate in each hand, posing with a friendly smile alongside an older man and woman. 

The Los Angeles News ran a whole feature on it— 

“Recently, renowned Hollywood director Dunn Walker was awarded honorary doctorates in ‘Film Studies’ from USC’s School of Cinematic Arts and ‘American Literature’ from the School of Dramatic Arts. With this, he becomes the first ‘alumnus’ in USC history to snag two honorary doctorates.” 

“USC boasts the nation’s most prestigious film school, producing legends like Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Robert Zemeckis, Ron Howard, and David Wolper. Now, Hollywood’s own Dunn Walker has joined this elite family!” 

“Reports say Dunn Walker is donating $120 million to USC to build a cutting-edge new teaching facility to advance high-tech film innovation. USC’s board and film school have expressed deep gratitude for this.” 

“If the donation goes through, Dunn Walker will outpace Steven Spielberg, becoming the second-highest donor in USC history, just behind George Lucas…” 

In the U.S. and Europe, especially at private universities, schools often hand out honorary titles to big-name contributors to boost their rep and clout. 

Take Bill Gates—he dropped out of Harvard young, missing his bachelor’s. But after making it big? Honorary Harvard doctorate. 

Back in the ‘40s, Dr. Hu racked up honors like nobody’s business—top schools fought to shower him with degrees, giving him serious “world’s top Chinese figure” vibes. 

Dunn’s honors didn’t shake academia much—they’re just honorary, after all—but for his personal cred? Huge boost. And a double whammy—literature and film! 

That night, Dunn got home and strutted his stuff for the girls, then called Natalie, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Bachelor Portman, you’re on the line with Dr. Walker now.” 

“Show-off!” Natalie shot back with a laugh. 

Dunn chuckled. “So, how’s the song practice going?” 

“Pretty good. My roommate’s even singing it now.” 

“Nice! Come back when you’ve got a sec—we’ll record it.” 

Natalie hesitated. “That soon?” 

Dunn said, “Spider-Man 2’s in promo mode now. Getting the song done is a big hype move. Plus, the Oscar nomination luncheon’s in two weeks.” 

“What?” Natalie’s voice spiked with excitement. “You mean… I got a nod?” 

Dunn laughed. “What, you don’t trust me?” 

“Oh my God, honey, I love you! Love you! Love you to death!” Natalie squealed, over the moon. An Oscar Best Actress nod—one of the top five actresses in the world! 

Dunn smirked. “Words are cheap—you’ve gotta show me.” 

Natalie giggled. “How?” 

“Maybe…” Dunn dropped his voice, “when you’re back, you grab Scarlett, and the three of us get real cozy.” 

“Pfft! I knew your head was in the gutter!” 

… 

February 13th rolled around, and the 74th Oscar nominations dropped! 

As predicted, A Beautiful Mind cleaned up—eight nods, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Editing, Best Makeup, and Best Score. 

But all eyes were on Juno! 

Dunn had blasted the Golden Globes for shady backroom deals and unfair judging. He didn’t name names, but everyone knew he was pissed for his girlfriend, Natalie Portman. 

The Globes doubled down, claiming Natalie’s acting didn’t cut it for a Best Actress in a Drama nod—said their process was fair, no funny business. 

Now, every U.S. entertainment outlet was glued to the Oscar reveal. 

Did Natalie Portman have the chops or not? 

The answer… 

Monster’s Ball - Halle Berry 

Moulin Rouge! - Nicole Kidman 

Bridget Jones’s Diary - Renée Zellweger 

In the Bedroom - Sissy Spacek 

Juno - Natalie Portman! 

She actually made the cut! 

Cue the media turning their guns on the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, screaming foul play at the Globes. 

The Oscars—the gold standard—gave Natalie a nod. What’s your excuse now, HFPA? 

Best Actress at the Oscars: five slots, Natalie’s in one. 

Best Actress at the Globes: split into Drama and Comedy/Musical—ten slots total, and Natalie’s nowhere. 

No shenanigans there? Yeah, right. 

The HFPA scrambled, holding a press conference—denying everything, spinning excuses. Every award’s got its own standards, they said. The Globes’ votes come straight from the judges, no rigging… 

… 

HFPA president Lorenzo Soria was on the phone with Kirk Douglas, fuming. “You promised me! You promised! This mess has trashed the Golden Globes’ image beyond repair!” 

Kirk, cool as ever, shrugged it off. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a nomination. No need to lose it.” 

“Just a nomination? Easy for you to say!” Lorenzo was about to blow a gasket, realizing too late what a clown this old-timer was. “The Globes are done! Done! And it’s all because of you! You!” 

Kirk’s tone went icy. “Watch your mouth! I’m just a retired Hollywood guy—no foreign press badge, no vote.” 

“You—!” Lorenzo’s rage hit nuclear levels at Kirk’s gall. 

Kirk stayed calm. “Look, it’s done. Stop whining like a kid and deal with it. I saw your presser—solid spin. Movies are art, right? People like what they like. The Oscars dig that girl’s performance; the Globes don’t. Simple as that.” 

Lorenzo growled, “But we’ve pissed off Dunn Walker! That guy’s a lunatic!” 

Kirk smirked. “What, the Globes’ decades of clout can’t handle one crazy kid? Where’s your spine, old man?” 

Lorenzo nearly choked on his anger. “Crazy kid? Fine—if the Globes tank, I’ll tell the press you pulled the strings. The Globes were just your weapon!” 

Kirk’s face darkened. “You threatening me?” 

“No threat—just securing the Globes’ fallback.” Lorenzo wasn’t backing down. 

Kirk’s voice turned cold. “You think that’ll save your cred? Listen up—if the Globes want to survive, you go hard against Dunn Walker. Admit to any dirt, and you’re finished!” 

Lorenzo was too mad to speak. 

Kirk smiled faintly. “Like I said, it’s just a nod. You’ve got a million excuses. As long as that girl doesn’t win, the Globes’ foundation’s safe.” 

“You sure? What’s your guarantee?” 

“My life’s on it!” Kirk declared, righteous as hell. 

He was dead certain this time. 

No matter how good Natalie was, she couldn’t shift the mainstream tide. 

Chapter 463: Betrayal  

The Oscar nominations were finally out, and Natalie scored one as hoped. With that in the bag, Dunn could flex some serious moves without worry. 

He knew the U.S. was a mess right now—terrorism and war had shaken things up, leaving the public rattled. With Republicans in power, racial tensions were spiking too. 

An event like the Oscars, with the whole nation watching, had to toe the line of political correctness. It’d stick to a mainstream beat, handing out awards to steer the public narrative. 

At first, Dunn was on board with that. 

Giving Best Actress and Best Actor to Black performers? One award could steady the ship—a smart trade-off. A stable country meant better business, after all. 

But things had shifted. 

For Natalie’s nomination, Dunn had gone all out—pouring in effort, calling in favors, even sharing his secret sauce, the “blockbuster strategy,” just to win over Hollywood’s crowd. 

All that hustle for a measly nomination? The payoff was way too low. 

Plus, he was in a full-on showdown with the Golden Globes and the Hollywood Foreign Press Association—especially Kirk Douglas. The Oscars were his chance to land a sucker punch! 

In his study, Dunn slipped on his sunglasses. 

Time to rewrite the game! 

“Steal the Heavens, Swap the Award” was a new perk from his upgraded system. To unlock it, a film he’d produced had to hit global box-office champ status—and he couldn’t use it on himself. 

The Unsinkable, with $1.01 billion worldwide, was history’s fourth film to cross the billion-dollar mark, earning Dunn that sweet “Steal the Heavens” skill. 

As for The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring and The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, cracking $1 billion was a long shot. Current trends pegged Rings at $850-900 million globally and Narnia barely topping $700 million. 

Using “Steal the Heavens, Swap the Award” was similar to “Contract Snatch,” but with a twist. 

“Contract Snatch” swapped out people, subbing in Dunn’s pick for whoever was originally signed. “Steal the Heavens” was different—a dropdown menu let him pick an award, followed by a blank slate to fill in a winner. 

A small note tagged along: Select the award you want to steal and add the recipient’s name. 

Dunn studied it for a sec, smirked, and scrolled through the dropdown. He picked the Oscar for Best Actress, then typed in “Natalie Portman.” 

“Done and dusted!” 

He yanked off the sunglasses, locked them in the safe, stretched with a satisfied groan, and let a sly, cold grin creep across his face. 

Kirk Douglas, let’s see how you explain this one! 

Stepping out of the study, he nearly jumped—Scarlett was lurking by the door, sneaky as ever. Good thing he’d locked it during his little stunt. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Why’d you lock the door?” Scarlett asked, all puzzled. 

Dunn shot her a look. “I was working!” 

She pouted, unconvinced. “What kind of work needs a locked door?” 

He dodged quick. “Never mind that. Later, grab Anne, Rose, and Abby—tonight, we’re all crashing together.” 

“Huh?” 

Scarlett let out a little yelp. 

Dunn raised an eyebrow. “What, you don’t want to? Fine, forget it then.” 

She shook her head fast. “I didn’t say no! It’s just… Natalie’s back tomorrow. Don’t you want to, like, recharge and… you know, with her?” 

Dunn laughed, exasperated, and tapped her forehead. “You think I’m that fragile? Besides, Natalie’s not into group chaos like you guys. Handling her? Piece of cake.” 

Scarlett grinned like she’d caught him slipping, then bolted off, tossing a smug, “I’ll tell her when she’s back, hmph!” over her shoulder. 

Roy Disney had a close pal, Stanley Gold—Disney’s board member and chair of the governance committee, the biggest thorn in Michael Eisner’s side when it came to executive power. 

Back in the day, Roy and Stanley teamed up to convince the board to bring Eisner into Disney. Now, they were joining forces again—to boot him out! 

The pressure on Michael Eisner was insane. 

But then, the landscape flipped! 

Since the ‘90s, corporate scandals had rocked plenty of public companies—Enron, WorldCom, Tyco, Adelphia, Southern Health—casting a dark shadow over that decade’s boom. 

Then the NASDAQ crashed, and things got uglier. Time Warner’s merger with AOL? Widely dubbed the worst business deal ever. (Note) 

In most infamous fraud cases, boards were passive, caving too easily, failing shareholders. Disney, though, was a glaring exception! 

Eisner’s iron-fisted rule at Disney was unyielding—if he didn’t greenlight it, it didn’t happen! 

That stubbornness paid off. He’d nixed a merger with AOL, slamming their stock as “worthless paper.” 

He was right. 

To curb similar scams, Congress had just passed the Sarbanes-Oxley Act. By those standards, Eisner and Disney shone as beacons of ethics and corporate integrity! 

Sure, Disney had bled money the past few years, but next to Time Warner’s mess? Peanuts. 

Suddenly, riding Congress’s and the political spotlight’s wave, Eisner’s star rose again! He was back to being the untouchable business genius, Disney’s savior! 

With that tailwind, he became a hot commodity in Congress. 

Hollywood was rallying hard, lobbying against the piracy surge that was gutting the content industry. 

Congress had just sent an official invite: Michael Eisner, Disney’s chairman and CEO, was to testify at a House hearing on protecting film and TV from digital theft. 

What did that mean? 

Eisner was now Hollywood’s official mouthpiece! 

Following Barry Diller, he was the second guy who could strut around bellowing, “I am Hollywood!” with swagger and pride. 

In mere days, Eisner had flipped the script—reclaiming his throne at Disney and winning the board’s full support! 

Seizing the moment, he struck first. He wielded Sarbanes-Oxley as a club, pointing out Stanley Gold’s daughter worked in Disney’s consumer products division—tainting his “independent” status and shaking the governance committee’s clout. 

Then he pushed his loyal ally, George Mitchell, nominating him as co-chair of the committee to box in Stanley. He kept slashing hand-drawn animators, too, chipping away at Roy Disney’s sway. 

Before anyone could blink, Eisner had worked the system inside and out, flipping the board like a pancake and locking down Disney’s reins again! 

But then came a curveball. 

Dunn figured with Eisner back in control, he’d jump at a partnership with Dunn Films. 

Nope—Michael Eisner pulled a Judas move! 

He laid bare the ugly side of business in all its glory! 

Promises? Friendship? Alliances? 

Bullshit—profit was king! 

Back when Eisner was desperate, he’d courted Dunn to leverage Dunn Films’ muscle, betting it all to save his shaky grip on Disney. 

It was a gamble! 

But now, he was secure—no need to roll the dice. Why risk it when he could coast? 

He ditched Dunn. 

Teaming up with Dunn Films meant uncertainty down the road. 

With power locked down, stability was his game. 

Sure, he’d outmaneuvered Roy Disney and Stanley Gold for now, and that felt great. Why stir the pot and risk Roy’s desperate counterattack? 

“Eisner, you gave me your word!” Dunn barely held back his fury. 

Michael Eisner replied coolly, “Dunn, the Eisner back then isn’t the Eisner now. That promise fit that moment—this is a different game.” 

Dunn took a deep breath, voice low. “Eisner, this… you’re throwing away my trust!” 

Eisner chuckled. “Dunn, it’s not that dramatic. I still look forward to working with Dunn Films—Disney’s stability just comes first. You know we’re in a slugfest with Viacom right now. ABC and CBS are clawing for market share—I can’t stretch myself thin. How about… we revisit this after it blows over?” 

Dunn wasn’t buying that flimsy excuse. 

His tone iced over, anger crackling through the phone. “Eisner, if that’s how it is, I might do something reckless.” 

Eisner’s lips twitched, unfazed. 

Reckless? 

How reckless could you get? 

Partner with Roy Disney instead? 

Maybe six months ago that could’ve happened, but now Roy saw through Dunn’s ambitions. Team up with him? No way. 

Those classic animations were Roy’s lifeblood. 

Untouchable. Sacred. 

“Dunn, don’t talk out of anger,” Eisner said smugly, brushing him off. 

Dunn let out a cold snort. “Anger? We’ll see about that!” 

He’d been holding an ace up his sleeve—one that could take Eisner’s head off in a single swing! 

Looked like it was time to play it. 

Dunn clenched his jaw, seething. 

Chapter 464: Pixar and Disney  

Dunn had already locked down most of Hollywood’s future big IPs. He’d even written outlines for a bunch of top-tier TV shows and registered them with the Writers Guild. 

Only two mega-IPs were still out of his grasp: Star Wars and the live-action remakes of Disney’s princess classics. 

Star Wars could wait—George Lucas would sell Lucasfilm eventually as he got older. 

As for Disney’s live-action remakes of their classic animations… 

Dunn had been scheming for a while. 

He was dead set on snagging them! 

Neither Michael Eisner nor Roy Disney could stop him! 

The reason? Simple: Pixar. 

Back in 1994, Disney hit a rough patch. President Frank Wells died in a helicopter crash, Jeffrey Katzenberg and Bill Mechanic jumped ship, and Disney’s film division—especially animation—took a nosedive. 

Right now, Disney Animation Studios had axed 90% of its artists. The company’s animation wing was basically on life support, propped up by Pixar. 

Put plainly, Pixar was Disney’s most sensitive—and weakest—nerve. 

And wouldn’t you know it, Dunn was Pixar’s second-biggest shareholder! 

Geographically, Pixar wasn’t even a Hollywood outfit—it was Silicon Valley through and through. 

It started out in software and hardware R&D, servicing Steve Jobs’s NeXT computers. Animation? That was a happy accident. 

Dunn made a special trip to San Francisco to meet Jobs at Pixar’s headquarters. 

“No wonder Pixar’s films are so creative,” Dunn said as Jobs showed him around the newly built campus, a whimsical design straight out of a storybook. “This place feels like a fairy tale. If Disney had a setup like this, they’d never run out of ideas.” 

John Lasseter, Pixar’s animation guru and de facto head, tagged along, brimming with pride. “Disney’s cartoons are yesterday’s news! It’s Pixar and DreamWorks Animation running the show now.” 

Dunn smirked. “DreamWorks Animation? If it weren’t for Shrek, Katzenberg would’ve gone bust!” 

Lasseter’s expression tightened. “Nah, he just needed time to shift from hand-drawn to computer animation.” 

Dunn grinned. “Speaking of, I hear Disney’s pushing a renewal deal?” 

Jobs’s face darkened. “I shot it down!” 

“What’d they offer?” 

Dunn didn’t need to tiptoe—he was Pixar’s number-two shareholder and had every right to know the business. 

Lasseter explained, “They want five more films. After marketing and distribution costs, profits split fifty-fifty.” 

Dunn snorted. “How generous!” 

A fifty-fifty split was a big step up from their current deal. 

Right now, Pixar and Disney split profits 40-60. 

Even 40% was a hefty chunk! 

Take Monsters, Inc., which hit theaters last November. North American box office: $240 million. Overseas: $270 million. Global total: over $500 million. 

And the merch? Insane! 

A month after release, it raked in $300 million in tie-in sales! 

That’s the Disney brand at work. 

Their consumer products division and Disney Store channels turned Pixar films into a full upstream-to-downstream goldmine. 

So far, Pixar had pocketed $180 million from Monsters, Inc.! 

And that was just the start. 

Within three years, they projected $300 million from that one project. 

That’s why Pixar’s stock soared—and why DreamWorks Animation later fetched over $3 billion at bankruptcy auction. 

But rarity drives value. Pixar wasn’t the same outfit it used to be, and Jobs wasn’t about to settle for a weak 40-60 split. 

Jobs sneered, “That’s not all. Eisner thinks a profit split is Pixar getting the better end! He wants Disney to keep sequel rights and own the trademarks for consumer products!” 

Dunn’s face hardened. “No way! We can’t budge an inch on copyright!” 

Jobs nodded coolly. “Obviously. My terms are simple: I’m fine with a profit split, but Pixar keeps full copyright on the films—including distribution.” 

Dunn smirked, shaking his head like it was a bad joke. 

Jobs was sharp. He’d clocked Dunn’s angle the second he suggested meeting at Pixar. “Dunn, you know Pixar’s gotta prioritize Pixar’s interests.” 

Dunn frowned. “Steve, how do you not see it? Maybe hit up Hollywood and ask around—Disney or Dunn Films, which one’s the future?” 

Jobs chuckled. “Dunn Films is the future? Fine. When that day comes, I’ll hand Pixar’s movies to you to handle.” 

Lasseter stayed quiet—this was above his pay grade. 

The three strolled along Pixar’s wooden boardwalk—Jobs’s Japanophile touch at work. 

Dunn thought for a moment, then said gravely, “Steve, I’ve finished buying up Apple stock. I’ve got 16.5% of the company now.” 

Jobs raised an eyebrow. “I appreciate your help with Apple—and your trust in my work.” 

Dunn shook his head. “Steve, I need your help.” 

Jobs’s face twisted, uneasy. 

Dunn pressed, “I’m negotiating a big deal with Disney right now. I need them to bend.” 

Jobs’s tone sharpened. “You’re not suggesting Pixar caves on the renewal to sweeten your Disney deal, are you?” 

“Of course not!” Dunn stopped walking, turning to face Jobs. “I just want Pixar to do one thing.” 

“What?” 

“End the Disney contract!” 

He’d floated this before, and Jobs was sick of hearing it. His expression soured. 

Jobs’s temper—anyone who knew him could tell you—was fiercer than Dunn’s! 

Lasseter jumped in before Jobs blew up, exclaiming, “Mr. Walker, you serious? We’ve got one film left with Disney! And Finding Nemo’s already greenlit—we’re about to start working with them.” 

Finding Nemo was a juggernaut, way bigger than Monsters, Inc.! 

For that alone, Dunn didn’t want Disney keeping distribution rights. 

With Disney in charge, they’d slap Nemo characters all over their theme parks. 

Dunn was gearing up to buy Universal Pictures, which had Universal Studios parks of its own. 

Pixar films should feed his empire, naturally. 

Dunn said calmly, “I’ll cover the buyout costs!” 

Jobs didn’t hesitate. “Dunn, we’ve been over this. I’m done talking about it. Right now, Disney’s the best fit for Pixar.” 

Dunn shot back, “I’ve got a film company too! And I’m about to grab Universal! My distribution network’s as good as Disney’s!” 

“You’re buying Universal?” Jobs squinted. 

Dunn waved it off casually. “Plus, I’ve got a toy company, and I’m a Hasbro shareholder. I can get Pixar better toy profit splits.” 

Lasseter hesitated, testing the waters. “Mr. Walker, acquiring Universal… that’ll take a while, right? Finding Nemo hits next year, so…” 

Dunn went full swagger. “Hand Pixar’s films to me—copyright, trademarks, creative control, all yours. I don’t want a thing!” 

He’d swallow Pixar whole eventually anyway—copyright location didn’t matter. 

Lasseter’s jaw dropped, staring at Jobs in disbelief. 

He was a Silicon Valley guy, out of the loop on Hollywood craziness. 

This Dunn Walker… he was nuts! 

Jobs went quiet, then shook his head. “Dunn, buying out the contract’s a rep hit. Breaking promises? Wall Street’ll tank us—bad for stock.” 

Dunn was too ticked to respond. 

Stubborn as hell! 

Last year, Disney’s consumer products arm cleared $2.5 billion. With their in-house animation fading, Pixar was the backbone of that and their interactive entertainment wing. 

If Dunn used Pixar to kneecap Disney, it’d be like chopping off an arm. 

Michael Eisner’s power would crumble overnight. 

To fix the mess, Eisner would have to team up with Dunn Films! 

Dunn had seen through the businessman’s game by now and was used to the backstabbing. Eisner’s double-cross? Par for the course. 

Don’t want to play ball? Fine—Dunn would force him with outside pressure. 

Willing or not, Eisner would deal! 

But Jobs wouldn’t budge! 

At Apple, he took a $1 salary—Pixar was his real cash cow. He’d put Pixar first, especially with all those talented animators in the studio. 

Truth was, right now, Disney was Pixar’s golden ticket. No other studio matched Disney’s brand power. 

“Disney” practically screamed “kids’ entertainment.” 

Pixar needed that ride to maximize profits. 

Dunn? Not yet! 

Seeing Dunn’s sour look, Jobs added, “As a friend, I’ve got your back. As long as it doesn’t tank Pixar’s stock or my rep, I’ll help you take on Disney.” 

Dunn gave a flat “hmph,” dripping with sarcasm. “Hope you mean it—don’t pull a Wozniak on me.” 

Jobs flushed, caught off guard and flustered. 

Chapter 465: American Idol  

Dunn’s plan didn’t pan out—a rare flop since his rebirth. 

The main reason? He didn’t want to burn bridges with Steve Jobs. 

If he’d leaned on his clout as a major Apple shareholder, Jobs might’ve caved to avoid another ousting from his own company. 

Genius like Jobs was hard to come by. Abandoned by his parents, he’d lived a rough, winding life—even trekking to India as an ascetic monk. Dunn didn’t want to pile on more hurt. 

Michael Eisner was small fry. If the Pixar route was a bust, Dunn had other ways to take him down! 

American Idol, produced by Dick Clark Productions, had just premiered on CBS. 

First episode? Over 26 million viewers. Second episode? Average viewership shot to 33 million! 

No question—American Idol was set to outshine Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and Survivor as a mega-hit variety show! 

In its original timeline, FOX, the fourth-biggest U.S. network, rode American Idol to spring-season dominance. It crushed the NBC-ABC-CBS trifecta, shuffling airtimes across prime slots and still topping daily ratings. 

Pure provocation! 

And no one could stop it. 

American Idol was destined to be the most widespread, influential, and beloved variety show in U.S. history. 

Landing on CBS at this moment was a deathblow to ABC! 

Disney and Viacom were already locked in a brutal showdown. 

Movies were a sideshow—the real war was CBS versus ABC! 

In that other timeline, this fight dragged on until 2005. 

Both media giants took heavy hits, with Viacom and Disney stock slumping for years. 

That year, Sumner Redstone split Viacom and CBS to save the share price, crumbling his empire. Disney, meanwhile, made a big move—kicking Michael Eisner to the curb. 

Dog-eat-dog? Dunn was all for it. 

Eisner had pissed him off, so it was time for a counterstrike! 

Dunn Films’ top brass—Bill Mechanic, West Cotton, and Tosca Musk—were gathered in his office. 

TV industry norm: new shows start with a trial deal. 

Air one or two episodes, gauge the ratings, then decide if it’s a keeper. 

High ratings? Renew and roll. Low ratings? Ax it. 

Especially for something like American Idol, a stage-music talent show with no real precedent. 

Trial contracts benefit both sides. 

Networks test the waters cheap, cutting risk. Producers can tweak licensing fees based on how it lands. 

American Idol aired twice weekly. CBS signed a two-episode trial—$500,000 base fee, 10% ad split. 

Now, with the trial up, Dunn Films was set to haggle with CBS over a full contract. 

No way it’d stay at $500K and 10%—not anymore. 

TV networks… they’re even more lucrative than movies! 

“This is our chance to teach Disney a lesson! Season one of American Idol stays on CBS!” Dunn laid down the day’s agenda. 

Sumner Redstone was an enemy. Michael Eisner was too. 

But right now, Eisner was the bigger thorn—and Redstone… best not to poke too hard. 

TV ops fell to VP Tosca Musk. She chimed in, “Three days ago, CBS sent a negotiation team. I brushed them off—said I was too busy.” 

West Cotton grinned. “That’s a power move! Ha! Episode three airs next Tuesday. If they don’t lock a deal in three days, CBS loses a chunk of viewers. The tighter the clock, the more they sweat—and the higher they bid.” 

Dunn gave him a hard look, sensing West might be sweet on Tosca—a stunner—and trying too hard to impress. “One thing,” he said sternly. “No dating among execs. If it happens, resignation’s on the table.” 

West’s face flushed. “Boss, I’m married.” 

Tosca snapped, “Keep talking nonsense, and I’ll quit right now!” 

Dunn shrugged casually. “Better not be.” 

Bill Mechanic jumped in to smooth things over, chuckling, “American Idol’s success proves we’ve cracked a new business lane—a fresh profit engine! A hit like this? It’s gonna make waves!” 

“Obviously,” Dunn said, his grin brimming with swagger. “I can churn out blockbuster movies, back hit TV dramas, and now, craft killer variety shows too!” 

“I’m busy working on my animated flick Bone Treasure Adventure—no time to hear you brag,” Tosca shot back, still miffed. 

Dunn laughed. “What’s CBS’s renewal offer?” 

“They’re serious—$3 million broadcast fee, 50% ad split,” Tosca said, eyes flicking up as she pondered. “That could net us $50 million.” 

Bill Mechanic, ex-Fox exec with deep TV chops, shook his head. “Nope, $50 million’s too low. American Idol runs through June—summer season! February’s slow, but come May, ad rates skyrocket.” 

Dunn, a TV newbie, leaned on Bill’s expertise. “So, is this renewal fair?” 

“Standard,” Bill nodded, adding for clarity, “Without competition, 50% ad split’s the ceiling.” 

Dunn frowned, puzzled. “But I heard Friends’ production team takes over 70% of ad revenue. Idol’s got 40+ episodes a season—longer legs than Friends.” 

Bill explained, “Idol’s just season one. Friends has years behind it—huge production costs. Cast salaries alone top $80 million. Without a fat ad cut, it wouldn’t get made.” 

Dunn narrowed his eyes. “Good thing we’re a variety show. If judges start demanding crazy pay, we swap ‘em out!” 

Tosca tilted her head, curious. “Mr. President, with CBS’s deal, how much do you think Idol could pull?” 

Bill raised a finger. “At least $100 million!” 

Dunn sucked in a breath. “Damn, variety shows rake in as much as movies!” 

Bill shook his head. “This is just the start. As it gains steam, ad rates climb. CBS makes more, we make more. Plus, Idol’s music-based—think telecom voting revenue, record deals, concerts, sponsors, international licensing. Ancillary income? At least $200 million! That’s assuming 30 million viewers hold steady.” 

Dunn’s face flushed with excitement. 

West’s eyes popped wide. 

Tosca murmured, stunned, “CBS’s deal already pays that much… imagine if we licensed it elsewhere?” 

No one flinched at that. 

American Idol was the past week’s hottest U.S. show—top ratings, nonstop buzz in entertainment circles. Audition phase? Total chaos—wacky contestants, constant gags, pure draw. 

“What’s ABC’s offer?” Dunn asked softly. Eisner, spooked by CBS, would surely throw big money to compete. 

Tosca replied, “$5 million base, 58% ad split.” 

Dunn scoffed, dripping disdain. “That Michael Eisner—cheap as hell!” 

“True, NBC and FOX both beat ABC,” Tosca said, dimples peeking out as she smirked. “NBC’s at $3 million and 60% ad split. FOX goes bigger—$10 million base fee, 65% ad cut!” 

CBS’s deal looked weakest by comparison. 

But CBS was America’s top network, backed by Viacom’s promo muscle. More crucially, Idol had aired two episodes there—they had first dibs, and viewers were hooked. 

Switching now? Bad for everyone. 

Bill weighed in, “NBC’s showing real intent. They’ve tanked lately—since Jack Welch retired, GE’s been itching to ditch them. FOX? Smaller reach. Advertisers and viewers default to the Big Three. So FOX either throws cash or skips trials, buying outright.” 

Dunn nodded. “In principle, we stick with CBS. But Tosca, hold this line: one-year deals only. Season two Idol rights stay off the table this round—CBS gets priority at matching terms, tops.”