Although last year's The Two Towers fiasco made Robert Shaye grind his teeth in fury, he didn't lose his mind and retaliate against Warner or attack Isabella through some shady backdoor scheme.
Not only because all these fights were driven by profit—no one actually wanted a blood feud—but because, in their eyes, the Weinstein brothers were idiots.
That's not to say they thought the Weinsteins couldn't "cast spells." It's that before you wave your magic wand, you should first consider whether your opponent has a nuke. If they can nuke you off the map, what's the point of your magic?
No matter how deadly "Avada Kedavra" is, it still can't outmatch a Tsar Bomba, right?
But mainly, Robert Shaye still had a card to play—
That year, New Line was set to release The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, the grand finale of the trilogy.
Even though The Two Towers hadn't broken the $900 million mark, with the first two averaging around $850 million, the third had every chance of crossing $900 million, maybe even hitting a billion. Meanwhile, Warner didn't have a Harry Potter film that year.
So if New Line could win effortlessly, why go poking the bear? That would just be brain damage.
And if they did manage to take the box office crown that year, New Line would remain Ted Turner's sword arm.
Turner could use New Line's success in board meetings to attack Warner, arguing that Warner was too dependent on Harry Potter. For a major studio, relying so heavily on a single IP was unhealthy.
So, Turner could then propose to the board: merge New Line with Warner, and co-develop The Hobbit.
Once The Lord of the Rings's success became common knowledge, that proposal would surely pass.
At that point, as the man who discovered The Lord of the Rings and the founder of New Line, Robert Shaye could glide smoothly into the heart of Warner Bros. He wouldn't replace Barry Meyer, sure—but he could certainly make the man's life miserable.
"As a Warner executive personally appointed by the board, I can tinker with your projects, right?"
"As a Warner executive personally appointed by the board, I can check your internal files, right?"
"As a Warner executive personally appointed by the board, I think Harry Potter's finances look suspicious—I should audit them, right?"
Yes, it was dirty.
But in business warfare, what isn't dirty?
Because Warner had no Harry Potter film that year, Shaye had thought he had victory in the bag.
Then suddenly—The Matrix sequel appeared out of nowhere.
"What the hell is that supposed to be?"
Glaring at his secretary, Shaye snapped like a man with gunpowder in his veins.
"You're talking about a sequel to that 1999 movie, right? The original grossed what, four hundred-something million? 465?"
"Sure, that justified a sequel—but it didn't change the world."
"It was only fourth at the global box office that year!"
"Toy Story 2, The Sixth Sense, The Phantom Menace—they all ranked higher!"
"It wasn't even the brightest star of 1999!"
"And now you're telling me the sequel's gonna do six, seven, eight hundred million?"
"M-Fxxk! Are we in a financial crisis or something?!"
"Even if inflation went nuclear, there's no way box office numbers would skyrocket like that!"
"Or what, am I in 1930s Germany? Are we about to go to war?"
"One blink and bread goes from five hundred thousand marks to five trillion per loaf?"
His verbal machine gun fire made the secretary's ears ring and face go damp.
He could understand the boss's shock. Everyone thought New Line had this year in the bag.
And now Warner suddenly dropped a hidden ace on the table?
Who wouldn't lose it?
"Boss, I know this is hard to believe," the secretary sighed, "but it's true. I double-checked before coming here—Warner didn't bribe any analytics firms. So these aren't inflated numbers. The analysts genuinely think it's that good."
When humans are involved, "fairness" doesn't exist.
North American analytics firms and research houses often tailor reports for their clients.
And sure, that might risk the company's reputation, but—hah.
Predictions are just that: predictions. Everyone knows they're fallible.
And as for reputation? That's for sale too.
If The New York Times keeps quoting my reports, then I'm the industry's best.
Don't like it? Start your own analytics firm and challenge me.
So if Warner didn't buy off the analysts, those projections must actually be conservative.
And if a "lowball" forecast still put The Matrix sequel at $700 million…
Then the real potential might be close to a billion.
"Why didn't Warner buy data then?"
Shaye frowned hard.
"Because… The Matrix is rated R," the secretary said after a pause. "Buying fake hype for an R-rated film doesn't pay off."
"Oh… no…" Shaye smacked his forehead.
He realized he'd been too agitated to think straight.
An R-rated film has a natural ceiling.
You can buy all the buzz you want—if your audience can't get tickets, it's useless. So not buying data actually made sense.
"In that case… when's it premiering?"
"May 15th. Next Thursday."
"Get me a ticket."
"Okay."
Since The Matrix might threaten his easy-win plan, Shaye wanted to see it for himself.
And when May 15 arrived and he sat in that theater—he was stunned.
The sequel's quality blew his mind.
The stunning action, the dazzling effects—it floored him.
When Neo raised his hands and the bullets froze mid-air—
That godlike image completely entranced him.
If he had to describe it, it was the same jaw-dropping awe he'd felt watching Jackie Chan leap off skyscrapers.
And as Neo gracefully dismantled his enemies one after another—
The allure of Eastern martial arts made Shaye realize this film would explode at the box office.
He was right.
Since Warner had already shown off the movie's strongest hooks in the trailer, opening day went wild—
$37.5 million across 3,603 theaters in North America!
Per-theater average: $10,410.
Terrifyingly good.
It was the second-highest opening-day gross in North American history, just behind Spider-Man.
Spider-Man had $39.4 million on its first day.
And for an R-rated movie to nearly match a PG-13 blockbuster?
Shaye was ready to burst.
When the weekend numbers came in—
Boom!
New York, Long Island.
In a multimillion-dollar mansion, Ted Turner slammed the box office report from the National Theater Association onto the coffee table.
"Robert! This is the 'guaranteed win' you promised me?"
"If I recall, you told me Warner had no blockbusters this year, right?"
"So what the hell is this Matrix situation?"
"They broke a ton of records on Thursday! And the opening weekend grossed $91.7 million!"
"They even beat Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone! It's the second-biggest opening weekend in North American history!"
"If this is what you call no blockbusters, then tell me—
is The Lord of the Rings going to do a billion in North America? Three billion globally?!"
The report hit Shaye in the face.
A stack of A4 paper can't really hurt, but the humiliation stung like acid.
He clenched his fists and lowered his head.
He couldn't fight back.
Turner glared at him for a long moment, breathing hard, before sinking back into his seat.
"How many blockbusters do we have this year?"
"Just… one."
"The Lord of the Rings?"
"Yeah…"
"Can it still be saved?"
"Most likely… no."
"Heh."
Turner's cold laugh froze the room. He stared at the man who'd followed him for years and now looked utterly useless.
"Robert," Turner said at last, "I'm busy this year. I won't have time to monitor every film detail. So I'm giving you one last chance."
"I want The Lord of the Rings to make a billion. I want it to become the second movie in history to hit that mark. Okay?"
The words were light, but Shaye's "okay" was heavy.
He knew this was probably his last shot at keeping his job.
Turner didn't care about his feelings. "Good. Get to work."
Shaye turned and left.
Turner sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.
"Why is Warner so damn hard to deal with?" he muttered.
"How does Barry Meyer get this lucky every time?"
He couldn't figure it out.
But soon he stopped thinking.
Because he realized that if The Matrix sequel really hit $700–800 million, New Line wouldn't be merged into Warner.
And if Barry Meyer then managed to boost Warner Music's numbers too—
All of Turner's scheming would crumble.
So—
"No. The Voice must die."
His eyes hardened.
"It must die!"
He grabbed his phone. After a brief pause, he dialed a number he hadn't used in years.
When the call connected, a smile returned to his face.
"Hi, Mr. Rupert Murdoch. Long time no see…"
"Yes, it's Ted Turner. From AOL Time Warner…"
And while Turner was looking for allies, Disney's Michael Eisner was also fuming—
Because he'd just been slapped in the face too.
Three days after The Matrix opened, Finding Nemo premiered.
Disney had invited 200 journalists and critics to the screening—99% walked out amazed.
Its first weekend brought in $70.25 million in North America.
Not quite Matrix-level, but still the highest opening ever for an animated film.
Second place? Monsters, Inc.
That's right.
With Nemo, Pixar officially kicked Disney to the curb and crowned itself king.
"Michael! Can you tell me how long our animation division plans to stay in a coma?"
June 2, 2003.
Burbank, California.
Disney headquarters.
At an emergency executive meeting, board member Stanley Gold glared at Eisner, waving a thick stack of documents in his hand.
"Since Monsters, Inc. was released in November 2001 up to the release of Finding Nemo, in a year and a half, our Disney has launched four animated films. Out of those, three made a profit and one lost money."
"On the surface, those numbers look great. A 75% success rate for our projects."
"But in reality?"
"Our actual success rate is zero percent."
"Not just because Disney hasn't released a single film that can shake the world like Monsters, Inc., Finding Nemo, or even Ice Age—but because the four films we released have nothing to do with us."
"Or rather, Michael, they have nothing to do with you."
"Return to Neverland, made with a $20 million investment and earning $115 million, was based on a script written by Walt Disney himself while he was alive."
"The Jungle Book 2, same $20 million investment, earning $135 million, came from our Australian studio's idea."
"And the only true hit, Lilo & Stitch, made with $80 million and grossing $273 million, was a project greenlit by Jeffrey Katzenberg back when he was still at Disney. Director Chris Sanders is Katzenberg's guy."
"So—"
"Tell me—"
"Michael!"
"My dear Michael!"
"When you come to work every day, is your job just to sit in the chairman's seat and take a dump???"
The open humiliation made Michael Eisner's eyes bulge with fury.
In that instant, he wanted to grab a knife and stab Roy Disney to death—because Stanley Gold was Roy's man.
He was the chairman of Shamrock Holdings, the Disney family's fund.
His words carried Roy Disney's will.
But… Eisner couldn't do anything.
So—
"Stanley."
Michael Eisner's teeth ground together as a growl tore through his throat like a caged beast. "I suggest you don't push it."
A short, amused snort came from Stanley Gold as he set down his papers.
And just when Eisner thought that bastard was done, Gold turned his gaze toward Bob Iger.
"Bob, how's the renewal with Pixar going?"
"A one-year deal puts us at too much of a disadvantage."
"I've talked to Steve about it."
As soon as Gold's words fell, Iger replied calmly, "Steve said his focus is all on Apple right now—he doesn't have time for Pixar. So, if Disney can give him a comfortable environment, he might agree to a long-term partnership. Otherwise… he'll definitely take Pixar and leave."
"Bob!!!"
"What do you mean by that???"
Before Iger could even finish, Eisner exploded.
His roar, lion-like, could've blown the roof off the conference room.
Iger, though, merely tilted his head, a lazy smile curling on his face. "Michael, I think I don't understand what you mean."
He wore black-rimmed glasses that day, maybe because he hadn't put in his contacts.
With that frame on his face and a suit on his shoulders, even a slight smirk made him look like a smiling predator.
But to Eisner, he looked like a black mamba rising from the desert sands—
He wasn't hiding anymore.
His chest heaved. He glared at Iger, turned sharply, and stormed out.
The remaining executives glanced at each other in silence until Gold waved his hand to dismiss the meeting. One by one, they filed out—except for Iger.
"Nice work."
Gold smiled.
"Thanks."
Iger raised his brows.
"Honestly," Gold said, "I've never seen Eisner that angry before. I'm sure when Roy hears about this, he'll be thrilled… probably."
"Hahaha—then I hope your guess is right," Iger chuckled, rising and offering his hand.
"Alright, thanks. That's all for today." Gold stood too, shaking it. Then he paused at the door. "Oh, right… be careful. Eisner's not the kind of man who lets things go."
"I know. But against absolute power, no scheme can survive, right?"
Iger shrugged, confidence radiating from him.
That self-assured grin made Gold raise his brows. "Sure. Good luck."
He knew why Iger was so sure of himself.
Iger had two cards to play.
One was Pirates of the Caribbean.
Though early screenings got mixed reactions, Gold personally liked its goofy charm. Since it was slated for a summer release, he figured it had a solid shot at success.
If Iger could build an IP, the company's shareholders would naturally rally behind him.
And even if Pirates failed—no problem.
He still had the trump card.
The Voice.
Of course Gold knew about The Voice project.
When the "magical Miss Beaver" was on Iger's side, Eisner's odds of winning looked grim.
And Eisner knew it too.
He stormed into his office, slammed into his chair, grabbed his desk phone—
then froze.
After a long second, he hung up, pulled out his cell, and dialed another number.
When the call connected, a familiar, puzzled voice came through:
"Michael Eisner?"
"It's me."
"What do you want?"
"You in L.A.?"
"I'm in New York."
"Oh—just saw Robert Shaye?"
"The last time I met him was half a month ago, so…"
"Let's meet. I don't think you want The Voice to succeed either."
"Of course not."
"How about… the day after tomorrow? I'll be back in L.A. tomorrow."
"Fine. Ted Turner, I'll see you in Los Angeles."
For those who understood the industry, it was clear: with The Matrix and Finding Nemo both smashing expectations, the war among the global entertainment giants was about to ignite.
Because no one wanted to back down—
Ted Turner had fought Warner for nearly eight years. He wasn't about to quit now.
Because no one wanted to lose the power they'd held for decades—
Michael Eisner had been at Disney for almost twenty years. How many twenty-year reigns does a man get in one life?
Because no one wanted to see their stock prices tank—
American Idol had only run two seasons on Fox before vanishing. Rupert Murdoch was furious.
Because no one wanted to be branded a loser—
Edgar Bronfman Jr. had been mocked for years over his bungled sales of DuPont shares, his Universal buyout, and the PolyGram acquisition.
He wanted to change that. To start over.
And now Warner Music—his chosen restart—was slipping away?
He couldn't stand it.
But to outsiders, it looked like a golden age—
Great movies, great music, great shows everywhere.
Too much to even keep up with.
And as for that "Miss Beaver" everyone couldn't stop talking about?
At that moment, she was in Britain, happily counting her mountain of gold.
"£300,000 for Philosopher's Stone."
"£1.2 million for Chamber of Secrets."
"£1 million compensation for refusing endorsements."
"That's £2.5 million already…"
"Then, £1 million fixed pay for The Voice."
"£6 million for Azkaban."
"Another £5 million for endorsement refusal."
"That's £12 million total."
"So from my debut until now, my total income from salaries and compensation is £14.5 million?"
"Wow, I'm really that rich?"
With a "pop," little Miss Beaver's head appeared from behind her towering pile of documents.
She moved like she had special effects—the moment she popped up, gold coins slid off her shoulders and clinked onto the floor in a sparkling cascade.
That cheerful sound of wealth made her look even more adorable.
The glitter in her eyes seemed to say to the world: she was, without a doubt, a complete little money-lover.