It was perfectly normal for cinemas to play ads between two screenings.
After all, the whole point of a movie theater is to make money — refusing ads would be brain damage in business form.
And back then, ad slots between screenings were gold.
Because mobile internet hadn't exploded yet,
because people had to scramble for good seats with their own legs,
so once you'd secured a seat, there was nothing to do.
No phone to scroll, no feed to rot your brain with.
Give them a bit of eye candy in that dead time and bam — total attention.
And as for ads?
They worked insanely well.
So when Disney pushed The Voice of America promo into cinemas, feedback was instant.
Hernandez had barely run out of the theater when crowds were already asking about it at the lobby desk.
He and his buddy grabbed the promotional flyers — learning that The Voice of America was jointly hosted by Disney and Warner, and that sign-ups were open at Disney fan clubs across major cities — and then they practically grew wings and flew there.
They were desperate.
When they reached the Los Angeles Disney Fan Club, there was already a line.
And the whole setup screamed official.
Disney staff were outside with megaphones, managing traffic:
"We welcome Americans of all ages to sign up for The Voice of America. Please follow our staff's directions and line up in an orderly manner. Children under sixteen must be accompanied by a parent."
"Next, please note: anyone with an existing record or management contract is not eligible to register. Contestants have a chance to receive professional offers — the winner's prize includes a guaranteed album deal with Warner, with a production budget of no less than ten million dollars."
"Registration is free. Competing is free. Anyone asking you for money is a scammer. Report them, and verified reports will receive a special reward."
"Lastly, Ms. Isabella Heywood is currently filming Prisoner of Azkaban in the UK. So if you're here because of her, please make sure you fight your way to the national finals."
"The format of The Voice of America follows that of The World's Voice. For details, you can check out Ms. Heywood's film. Thank you for your cooperation."
The announcement had Hernandez and his friend bouncing with excitement.
They both had music dreams.
They both loved to sing.
They both wanted to be on that dazzling stage.
And since the chance was right there—
They exchanged a look and instantly dove into the crowd.
Maybe it was still early and word hadn't fully spread yet, or maybe Disney had simply deployed an army of staffers,
because ten minutes later, Hernandez was already at the registration desk.
After a brief greeting, the staff smiled warmly.
"Welcome to The Voice of America! I have a few questions for you. First one: do you like music?"
"Love it," Hernandez nodded without hesitation.
"Okay, second question. Have you ever watched American Idol? Or participated?"
"I've watched, but never joined."
"Oh? Why's that?" The staffer looked intrigued.
The questions were personally written by Robert Iger.
He wanted to know exactly who was switching camps — because The Voice was a direct rival to Idol.
Disney welcomed everyone, sure, but they wanted to avoid poaching rejects from other shows.
It just looked bad — like eating leftovers.
Unless the person was extraordinary, they'd usually pass.
And Iger understood that building an IP meant building reputation.
"There are two reasons," Hernandez said, shrugging.
"First, I'm from Hawaii. I only moved to L.A. earlier this year, and Idol didn't hold auditions there."
"And second, even if they did, I wouldn't have gone. American Idol picks idols. I love music — I want to be a singer."
"Okay, great answer, thank you." The staff nodded and jotted that down.
"Now, your name?"
"Peter Hernandez."
"Wow, nice name — same as our friendly neighborhood Peter Parker. But since it's a bit common, do you have a stage name? I'd recommend picking something unique."
"I already have one."
"And that is?"
"Bruno Mars. Bruno's my nickname. My dad gave it to me."
"Bruno? Like the philosopher? Nice. That's got personality."
Five minutes later, Bruno Mars was officially registered.
He left his phone number, got told that the first auditions would start June 21,
and that although the city auditions weren't televised, they were the essential first filter before the real stage.
He was advised to prepare well — because only those who respect the stage, the music, and themselves earn the audience's respect.
The speech had Bruno practically levitating.
He thought The Voice felt incredibly professional.
He knew he'd come to the right place.
Because if you don't respect the stage, you don't deserve to call yourself a musician.
And if you don't love music, the audience will see right through you.
Yes, everyone wants fame.
Yes, music can make you rich.
But the audience's love is real — betray that, and they'll bury you.
"Hey, Peter—you done too?"
Just as Bruno stepped out, he spotted his buddy waiting.
Thumbs up. Big grin.
"Disney's insane! I just finished signing up, and I swear this show's gonna explode."
"I feel the same," Bruno nodded.
"You know the audition rules, right? You'll have to sing. What're you picking?"
He fished out a sheet from his pocket.
"Disney gave us a list of licensed songs to choose from. First one on there is Isabella's. I'm not touching that one. You?"
"Me? I think I'll sing Love Story…"
Three hours later—
Katheryn Hudson walked out of the L.A. fan club too.
Like Bruno, she'd come with a friend.
Unlike him, she'd heard about The Voice through the radio — Disney had blitzed every music station in the country.
After registering, she shared her excitement, and her friend asked what she'd sing.
"Love Story," Katheryn said.
Her friend nearly choked.
"No way. Everyone's gonna sing that. Don't do it."
Katheryn just smiled.
"I know. But Love Story is Isabella's song. It's fine."
"You're sure?"
"I have confidence."
Well, that ended the argument.
Her friend switched topics.
"Okay then. Good luck. Oh, did you use your real name? My registration guy said mine was too plain — told me to make a stage name."
"Same here," Katheryn laughed.
"My staffer said my name sounds too close to Kate Hudson, so I gave her another one."
"You already picked one? What is it?"
"Katy Perry."
"What? Why that name?!"
Meanwhile, in New York—
Elizabeth Grant had just signed up too.
She'd seen The Voice ad on ABC, and the moment she learned registration was open, she rushed to the Manhattan Disney Club — half an hour in line before her turn.
Her name was too common, so the clerk also suggested a stage name.
She went with Lana Rey.
"It's what a Cuban friend called me when my sister and I were in Miami," she explained to her uncle.
"I like it. Has an exotic ring. Every time I hear it, I remember the Florida coast."
Her uncle nodded.
"So from now on, your life's all about prepping for the competition?"
"Absolutely."
"What song'll you sing for auditions?"
"Something Baroque."
"Does Disney's song list even have that?"
"Of course. Warner owns McCartney's catalog — he's got Baroque tracks."
Robert Iger's master plan was to use The Voice of America as a weapon to seize internal power at Disney, so obviously, the marketing was massive.
Cinematic ads, radio pushes, TV blitzes — that's just what Bruno, Katy, and Lana saw.
What they didn't see was the rest.
Like the print media flood —
front-page headlines in The New York Times, Washington Post, LA Times:
"Dreams Become Reality! Movie Becomes Talent Show! The Voice of America Launches This Summer!"
"Win Ten Million! Champion Gets a Record Deal Worth Eight Figures!"
And the online push —
massive buyouts on Yahoo, CompuServe, and Google, all showing:
"Love Story becomes Music Story! Isabella Heywood invites everyone who loves music and singing to join The Voice of America!"
"Want success like Isabella's? Join The Voice of America now!"
By the next morning, The Voice of America was everywhere.
The news flooded the entire continent, setting off wild excitement.
Fans losing it:
"They turned The Voice into a talent show?! And Isabella started it?! She's amazing!"
"Did you see that promo? Every scene transition gave me chills!"
"That part where she turns into Hermione — the effects were unreal!"
"Nah, the best was the last scene. She looked like a literal princess on stage!"
Critics in awe:
"I knew this movie could become a show! I'm a genius!"
"Isabella from actor to singer to producer in one movie?! Unreal."
"Her life feels like it's bugged — debut smash hit, zero flops, and now she's launching a TV franchise? How is this fair?"
Aspiring contestants screaming:
"We can meet Isabella? Mom! Dad! I'm going!!"
"Outta my way, Disney Club here I come! No one's stopping me from hugging the Beaver Queen—haha!"
Online hysteria, offline stampedes — Disney and Warner were thrilled.
Or rather, Robert Iger and Barry Meyer were.
Because they'd gone all in.
That flashy promo with movie-level effects?
It had been shot in three brutal days during Azkaban's filming, with Isabella squeezing it in between scenes.
That's why little Robbie said she hadn't rested at all.
Shift changes were cutting into HP's schedule, and that was something absolutely untouchable.
Next, the glasshouse effects had been handed over to Industrial Light & Magic, while the rest were done by Pixar.
Just for that promo, they spent nearly five million dollars rushing to meet the deadline.
If the results didn't meet expectations, disappointment would be putting it mildly.
But to their delight, when The Voice recruitment announcement dropped, there wasn't much backlash. Most of the public reaction was positive and supportive. Which meant—
Isabella's reputation, in the eyes of the world, had just skyrocketed.
"The Hermione Granger image is just too perfect."
"So perfect that whatever Isabella does feels right."
California.
Los Angeles.
At that moment, Robert Iger was having dinner with Barry Meyer.
A winner's dinner.
But Meyer shook his head and said, "Personally, I think Isabella's success is connected to Hermione Granger, but not dependent on her. Hermione made her famous, sure—but keeping that fame? That's all on Isabella."
"You've seen the first draft of The Voice, right? If Isabella had made it a beauty-pageant movie…"
"All this wouldn't exist."
"So yes, her reputation today? That's her own doing."
"She earned Hermione Granger. She won over J.K. Rowling with talent."
"And The Voice? That was her own creation. If she'd behaved poorly, why would Chris Columbus—who's not exactly best friends with Rowling—have gone out of his way to help her? Makes no sense."
"And music…"
"Her musical gift didn't come from Rowling, did it? Nor did Columbus correct it, right?"
Meyer's words made Iger smile and nod approvingly.
And of course, where there's joy, someone else has to sulk.
If Iger and Meyer were celebrating, plenty of people elsewhere were fuming.
Let's skip Hollywood insiders for now.
Do people in the industry like Isabella?
Do her fellow actors secretly hate her guts? Probably. But nobody really cares.
As for the music world—
Nothing much to discuss.
Here's why:
The music industry is way more fragmented than film. Every artist stands alone. As long as their songs sell, they don't care what others do.
There's no "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality in music—only solo acts. Disney and Warner are legit powerhouses. Their punches have been tested by time.
If they decide to join forces, anyone who thinks they can stand in the way is an idiot.
Still, no matter how powerful Disney and Warner are, they can't silence everyone.
So, when The Voice of America's announcement turned out to be explosively successful, people like Michael Eisner, Rupert Murdoch, Ted Turner, Steve Case, and Edgar Bronfman Jr. started losing it.
And now, they were all gathered in New York—
"So, Michael, you really have no way to interfere?"
Ted Turner looked disappointedly at Eisner. "You can't influence The Voice's development at all?"
Eisner sighed and shook his head. "Iger's actions right now are entirely justified. He's doing it for the company—I can't really stop that."
"Then why'd you let him get into variety shows in the first place?"
Before Eisner could finish, Steve Case from AOL cut in impatiently. "If you hadn't let him do variety, none of this would be happening!"
That made Eisner frown.
He turned sharply toward Case, scowling. "Steve, no wonder AOL tanked—your head's full of crap."
"You really think The Voice exists just because I let Iger make variety shows?"
"Get real."
"Even if I'd said no, someone else would've developed it! The concept's too good."
"When Fox made a fortune off American Idol, do you honestly think NBC or CBS wouldn't have jumped on The Voice if Iger hadn't? Don't kid yourself."
"And once Iger saw it, it would've become his anyway!"
"He and Isabella are in the same boat. If he wants it, he'll get the rights. Period."
"You idiot."
"You—" Case's face turned red, furious.
Before he could explode, Murdoch coughed lightly. "Steve, this isn't the time for fighting. We need to unite and figure out how to take The Voice down."
Case glared at Eisner one last time, then fell silent.
On the surface, it looked like he was being reasonable and giving Murdoch face—but everyone knew the truth.
He just didn't dare go head-to-head with Eisner.
After all, Eisner came from old money.
His mother's family founded the American Safety Razor Company. The firm was sold in 1960 for shares, and they still hold stock to this day.
That company? Altria.
Owner of Marlboro. The world's biggest tobacco dealer.
His father's family used to be America's largest clothing manufacturer. During World War I, over 60% of U.S. Army uniforms came from them. When the industry shifted overseas, they switched to politics instead.
Eisner's father ended up at HUD—the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development.
He oversaw Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac.
That's how he got close to people like George Mitchell.
Bluntly put, at that meeting, Eisner looked down on only one man: Steve Case of AOL.
Because he was the only one there who'd built his empire from scratch.
In old-money circles, "new money" is practically an insult.
It means you've got no one backing you.
You face every hit alone.
In business, that's fatal.
"Okay, let's regroup and reassess where we stand."
Seeing Eisner and Case quiet down, Murdoch smiled again.
Everyone agreed.
And so—
The first meeting of the Anti-Voice Alliance officially began.