In the film industry, the screenplay of an adaptation has its own copyright.
Here's how it works.
Take Harry Potter for example. Warner Bros. first bought the film adaptation rights from J.K. Rowling, then hired Steve Kloves to write the screenplay. Once the screenplay was finished, the copyright of the story—meaning the version told through that script—belonged to Warner Bros.
In theory, Warner could do whatever they wanted with that screenplay.
But Rowling had special clauses in her contract. She held final say over all creative aspects of the adaptations. She could veto anything. So even though Warner technically owned the script, they still had to bow to Rowling's judgment. In short, that copyright was about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
Rowling's kind of power, though, is an anomaly.
She can pull that off because she's backed by Britain itself.
Marvel, for example, had no such luxury. Once they sold an IP, they could only sit back and watch others mess with it.
If Sony wanted to make Spider-Man tap dance, they could.
And then, there's another rare exception—the Spielberg class.
Normally, when a studio buys the adaptation rights, it hires screenwriters. Those writers get credit, sure, but not ownership. Again, like with Harry Potter: Steve Kloves wrote a masterpiece, but Warner owns it.
Spielberg's circle plays by different rules.
They don't take "writing jobs." They accept co-development deals.
That means once a screenplay is finished, Spielberg—or anyone from his camp—shares story copyright with the studio.
To put it simply: if you want to turn their version into a movie, you must bring them onboard. Otherwise, you can't use their screenplay—you'd have to rewrite every part that differs from the original source.
And for twenty years after that, you can't replicate their script, or they'll sue you.
So now, when Constantin Films wants to make Fantastic Four based on Chris Columbus's script, they have no choice but to bring him back. Even if they just want to tweak it, they still need his blessing.
That's why Columbus said he holds "partial rights."
Fantastic Four isn't his, but no one can film his version without him.
"Alright, this project really isn't for me," Isabella said, shaking her head after hearing the gossip.
She wasn't interested in Fantastic Four.
In her past life, that franchise had been rebooted several times, each version worse than the last.
The 2005 one was passable, with Jessica Alba as the only highlight.
The 2015 one was an absolute trainwreck; people forgot the female lead even existed.
And the newest reboot? Only Vanessa Kirby left an impression.
Columbus spread his hands—told you so.
But since they were on the topic of scripts, Isabella got curious.
"Director, don't you have any other projects?"
Columbus sighed. "I barely have time to breathe while shooting Harry Potter. Even if Constantin wants me back, it'd only be as a producer."
"Okay…" Isabella dragged the word, disappointed.
Harry Potter really was a life-consuming project.
For the kids, it ate up their entire youth.
For the adults, it devoured a sixth of their careers.
Sure, Harry Potter was the biggest hit in entertainment history, but everything has a price.
To Isabella, who'd seen the future, that was fine. But for everyone else—people gambling that Rowling wouldn't ruin her own story—it was a leap of faith.
After sensing Columbus's nostalgia, Isabella fell quiet.
Her silence made him chuckle. "Isabella, you're a workaholic, aren't you? Order of the Phoenix just blew up, and you already want to start another movie?"
Just as the industry predicted, Order of the Phoenix sold over five million copies in the UK and US in just 24 hours.
Meaning: even before Azkaban wrapped, and Goblet of Fire started shooting, Warner had already locked in Phoenix for film adaptation.
So when he's drowning in projects, and she's still asking for more… Columbus couldn't help but find her ridiculous.
"I do rest!" Isabella protested with a grin. "I like lying around too. But resting and planning ahead aren't mutually exclusive, right?"
"True," he admitted. "But I really don't have anything good right now."
"It's fine, I was just curious," she said lightly.
Columbus nodded, then smirked. "Actually, there's one interesting project. But it doesn't suit you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know Hasbro?"
"Yeah."
"Transformers."
Back in the 1980s, Hasbro had tried turning its toys into IPs through animation. After all, toys were for kids, right?
But Harry Potter changed everything. Its success showed that grown-ups loved stories tied to nostalgia—and they spent money on it.
So Hasbro wanted to make a live-action Transformers to pull adults into the toy market.
Their first choice was actually G.I. Joe, but with the Iraq War going on, they thought a military-themed movie might not sit well. So they pivoted to their second-biggest brand: Transformers.
And of course, they wanted Spielberg to produce.
The man's basically a box-office demigod.
"I heard from Steven," Columbus said. "Hasbro's chairman, Alan Hassenfeld, already called him. If nothing goes wrong, the Transformers movie rights will go to DreamWorks."
"Because Steven and Alan have worked together for years—Hasbro made the Jurassic Park toys."
"So yeah, we'll probably get it. But it's not for you."
He looked at her meaningfully. "The main characters are robots. Humans are just side pieces. And Hermione Granger doesn't play second fiddle to a robot, right?"
At that, Isabella smirked. "No one makes a Diva play second lead."
Columbus burst out laughing, giving her a thumbs-up.
Being the lead in one global phenomenon is already god-tier.
Trying to headline two? That's delusional.
And Isabella knew it.
Unless she got another Harry Potter-level series—where she was the undisputed lead—she wouldn't bother.
So yeah, Transformers? Please. Robots could stay in their lane.
But then—
"Psst?" she nudged Columbus.
"What?" he asked, suspicious.
"When Transformers starts up, tell me."
"Why?"
"I own a talent agency. Why should we let other people have the fun?"
She winked.
Columbus just stared at her, stunned. "You're like a giant hamster—you see something shiny and immediately hoard it, even if you can't eat it."
"Hehehe~" she giggled. "Since you're teasing me, I'll take that as a yes."
He sighed. "You only have one client in that agency, right?"
"Yep."
"So this is for Margot?"
"Sort of."
"Hmm?"
"If Transformers suits her, I'll pitch her. If not, I won't push it. A bad fit kills a good project anyway."
She wasn't wrong.
In her past life, Transformers was pure popcorn cinema—zero depth.
The "main character" basically existed to get saved by robots.
Didn't matter if it was a guy like Shia LaBeouf or a girl like Hailee Steinfeld.
So if Spielberg wanted, they could just write a female lead this time.
And if not? Isabella wasn't worried. Columbus could always make a call.
Either way, she wasn't letting outsiders take that goldmine.
As they talked, Columbus switched topics. "How's Robbie's shoot going?"
"I have no idea," Isabella said. "Haven't called her lately. But I'll know by the end of the month."
That was because The Game Plan—Robbie's movie—was wrapping up then.
And because Isabella herself would finish filming Azkaban at the same time.
By then, a thousand days after her transmigration, she'd finally return to the Americas.
And why?
"Isabella, you're really leaving?" Daniel Radcliffe asked, heartbroken, as she waved goodbye on August 28, 2003.
"I'd love to stay, but The Voice isn't filming in the UK this year," she said. "Come visit me in North America once you're done."
Yes—our dear Isabella was flying west to bask in her worshippers' devotion.
Or, more accurately:
To record The Voice of America.
America, your sun has returned.
…Damn it, she actually thought that.
Still, the moment she landed in Los Angeles and breathed that sweet, warm air—
Wow.
Freedom smelled divine.
"Ohhh Isabella! Long time no see!"
Before she could react, a blur of perfume and excitement crashed into her.
It was Margot Robbie.
"Margot? You're here? I didn't tell you my schedule."
"So who told you?" Isabella asked, lowering her sunglasses and glaring at her mom and sister.
"Not me," said Vivian.
"Not me either," said Catherine.
Margot grinned. "I heard from Disney. Mr. Iger's assistant mentioned you were arriving today, so Dwayne brought me here to meet you."
"Johnson's here too?" the three of them asked, a bit surprised.
"Yeah! Right over there." The little girl waved her arm and pointed vigorously toward the exit hall.
Following her gaze—
Maybe it was just the distance, but… the once-mighty Rock seemed to have shrunk a size or two. From afar, he looked less like The Rock and more like The Pebble. As if he'd just wrapped shooting Hot & Burning and left half his muscles behind.
"Oh… fine, let's go then."
Since an outsider was waiting, Isabella and the others didn't linger.
They stepped out—
And were immediately greeted by Dwayne Johnson, along with Warner Bros. and Disney staff who'd come to welcome them.
Naturally, Isabella and her family returned the courtesy.
Once they climbed into Warner's shuttle van—
Johnson, ever the gracious host, offered to treat them to a meal.
It was a polite gesture Isabella wouldn't dream of refusing.
So, after everyone arrived at the restaurant he'd booked and began their fusion-style lunch, Johnson finally explained his reason for inviting her. He thanked Isabella—because he'd been chosen as the host of The Voice.
"Dwayne, you're giving me too much credit," Isabella said with a light laugh. "That's your own achievement, from your own hard work."
She wasn't about to take credit where it wasn't due.
Because honestly, she hadn't lifted a finger in choosing The Voice host.
Whenever a project was tied to Robert Iger's personal career, Isabella automatically turned into a hands-off boss. To her, all those details were background noise.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Johnson said, smiling as he shook his head. "If we hadn't worked together before, I doubt Disney would've picked me so easily. A lot of people wanted that job…"
Sure, the power struggles stayed below the surface.
But when big players clash, the ripples always show.
So, when the industry caught wind that Disney and Warner were dead serious about The Voice, plenty of folks tried to grab a piece of the action. And the hosting role? That was the crown jewel.
Even ABC's own anchors were fighting over it.
From the public's view, it looked simple—keep the benefits "in the family."
After all, Disney owned ABC. And with Robert Iger running ABC himself, giving that opportunity to one of his own anchors seemed like the most natural, least risky move.
But that "smart" move came with problems:
There's only one host slot. ABC has a ton of anchors. No matter how you slice it, someone's going to feel cheated.
Warner's known for its internal factions—but ABC's no different. If Iger didn't distribute the spoils carefully, it'd turn into a political mess.
At this point, The Voice's popularity had already peaked.
No matter how much you polish the parts, you can't beat the law of diminishing returns. So, Iger did what every clever executive does—he redirected the benefits toward the area that needed it most.
Which meant: the movie division.
And within that division, which project had the most direct ties to him?
Which one's box office results were personal?
The answer: Margot Robbie.
Because she was Isabella's person.
If Margot weren't so young—too young to host—Iger would've given her the job himself.
Since she couldn't, the next best option was her co-star.
To put it bluntly, if Margot had been shooting some other film instead of The Game Plan, then that film's lead actor would've been the host of The Voice.
Reality's cruel like that.
When you're clawing your way up, you think success comes from effort—that resources are earned. But once you're inside the higher tier, you learn the truth: sometimes you're not passed over because you're weak or lazy, but simply because your patron doesn't see a bigger profit in you anymore.
Anyway—enough cynicism. Isabella was still a kid.
Even if she understood how the world worked, she wasn't about to waste brainpower on it. And honestly, she had the privilege not to.
"So," she said at last, smiling, "since you've thanked me so sincerely, it'd be rude not to accept. Congratulations, Dwayne. Cheers to our partnership?"
"Cheers." Johnson raised his glass, clinking it gently against hers.
The crisp chime made everyone at the table smile.
The dinner was, after all, about his gratitude.
Once business talk wrapped up, they started chatting freely.
First topic: The Game Plan.
Johnson said, "We wrapped shooting yesterday. Post-production starts today. Should hit theaters by Christmas—there's not much CGI anyway."
"Okay," Isabella said, clearly pleased.
Then came Party in the U.S.A.
"Isabella," Johnson said, "that song you wrote? Incredible. Feels like it fits anywhere. I'd love to use it in the movie—what do you think?"
"No problem," Isabella said with a smile. "Use it first, we'll talk about fees later."
Finally, they talked about Isabella's schedule.
"You won't be jumping straight into work after coming to the U.S., right? Taking a vacation first?" Johnson asked, smiling at the Haywoods and Margot. "If you are, I could help arrange something…"
The Voice's city-level competitions had wrapped at the start of the month.
By tomorrow—August 30—all state-level contests would be done.
Two months to finish nationwide auditions was already impressive.
That efficiency was thanks to Robert Iger's "fine mesh" strategy. The point wasn't to scout every singer alive—it was to make locals feel connected to the show.
Since The Voice's entry bar was higher than American Idol's, the number of contestants and rounds stayed manageable.
After the state contests ended, the national finals would begin on September 20. The early double-selection rounds were pre-recorded, just in case something went wrong. Filming only needed to start a week in advance—meaning Isabella's official start date was September 13.
At first glance, that left a long gap—three weeks between state and national rounds. To some, that seemed like a scheduling flaw.
Wouldn't such a long break cool the audience's excitement?
But Disney hadn't done it on purpose.
Early September simply wasn't ideal for entertainment events.
Not only were students just starting school again, but September 11 was around the corner—and this year, its shadow overlapped with the Iraq War.
So Disney decided to steer clear.
Next year, if there was a second season, they'd shift the national rounds into summer—get the full benefit of the holiday traffic, minus the headaches.
On paper, Isabella had two weeks of rest.
In reality?
"I… probably won't be resting anytime soon," she said, setting down her utensils and wiping her mouth. "I'll need to meet with Warner and Disney first to finalize things. But thank you anyway, Dwayne."
She wanted to rest, sure. But there were two tasks she had to finish before The Voice started filming.
Otherwise, things could get messy.
Because the first task would affect her share of The Voice's profits.
And the second one—
Would shape the future of her entire music business empire.