Bernard Eichinger was a well-known German film producer and the boss of Constantin. Under his management, Constantin became a globally recognized film company — after all, they were the ones behind Resident Evil, and that IP put Constantin on the map.
To outsiders, Constantin looked like a rags-to-riches inspirational story: a company that had carved out a place for itself in an industry dominated by entrenched capital. But in reality, Constantin was backed by capital as well.
As early as 1986, Constantin had accepted investment from the German firm Kirch. Kirch was a media giant known across Europe. When it invested in Constantin, Kirch was already the continent's largest trader of film and television rights. Beyond that, it controlled a large number of European TV networks covering, among others, Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland, and the UK. One of the world's five major English-language publishers, Holtzbrinck, was also one of its subsidiaries. In the 1990s, to secure European broadcast rights for the 2002 and 2006 World Cups, the Kirch Group even spent €1.9 billion, and in 2001 they acquired the Formula One Group — yes, the entire F1 enterprise was in their hands.
Because Constantin had Kirch's support, it was able to break out of Europe and go international.
Kirch's motive for investing in Constantin was simple: by the 1980s they had saturated the European market. Continuing to expand there risked antitrust action from European governments, so they had to extend their reach overseas. They looked to the United States as a market worth cultivating, and Rupert Murdoch's maneuvers in North America became the model they wanted to follow.
At first, they intended to do what Murdoch did: buy a Hollywood company and then acquire TV networks to wrap around it. But anyone who understands the late 1980s and early 1990s knows the game: selling Tokyo to buy America. When Sony and Matsushita drove Hollywood company valuations sky-high, Kirch immediately abandoned bidding. They had money, but they weren't insane.
Even after backing away from bidding, they still wanted a foothold in Hollywood. After thinking it over, they devised a roundabout plan:
Invest in someone who already knew Hollywood well. Let that agent go to America and build an entertainment company on their behalf, attempting to replicate Fox's success.
That brought Constantin into Kirch's sights — both were German firms, after all. In 1991, Constantin's boss Bernard Eichinger founded Summit Entertainment in the United States.
Yes. Summit Entertainment, the indie studio people in the internet era love to praise as a rising Hollywood titan, was also a toy of capital. Claims like "Summit is the most powerful rising studio in Hollywood because they have a small North American distribution network" or "Summit is the most formidable independent company because they can distribute globally" are nonsense.
Summit's North American distribution network was bought with a $200 million loan arranged by Merrill Lynch at Kirch's behest. Their global distribution network was built by Kirch itself, the European rights-trading monopoly. Put bluntly, Leo Kirch was even more formidable than Ted Turner. Summit's assets were exactly the kind of thing Turner coveted; compared with Ted Turner, Leo Kirch's only "disadvantage" was being European — and whether British or American, people tended to want to pick apart Europe.
When Kirch's ambitions became clear, the Americans moved against them.
Large groups rely on leverage to grow, and Kirch's entry into the United States required dealing with American banks. In 2001, when it became necessary to rein in Kirch's expansion, the U.S. acted: first freezing accounts, then banks called loans, and the media published investigative reports that depressed their stock price.
By April 8, 2002, the empire had collapsed.
Because the Americans had long acted in that fashion — "I want you gone, so you're gone" — Kirch's demise didn't surprise anyone. In capital's eyes, it was even an opportunity to strengthen themselves. Within six months of Kirch's bankruptcy, its assets were parceled out to various funds, and Constantin ended up with a new owner: a Swiss company called Highlight.
The new owner had bought Constantin precisely because the company had a sound distribution system and the potential to become a new Hollywood powerhouse. After taking over, Highlight laid out three expectations for Constantin's future:
Strengthen film production — ideally produce films that break box-office records like Sony's eight-hundred-million hits. Expand in home entertainment — ideally sell seven million discs a day like Sony. Make achievements in television entertainment.
When Eichinger saw those three demands, he was speechless. Forget the third item for a moment — the first two alone were already nearly impossible. "Sony" plus "a film that grosses eight hundred million" basically equals "Spider-Man", "Sony" plus "selling seven million discs a day" also equals "Spider-Man". So their new boss expected Constantin to produce a film like Spider-Man? That would be ridiculous even if you were the chairman.
Still, amid his frustration Eichinger had some ideas. He had a Marvel IP in his hand: The Fantastic Four.
Honestly, to anyone with a grasp of the market, it was clear that The Fantastic Four couldn't replicate Spider-Man's success. Well… actually, it couldn't replicate it at all. Spider-Man was in a different league of superhero popularity — up there with the old gods, the major icons. A successful Spider-Man movie didn't mean the Fantastic Four could explode at the box office. But popularity can be borrowed.
That's why Eichinger wanted to bring Chris Columbus into the project. Everyone knew Harry Potter was a cultural phenomenon on a different scale — even Star Wars couldn't squarely match it. Getting the director of Harry Potter to helm The Fantastic Four would be a way of borrowing prestige, a sort of "name-buying" in the film world. When a film lacks big-name stars, a notable director, a sensational hook, or eye-popping effects, inviting a marquee name to lend support is one of the best promotional tactics; if James Cameron puts his name on a film as a producer, box office might increase by $100 million. In short, attaching a big name sells tickets.
Eichinger compared inviting Columbus to "buying a signature" because he genuinely wanted to develop The Fantastic Four seriously. If he tried to trick the audience with a sham, his new boss would have his head. So Columbus's involvement wasn't optional — without him, the project couldn't even begin. And yet Columbus insisted on finishing Azkaban before talking about The Fantastic Four.
"Is he still filming Azkaban?" Eichinger asked gloomily as he looked at the secretary who had just entered. "Does he have to finish Azkaban before he'll talk to us about starting The Fantastic Four?"
"Yes." The secretary nodded. Having just spoken with Chris Columbus's official spokesperson, he continued, "Columbus's position is clear. Harry Potter is his top priority right now."
"Oh my God."
That fact gave Eichinger a headache. Sure, The Fantastic Four might not equal Spider-Man in popularity, but popularity can be hitchhiked. That's exactly why Eichinger was desperate to rope Columbus in.
After a moment of resignation — recognizing Columbus's clout was beyond his power to change — Eichinger switched topics. "How are things going with the big three?" he asked the secretary. "Are they interested in our Resident Evil TV series pitch? Any buyers?"
Eichinger wanted to accelerate the third of the new owner's goals — television — since the first two would take too long. What property could be adapted into a TV series? Resident Evil, of course.
Although the Resident Evil film's box office wasn't spectacular — made on a $33 million budget and grossing $103 million worldwide — its home-video sales were very strong. The DVD was released on July 30 last year, and by December they had already recouped $110 million; after costs and distribution, the net profit exceeded $30 million. That was why they immediately moved to make a second film, Apocalypse, slated for release the next summer. Because the Resident Evil IP had been market-tested, turning it into a TV series seemed like the right answer to present to the new owner. But what Eichinger considered a good plan didn't mean other companies would agree.
"Uh… boss, ABC, NBC, and CBS aren't interested in our pitch," the secretary said, shaking his head. "None of them are buying."
TV production in North America differs from the Mainland model. In the Mainland, series are often filmed first and then platforms are sought to broadcast them; if no platform picks them up, they just sit on the shelf. In North America, the reverse is true: you typically secure a platform first, then produce. If a network is willing to buy, you can make the show; otherwise, you don't.
Because ABC, NBC, and CBS all said no to a Resident Evil series, the project couldn't move forward — no buyer meant the show would be left unsold and that would just be a money-losing fiasco.
"Why won't they buy it?" Eichinger frowned. "They won't give even a million dollars?"
The U.S. major networks favor a buy-first-then-produce model, which is risky for the studios. To protect their interests, TV projects typically go through a pilot process: when a network likes a script, it pays a development or pre-purchase fee — usually tens of thousands up to a million dollars — to have one to three episodes produced as a test. If ratings are good, the network orders the series; if not, it's canceled. From the networks' perspective, the pre-purchase is a small way to test and fail cheaply. A project that can't even secure a pre-purchase is scorned in the industry; it's called garbage among garbage. It's like sending manuscripts to editors and getting back little more than "send elsewhere" — the response effectively says, "maybe you should just go work a regular job," because even an editor won't guarantee a low-paid trial run.
Rejection like this happens in the TV world all the time, but when it occurs with a well-known IP or famous names attached, it's particularly humiliating. So when Eichinger heard they'd been completely turned down, he was upset.
The secretary sighed. "The big three say we're not an adult network. They don't believe we can produce a PG-13 series. They don't believe we can deliver episodes on time."
Eichinger was speechless. The "big three" were referring to Constantin's reputation problems. When the feature film Resident Evil was first submitted for review, it was rated NC-17. NC-17 cannot be widely released, so Constantin re-edited the film. Eventually it was rated R.
On the surface, re-editing a film to meet ratings is common in Hollywood, but Constantin's edits took half a year — longer than a normal production — causing them to miss two release windows. To be blunt, their re-editing and reshoots were as extensive as starting over. Why so long? Simply because the MPAA thought their film was too bloody and violent.
Constantin's handling angered Sony, which had bought the distribution rights and was responsible for marketing. Since Resident Evil was an adaptation of a famous IP, distribution and production went hand in hand. Sony had already invested in marketing and expected the film to be ready; then Constantin came back saying it was NC-17. Sony was furious.
When the first delay happened, Sony was angry, and only when Constantin promised to finish everything in three months did Sony grudgingly agree to move the date. Constantin failed to meet that promise, and the delay stretched beyond six months. Sony was livid: they had cleared schedules and planned promotions, only to be told the film still wasn't ready. Sony's anger was extreme.
Because Constantin's handling of Resident Evil had been downright suffocating, the moment ABC, NBC, and CBS saw the pitch for a TV adaptation, they all shook their heads.
They weren't about to work with someone who already had a record.
What if Constantin made the Resident Evil series just as gory as the movie? They'd be flooded with complaints.
And what if Constantin delayed production again? That'd be even worse.
Television is far more time-sensitive than film. A little delay can mean losses of tens of millions.
And since all that mess had been Eichinger's personal experience, he knew exactly how bad it could get.
So when the secretary explained the situation, Eichinger just leaned back in his chair.
The reality of failure on two fronts left him utterly drained.
It wasn't that he didn't want to keep trying with the Big Three networks—he knew it was pointless.
The time when Resident Evil was being blocked just happened to overlap with the period when his old boss, Kirch, was being torn apart by the black hand of capital.
And the moment the film was finally approved? That was the exact instant Kirch was beyond saving. So Resident Evil being held up for so long—how could anyone say no one was pulling strings?
But even knowing he'd been sabotaged, what could Eichinger do?
The wars of capital weren't something he could join.
The people involved could destroy him with a sneeze.
He sighed.
Thinking of how ridiculously rough his life had been, Eichinger felt another wave of despair rising—until the secretary spoke again.
"Boss, are you sure you don't want to consider FOX? They're the fourth biggest in television now."
That made Eichinger lift his head and shake it slightly. "Didn't I already tell you? We can work with anyone, but not FOX."
"Because FOX and Warner are enemies."
As an industry veteran, Eichinger knew exactly what The Voice's success meant. If The Voice's profits were coming straight out of American Idol's bowl, how could Constantin possibly serve both sides at once?
It was simple logic—
If Constantin worked with both Chris Columbus and FOX, what would the companies behind them think?
FOX had already been humiliated by Warner. And if, while still licking their wounds, they suddenly saw this little insect they'd thrown a bone to getting cozy with their attacker? Anyone with a temper would crush that insect out of spite.
Meanwhile, Warner—fresh off beating FOX—would see their supposed partner cuddling up to FOX's partner. Any reasonable person would suspect betrayal.
So—
If Constantin wanted Columbus to develop Fantastic Four, they couldn't work with FOX.
And if they wanted to work with FOX, they couldn't bring in Columbus.
Otherwise, they'd block both roads at once.
The secretary understood that logic too.
Seeing how messy things were, he couldn't help but feel discouraged.
Just then—
Ring, ring, ring—
Eichinger's office phone rang.
He glanced at the unfamiliar number, frowned slightly, and picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hello, is this Mr. Bernard Eichinger from Constantin Film?"
"Yes. And you are?"
"Oh, I'm Gail Berman, president of Fox Broadcasting Group. I heard your company's been looking for partners lately—trying to co-develop a Resident Evil TV project? If that's true, I think we should talk."
"!"
The sudden offer made Eichinger's pupils tighten.
In that instant, one name flashed in his mind—Michael Arndt.
As he pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond, Gail Berman continued on the other end of the line.
"Mr. Eichinger, I'm calling with sincerity. From what I know, your new boss has given you a pretty heavy assignment?"
"If that's the case… I imagine you're not having an easy time."
"After all, Mr. Kirch isn't around to save you anymore like he did back in '94."
"…"
Eichinger froze for a moment. He understood exactly what she meant.
She was talking about how he had tricked Marvel back in 1994.
Marvel might not have been a huge company then, but it wasn't one he could afford to cross.
By all logic, they should've destroyed him for that stunt.
So why hadn't they?
Because back then, he had someone powerful behind him.
Now, he didn't.
So if he couldn't quickly earn his new boss's trust…
Marvel would absolutely come for revenge.
Because Marvel's boss was the vengeful type. Back in the day, Isaac Perlmutter and Avi Arad had fought tooth and nail to wrest control of the company from Carl Icahn and Ronald Perelman.
If those men dared to take on Wall Street's "Wolf King," what chance did Eichinger have without backing?
They'd crush him just to reclaim their pride—and if they didn't, how could they face anyone in the industry again?
So—
With all that flashing through his head, Eichinger took a deep breath.
"Mr. Berman, what exactly are you getting at?"
"Mr. Eichinger, I think I've made myself clear. I want to discuss a collaboration."
"Okay, okay… how do we talk?"
"Well… how about you come to Century City? We can talk face to face."
"When?"
"Now."