Just as Gail Berman, president of Fox Broadcasting Group, had predicted—
Once The Voice of America ended in total victory, NBC and CBS could no longer sit still.
Both networks quickly announced their own talent show plans.
The first to strike was NBC—
On December 29, 2003, NBC officially announced that it had partnered with British production company FremantleMedia, acquiring the North American rights to its talent show concept Got Talent.
Same old story: television creativity had long hit a ceiling. Every usable idea had already been done to death. "Innovation" in this era mostly meant fancier sets or recycling old formats. For instance, Got Talent drew inspiration from 1950s British television programs like Talent Contest.
So basically, Got Talent was the sort of thing you could start producing the moment you bought the rights.
NBC's America's Got Talent was scheduled to officially launch in 2004.
Preparations would begin right after New Year's, nationwide auditions in the summer, and the full show in the fall.
Their call for entries swept across the United States:
"On our Got Talent stage, there are no age limits and no talent limits. Whether you sing, dance, perform magic, or do acrobatics—if you think you're amazing, you can join the competition!"
"If the judges approve of you and the audience supports you, you'll have a shot at winning the million-dollar grand prize!"
The news exploded across America.
Because, well—singing was only one kind of talent.
The Voice had been a stage for musicians only.
Honestly, if talent shows stuck to just music, the general audience would get bored fast.
But once a show included everything else…
Who doesn't dream of fame?
"Oh—so I can train dogs on stage? My dog can do anything I say!"
"I ride a unicycle! Can I show that?"
"I'm going to show everyone what ventriloquism means! I can argue with myself! A million-dollar prize, right? Ah—sweet, delicious cash—here I come!"
"..."
NBC had deliberately waited until The Voice ended before announcing Got Talent.
The idea was to siphon off all those viewers who hadn't gotten their "dream fulfilled" from The Voice.
And it worked exactly as planned.
Once Got Talent appeared with its "everyone's welcome" charm, it instantly caught national attention.
But clever minds are everywhere, so naturally…
cough
CBS had the same idea.
So when CBS chairman Les Moonves saw NBC's Got Talent promo, he blew up—
not only because NBC had beaten him to the punch, but because their two concepts had collided.
That's right.
Even before The Voice, American Idol's massive success had made it clear that the "music competition" lane was almost exhausted. That's why NBC had been brainstorming an "all-talents" format as early as June 2003.
Now that The Voice had utterly slaughtered Idol, anyone still trying to do a pure music show was basically asking for a funeral. So CBS decided to look elsewhere too.
And then…
NBC embraced "everything."
CBS looked at that and said—
"Are you f**king kidding me?"
Moonves raged, "You're trying to block everyone else's road!"
Still, fury or not, CBS went ahead and announced its own variety project on December 30, 2003.
The reason was simple—
"We've partnered with the BBC to acquire the variety adaptation rights to their hit drama Strictly Come Dancing."
"Our new show Dancing with the Stars will premiere in 2004, likely in summer."
"It's a celebrity cross-genre competition reality show. We'll invite well-known figures interested in dancing—actors, singers, entrepreneurs, athletes, and more."
"Each celebrity will be paired with a professional dancer. Under their partner's guidance, they'll compete for the championship."
Exactly.
So although CBS's idea "collided" with NBC's, it wasn't fully overlapping—it was "near collision."
They weren't doing "everything," they were focusing on dance.
And since CBS knew that "ordinary-people" talent shows were getting tougher to pull off, they pivoted directly to celebrity reality TV.
Invite stars who can't dance, let them struggle and improve in front of the audience!
Show their flaws, their growth—voilà, built-in drama.
It was a clever survival move in a market dominated by giants.
Of course, the average American viewer didn't know (or care) about the corporate warfare behind all this.
To the public, Got Talent and Dancing with the Stars meant only one thing—
next year was going to be stacked with new shows to watch.
And probably full of juicy drama.
After all, Dancing with the Stars combined "celebrity" + "competition" + "show."
Celebrities are born troublemakers, "competition" means inevitable conflict, and add "showbiz" on top—
well, that's basically a recipe for visible, glamorous, televised chaos.
No surprise there. The TV industry had run out of tricks.
To insiders, though, 2004 looked like a battlefield of titans—
The Voice was obviously getting a second season.
American Idol had already announced its third.
Now add the freshly revealed Got Talent and Dancing with the Stars…
ABC, CBS, NBC, and FOX were about to beat each other senseless.
Because the market was finite. The audience was finite.
And to Gail Berman at Fox Broadcasting Group—
"Bernard, you've lost."
December 31, 2003.
California. Los Angeles.
In a seaside clubhouse in Venice, Berman met with Bernard Eichinger, the head of Constantin Films.
Sunlight glimmered across the ocean, turning the blue waves into golden ripples.
Raising her glass, Berman gave Eichinger a casual toast.
"NBC and CBS have both announced their new reality projects," she said, taking a slow sip. "So… will you honor your bet? If you've decided to follow through, I'll call my assistant over. I brought the contract with me."
Her directness made Eichinger exhale heavily.
He looked at her with a complicated expression. "Gail, I did lose. I'll sign the cooperation contract—because I'm in no position to back out. But before I do, may I ask you something?"
"Of course," she smiled. "What do you want to know?"
"I want to know what Fox's real goal is."
He narrowed his eyes. "Are you using me as a gun to fire at someone else?"
Berman laughed.
Even cornered, Eichinger was no fool. You don't serve capital by being stupid. That he could see through their motives didn't surprise her.
But she didn't answer directly.
"Why do you ask that?" she said lightly.
"Because Fox has bad blood with both Disney and Warner."
He dropped the politeness. "The Voice threw your whole talent show strategy into chaos. You wanted to sabotage it before it aired—but you failed. So you just had to watch it explode in success."
"When The Voice finale pulled in fifty-eight million viewers, next year's Idol became basically unwatchable. With that kind of loss, retaliation is inevitable. Isn't it?"
He stopped, meeting her gaze squarely.
That sharp, confident analysis made Berman tap her glass gently against his.
Clink.
The clear note sounded almost like approval—almost.
"Bernard," she said with a smile, "you're German. Why aren't you home for the holidays?"
He frowned. "What?"
"It's not that you don't want to go home," she said softly. "It's that you can't."
Boom.
Her words landed like thunder.
Eichinger's eyes went wide. He stared at her—her pleasant face now seemed like Satan's grin.
Because she was right. He couldn't go back.
No one likes to face ruin after decades of work, especially not right before retirement.
In plain terms—back in late 2001 or early 2002, when things started looking bad for his former boss, Eichinger had quietly taken the money and run.
And if he hadn't sold something significant back then, how else could he be living comfortably in America now?
After all, in the takedown of his old boss, the ones who benefited most were the American investors.
And that boss—well, he wasn't dead. Just bankrupt.
Even broke, a camel is still bigger than a horse.
"So I'm the gun?" Eichinger said bitterly.
Even though Berman had basically confirmed it with her smirk, he still needed to hear it aloud. Human nature—hope dies last.
She pointed at the ocean beneath the balcony. "If you want freedom, jump in," she said.
"I know you can't swim, so I'll wish you freedom in your next life."
"Or you can walk away—but Avi Arad's methods are worse than drowning."
Her eyes gleamed. "And you wouldn't want anything to happen to your children, would you?"
Eichinger laughed—a loud, desperate laugh. But his face looked more like crying.
"So you'll protect me?" he said.
"That depends on your sincerity."
"I brought the Fantastic Four contract," he said through gritted teeth. "Just a copy."
"Good." Berman smiled and snapped her fingers. "I'll make sure the boss hears everything you've told me."
Eichinger inhaled deeply, then stood up and left the room.
Five minutes later, he returned carrying a black briefcase.
In front of Berman, he unlocked it and pulled out a stack of papers.
It was the Fantastic Four development agreement between Constantin Films and Chris Columbus.
The details were as follows:
Effective December 1, 2003, Constantin officially hired Chris Columbus as Fantastic Four's producer and screenwriter. Both parties would jointly develop the IP as equal partners. During development, Columbus must fully serve the project. During actual filming, he doesn't need to be on set full-time, but he must assign an executive producer to oversee production.
Constantin set limits: the budget should not exceed $100 million, and the global box office target was at least $400 million. If things go well, Columbus receives 10% of total film revenue. If costs go over or the box office falls short but still breaks even, he gets 8%. If costs exceed one-third of global box office, his cut drops to 5%.
These are just production bonuses.
As screenwriter, Columbus also gets a flat $5 million fee. Development must not exceed three years; the movie must release by November 30, 2006. If delays are due to production issues, Columbus owes Constantin $40 million. If delays are due to external issues like censorship, Constantin owes him $40 million. Once officially greenlit, the project cannot be easily canceled. If Constantin provides funds and full creative control, but Columbus leaves early, he owes $20 million in damages. If Constantin fails to fund or obstructs production, Columbus can quit freely, and Constantin owes him $20 million. Constantin may seek co-production partners, but partner rights cannot exceed what's agreed with Columbus.
Any release delays caused by distributors remain Constantin's responsibility.
If the film fails to meet the release deadline, Constantin must still pay the $40 million penalty. Other contingencies subject to separate clauses.
It was a standard industry contract—no hidden traps.
Eichinger's decision, in truth, was simple.
Even if he suspected that Rupert Murdoch had his eye on him, he wouldn't dare play tricks with Chris Columbus.
Because Columbus was an industry veteran—not an idiot. Try to con him, and he'd see through it instantly.
If Columbus spotted any flaws in the contract and refused to cooperate, Eichinger would be finished.
Because once that happened, his value to Murdoch would instantly drop to zero.
Not exactly an ideal outcome.
When capital sets its eyes on you, even the smallest act of resistance looks like defiance.
Besides, if Eichinger couldn't afford to offend Murdoch, did he really think he could afford to offend Spielberg?
Ten years ago, he had the guts to toy with Marvel—so why not Columbus?
Because Columbus's teacher was a legend.
Or, to be precise, his teacher's father was.
Spielberg's father had been a senior researcher at RCA—the Radio Corporation of America.
RCA was the birthplace of America's electronics industry. Televisions, picture tubes, VCRs, audio systems, communications tech—almost every patent in those fields came from RCA. At its peak, it was the patent supplier for General Electric, Westinghouse, AT&T, and even United Fruit. Naturally, because it was too dominant, the government eventually broke it up.
And what did Spielberg's father do there?
He researched radio guidance systems—as in, missile guidance.
His project team worked directly with Lockheed.
He stayed there for seven years before being poached by General Electric.
Then, while at GE, he helped develop the GE-200 mainframe.
It was a commercially successful computer, but the real breakthrough was the programming language its team designed—simple and elegant. So much so that in 1963, professors from Dartmouth College came to GE's lab to learn how to program it.
And in 1964, the BASIC language was born—on the GE-225, an upgraded version of the GE-200.
Yes, that BASIC.
Now you see why Spielberg could so easily secure investment from Paul Allen when he founded DreamWorks.
Gates and Allen already knew the backstory long before they "borrowed inspiration" from BASIC.
And Spielberg's odd friendship with Steve Jobs? They claimed it began over video games—Jobs came from Atari, and Spielberg was Atari's biggest client—but Apple's cofounder Steve Wozniak's father had also worked for Lockheed.
Spielberg's dad worked on guidance systems.
Wozniak's dad worked on propulsion.
Heh. Unless Eichinger had a death wish,
he'd never dare try to trap Spielberg's student.
Because someone like that—one sneeze and Eichinger would be six feet under.
Even so, Berman figured the standard clauses in this contract were enough.
"Okay," she said calmly. "Very good. We can sign the contract now."
She waved her assistant over and showed Eichinger two pre-drafted Fox agreements.
The first concerned the development of the Resident Evil TV series—identical to what they'd discussed before.
The second dealt with Fantastic Four.
Here's what it said, summarized:
Constantin Films invites Fox Studios to co-develop Fantastic Four to ensure sufficient funding. The investment split will be 50:50, with Fox providing half the capital.
This means both sides share investor rights equally. Fox will handle Fantastic Four's global distribution and will be responsible for all marketing and release strategies.
In return, Fox will receive 30% of the film's global revenue.
"..."
Honestly, on paper, nothing about the contract looked suspicious.
It was perfectly standard.
Which, ironically, made it more suspicious.
The more flawless a contract appeared, the deadlier it probably was.
After reading through the Fantastic Four terms, Eichinger slowly raised his head.
At that moment, he looked like he'd just been swallowed by Hela, goddess of death—his entire being radiated despair.
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" he said hoarsely, eyes blazing.
He didn't dare shout, so his voice came out rough, like a dull blade scraping metal.
Berman just smiled. "Isn't this a normal cooperation agreement?"
"Bullshit!"
Eichinger finally lost it. His face twisted, eyes bloodshot. "You're aiming for Harry Potter, aren't you?!"
"You lost American Idol, so now you want Warner to pay the price?"
"Oh, for God's sake! You people are insane!"
"The Harry Potter franchise involves too many interests! If something happens, people are going to die!"
"And the first to die will be me—the moment I sign this contract!"
A normal agreement, when used strategically, could become a weapon.
For example—since Fox and Constantin were now co-investors in Fantastic Four,
Fox had every right to contact Chris Columbus directly as part of development.
"Chris, I think the script needs adjustments."
Perfectly reasonable, right?
Script changes are standard in Hollywood. And with Columbus being paid five million dollars, it wasn't like he could refuse to discuss it.
So, let's say Fox "notices problems" with the Goblet of Fire script while Columbus is filming in London.
They call him up: "We'd like to talk in person, it's too complicated for a call. Come to California."
He can't exactly say no.
And since Fox also holds Fantastic Four's global distribution rights, they can talk to him under that pretext too—
"You're the producer, after all. Let's discuss the release plan."
If Columbus refuses?
"Well, if you're too busy filming Goblet of Fire, that's your problem."
In fact—Fox's goal was precisely to make sure he couldn't film Goblet of Fire.
Simple, brutal symmetry.
You destroyed American Idol?
Fine. We'll destroy Harry Potter.
Eye for an eye.
All technically "within the rules."
Of course, Columbus could try to drop the Fantastic Four project once he realized he was being used. The contract even allowed that—he'd just pay the penalty.
But escaping was easier said than done.
Fox could refuse to accept the termination, take him to court, and bury him in lawsuits.
He could stay in London and let lawyers handle it, but Warner's legal team would sniff something was off immediately.
And lawsuits were just phase one of Fox's strategy.
Phase two was public opinion.
Once Columbus looked like the guilty party, Fox could spin the narrative:
"Chris Columbus abandoned Fantastic Four because he looks down on Marvel."
Then unleash the Spider-Man campaign to attack Harry Potter.
And it would work—guaranteed.
Because Prisoner of Azkaban was slated for release next summer.
And in the same release window: Spider-Man 2.
That's right.
Did anyone really think Rupert Murdoch—the master of chaos—would fight alone?
He'd at least pretend to have allies.
And since his target was Harry Potter, it was only logical to hand the knife to Sony.
Sony, of course, wouldn't hesitate.
Two reasons:
Crush Azkaban and Spider-Man 2 takes the crown. Sony was already pissed at Isabella.
After Edgar Bronfman Jr. got humiliated in the Warner Music deal, he retaliated by leaking prices and pushing Sony's board into panic.
Heh.
Eichinger wasn't stupid.
After reading the contract, he understood perfectly—Fox and Warner were headed for war,
and anyone caught between them was going to vanish.
He wanted no part of it.
But it was too late.
Even after he'd shouted himself hoarse, spraying spit everywhere, Berman stayed calm.
Smiling, she pointed toward the sea beneath the balcony.
"Bernard," she said quietly, "I'll say it again—you don't have a choice."
"Either jump now… or trust that we'll protect you."
"As for a third option—"
She paused, voice turning icy.
"Go back twenty years. Decline Kirch's invitation. Only then will you ever be free."
Whoosh—
The blunt threat made Eichinger's pupils contract.
His hands and feet went cold.
He understood.
And he was terrified.