Although Rupert Murdoch is one of the wealthy elites listed by Forbes, he still took the time to watch The Devil Wears Prada. His reason for paying attention to it was simple—he wanted to cozy up to Old London's proud Union Jack aristocracy.
It all started like this:
News Corporation was still officially registered in Australia.
When a company is small, no one cares where it's registered or which government regulates it. But once that company grows huge and expands across North America, if it doesn't kneel to the world's self-proclaimed police force, best case it gets investigated, worst case it gets dismantled. That goes double for media groups that can influence public opinion—the scrutiny is constant.
Now, News Corp had reached the point where the registration had to be changed. If not… well, let's just say Murdoch was the easiest target for the American corporate alliance to crush. All Bob Iger would need to do is file a single complaint, and the vultures would smell blood immediately.
But if Murdoch re-registered News Corp in the United States, then his British assets would be in danger.
Britain and America—the conjoined father-son duo—only pretend to be brothers.
The same Britain that built the BBC into a global megaphone cares deeply about the origins of any major media group.
In fact, Murdoch's rise from Australia to the UK was largely thanks to his well-connected mother. Her ancestors included a lieutenant governor of the West Indies, and she herself held a title of nobility.
She was first honored by the Queen in 1961—when Murdoch hadn't even sorted out his local Australian business yet.
Yeah, his mother didn't just have one medal hanging around her neck. Murdoch's entire ascent was built on British resources. Which means if he dares to pull away, he'll have to pay dearly for it. To minimize that cost, he needed deeper ties in Britain.
Sure, he had formed strong alliances with politicians—Thatcher being one of them—but those people's influence in Britain rises and falls with elections.
In that country, the only voices that last are the old aristocrats. The most influential one, of course, was Her Majesty—but she was out of reach. So when Prada appeared, Murdoch saw an opportunity.
The Cavendish family, the Dukes of Devonshire, wielded serious power in Britain.
And The Devil Wears Prada dared to diss them?
And aired their dirty laundry for everyone to see?
Oh…
If Murdoch could flip that narrative, wouldn't that give him a reason to talk to them directly?
Once News Corp got a bit of collaboration going with one of their industries—say, fashion—the people lurking in the dark, waiting to strike at him from the British side, would have to think twice before making a move.
In this grand bootlicking scheme, Murdoch's real goal was to force the Prada author to apologize to Anna Wintour.
Using a film to whitewash Wintour's image might soothe her pride a little, but only making the author kneel, beg, and swear to revise her words would truly satisfy her.
Yeah—
That's actually the real reason Fox had been hesitant to buy Prada.
If you're going to suck up to someone, you might as well do it properly.
And everyone in the industry knew that Anna Wintour had been furious after seeing The Devil Wears Prada.
Furious enough that every VOGUE employee had to re-sign confidentiality agreements forbidding them from writing books about her or VOGUE's internal affairs after leaving the company.
Future employees, too.
Once Anna Wintour pulled off something like that, pleasing her became a golden opportunity.
But now—Warner wanted Prada?
"Hm…"
Murdoch grunted irritably through his nose.
"Why did Warner and Isabella suddenly take an interest in Prada?"
"We couldn't find out. It just seemed to happen suddenly."
"What's their offer?"
"Two million dollars."
"Two million? Oh—does the original author still hold production rights? I can't believe Warner would adapt Prada word for word, especially with Isabella being one of J.K. Rowling's people."
"Uh, from what we know, Warner doesn't want Lauren Weisberger involved in production. They're offering an extra two million for full creative freedom. The offer tempted her, but she's hesitant. She knows Warner will probably butcher her script—but four million dollars is… a lot."
Lauren Weisberger, the author of Prada, was famously greedy.
Or maybe just transparent—after the book blew up, even the color of her underwear was public knowledge.
She'd written Prada purely to cash in on Anna Wintour's fame.
In the book, she claimed she left VOGUE because she couldn't handle Wintour's "PUA"?
Please. In reality, she was just Wintour's temporary assistant. She didn't even last ten months there.
That kind of person doesn't get "PUA'd" by Anna Wintour.
And her "I quit to embrace life" story?
Ha.
She only quit after landing an offer from Departures, the luxury magazine under American Express.
When AmEx was asked about her hiring, the timeline became crystal clear. Even funnier, during her interview she bragged that she and Anna Wintour were on great terms—and that Wintour herself had suggested she'd be a "good fit" for AmEx's brand.
So…
"Seems things are getting complicated."
Murdoch pushed his glasses up, deep in thought. "Warner's offer is ridiculous. There's clearly something behind it. If we compete with them, we'll only make ourselves look worse."
"From a business standpoint, once Prada's rights hit four million, we should walk away."
"Especially since…"
He looked straight at his secretary and said, "We're already watching Warner closely."
Indeed, Warner's sudden offer for Prada irritated him to no end—not only because it disrupted his cozying-up plan, but because competing with Warner might expose his real motives.
The logic was simple: Prada wasn't worth four million.
So if anyone dared to bid against that price, they'd look suspicious.
If Universal, Sony, or Paramount did it, Warner might just call them idiots.
But if Fox did?
The moment Fox raised its bid, Barry Meyer over at Warner would start digging into them.
And if Meyer discovered that News Corp was quietly relocating its registration?
Okay—he'd call in an airstrike. Bob Iger's corporate fists would drop immediately.
And if Meyer learned Fox was secretly meeting with Constantin Film?
Ha—Murdoch wouldn't live long enough to say "Oops."
"Boss, the real problem might be why Warner made that bid," the secretary said. "If they just genuinely like Prada, that's fine. But if they're targeting us through Prada…"
"Then we're in deep trouble."
Murdoch inhaled slowly. He got the message.
If Barry Meyer first discovered their meetings with Constantin and then bid for Prada?
That'd be war.
"You trying to touch my Harry Potter profits? Fine, I'll slit your corporate throat."
That was the nightmare scenario—the one Murdoch dreaded most.
Rubbing his temples, he finally asked, "Has Azkaban been scheduled?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Summer season—June 4. They'll have two premieres, one in North America, one in the UK. North America's on May 23, the UK's on May 31. So technically, we can intercept them in North America."
Murdoch nodded. "What other films share the slot?"
"None directly. Nobody wants to clash with Harry Potter. But this year's schedule is brutal for Azkaban—thanks to our handiwork."
"The summer season's already packed."
Indeed, that year's lineup was insane.
Three guaranteed hits: Shrek 2, Azkaban, and Spider-Man 2.
Their release dates: May 19, June 4, and June 30.
They'd staggered releases to avoid mutual destruction, but the market only had so much space.
And even though DreamWorks, Warner, and Sony agreed not to cannibalize each other, smaller studios weren't about to starve quietly.
There are only 52 weeks in a year—only so many golden slots.
Why should anyone just give up theirs because Harry Potter wants to eat?
So between Shrek 2 and Azkaban, on May 28, a film called The Day After Tomorrow would release—a disaster movie by Roland Emmerich, the guy who made Independence Day.
Then, between Azkaban and Spider-Man 2, on June 11 came the Garfield live-action movie. And on June 18, The Terminal, Spielberg's and Tom Hanks' collaboration, would hit theaters.
It was chaos—blockbusters every single week.
So if any one film got hit with bad press, it'd be chewed up and spat out by the competition.
And this chaos wasn't random.
Both The Day After Tomorrow and Garfield were Fox productions.
Fox had gone all-in—to kill Harry Potter, to crush Azkaban.
So…
"Okay, then we'll drop the Prada acquisition."
Murdoch exhaled and made his call. "I can still maneuver things in Britain, but the chance to ambush Harry Potter only comes once. Let's just hope Warner genuinely likes Prada."
"And tell Gail Berman to hold off on the Constantin deal. Everything follows our lead. The reason I let her talk to Bernard Eichinger directly is because she's low-profile."
"I've already staked too much on this operation. I can't afford failure."
People who can't endure and lie low never make it in capitalism.
Resources are finite and must be taken by force. When everyone in the arena carries a knife, the guy who charges in yelling is always the first to be kicked out.
So, with Murdoch quietly biding his time, a potential clash vanished before it could start.
Then, as March 24 arrived, another major event hit the headlines.
The Passion of the Christ had crossed 300 million dollars in North America after just 29 days in theaters.
That film—many called it a legend.
Because Mel Gibson dared to make what Hollywood wouldn't touch.
Because, despite the industry's attempt to blacklist and bury it, he'd triumphed spectacularly.
But in truth… Mel Gibson wasn't exactly a saint.
Actually, calling him human might be giving him too much credit.
You could say that whole family eats from the bowl labeled "religion and mysticism."
Let's start with the film. The Passion of the Christ only "broke through media suppression" and became a massive hit because that "suppression" was a melodramatic sob story Gibson made up for PR.
Before the movie even hit theaters, when the rough cut was ready, it was already screened in the northwest corner of Rome—in the Vatican itself.
John Paul II had watched it as early as 2003.
Then Augustine, a priest in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, wrote that "Gibson's film is not a documentary, but it faithfully follows the shared fundamental structure of the Four Gospels. Gibson's film is completely loyal to the New Testament."
Soon after, the president of the U.S. Evangelical Association publicly endorsed it through church media, saying…
Anyone who doesn't watch it is a heretic.
Right. Because apparently it's still the Middle Ages.
Sure, ABC, CBS, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal didn't promote The Passion, but the church media did. You think that doesn't count as "media"? Please.
A film doesn't "explode with zero promotion." How's the public supposed to support a movie they don't even know exists? Praise it telepathically?
Anyway, that Evangelical president's endorsement was just the opening trumpet of the marketing campaign. By the time the film premiered, more than ten cardinals and countless archbishops had publicly praised it by name.
The whole movie was being hailed as "God once again spreading the Gospel to the world."
As for how Gibson even managed to get the film in front of the Pope? Simple.
His father was in the business.
His grandfather was rich—a tobacco magnate, millionaire back in the 19th century—which let Gibson's father dabble in endless church councils and theological debates. And not as an attendee, but as a speaker.
The man published a pile of theology books. His most famous statement? "The Second Vatican Council is a Masonic conspiracy led by Jews."
Yep. Mel Gibson's dad, Hutton Gibson, basically invented his own brand of religious magic.
So yeah, Gibson was never going to be buddy-buddy with Jewish people.
Is he some iron-willed hero exposing truths the elites tried to bury? Please.
He's just a guy trying to inherit his family's throne in the Church of Paranoia.
This whole "fight for righteousness" thing was nothing more than one group clutching their Bible to bash another group clutching their Bible.
Everyone in the West knew this. That's why The Passion's success wasn't seen as the rise of some masterpiece—it was a war of faith, of ideology.
And the fallout? Insults, fights, blood, riots—too many to count.
At that time, the world really did feel full of monsters.
But none of that touched Isabella.
She had already returned to the Harry Potter set on March 15.
No journalist dared to poke that hornet's nest.
So between training sessions, all she heard were harmless updates, like how American Idol was still popular—
Sure, The Voice had stolen its thunder, but in just two months Idol's third season already had over 70,000 sign-ups. That's nearly the same as the previous season's total, and there was still a month left in open auditions.
A record-breaking turnout was basically guaranteed.
She also heard that "Kill Kill" had peaked at #5 on the Billboard singles chart—
Yeah, after eight weeks of climbing, that was likely going to be Lana Del Rey's debut ceiling.
Not because she lacked talent or The Voice lacked hype—
but because the early 2004 charts were jammed with heavyweights.
January 3: Beyoncé's debut solo hit "Me, Myself and I" hits top ten.
Same day: Kanye and Twista's "Slow Jamz" enters the top ten.
January 10: Usher drops "Yeah!"
January 12: Maroon 5 releases "This Love."
Also January 12: Britney Spears drops her reinvention single "Toxic."
Then Jay-Z follows with "Dirt off Your Shoulder."
Not one lightweight in that bunch.
The entire pop landscape was chaos.
If it weren't for how different all those artists were, Isabella might've sworn Fox had set up an elaborate musical ambush just to choke her artist's debut.
Still, since Fox had zero influence in the pop scene, the result was pure market chaos. And in that battlefield, landing at #5 was something Isabella could accept.
Especially considering that in her previous life, "Kill Kill" never even charted on Billboard—too many versions released, impossible to track. It was her breakout song, sure, but not her big hit.
So the nearly two million copies it had sold now? A literal rewriting of history.
Pop gossip was just small talk to her anyway—music wasn't her main gig. In film news, aside from The Passion, she'd heard about:
1. On April 2, Warner told her they'd secured The Devil Wears Prada development rights for $8 million.
Pricey, but worth it—the rights included everything: film, TV, stage, musical.
The 20-year license automatically renewed if they developed anything within the term.
The author had surrendered all creative oversight, keeping only her name in the credits.
2. On April 11, Nathan Bailey called: Universal refused to sell Hulk's rights.
Even though Ang Lee's movie had flopped.
3. On April 14, Nathan called again: Captain America, Black Widow, Black Panther, Deadpool, Iron Fist, Man-Thing, Punisher, Morbius—all owned by Lionsgate.
They weren't selling either; they'd just gone all-in on comic book films.
Their Punisher movie was releasing April 16, and success or failure, they'd keep developing more.
4. On April 20, Nathan called yet again:
"Isabella, you won't believe this—Iron Man's rights are at New Line."
"They bought it back in December 1999. Always wanted to make it but never did."
"We found out while auditing New Line's assets."
"So… Mr. Meyer already had legal draft a contract. You can buy it for one dollar.
But Warner must distribute it if it's made. Funding—case by case, as agreed."
"Okay, send it over. My mom will sign."
And just like that, Isabella happily said yes.
Honestly, she hadn't expected Iron Man to be hiding right there in New Line's vault.
In the Marvel cinematic world, Iron Man is the keystone—owning him was like holding the master key.
Sure, Marvel could always rewrite their plans later. But that didn't matter.
As she often said—she bought those rights mostly for fun.
If it worked out, great.
If not?
Would it stop her from playing Hermione Granger? Not exactly.
That one-dollar Iron Man purchase put her in a great mood.
So when Goblet of Fire officially began shooting, she was bright and relaxed, untouched by the gloom of the story.
Lucky the movie was split in two parts—before the Dark Mark shows up, the tone stays light and adventurous. Otherwise, Columbus would've been "scolding" her to get her emotions right.
Even so, the crew noticed her cheeriness. When they learned she might be starting another project soon, the other Hogwarts kids got all mock-jealous:
"Oh, Isabella… your workload's endless!"
"Yeah, I think you've got enough jobs to fill the Mariana Trench."
"No way! Her workload could crush Voldemort! All she has to do is shout 'Work appear!' and poof—mountains of projects drop on his head till he's buried alive!"
"HAHAHAHA~~!"
Isabella just rolled her eyes and let them laugh it out.
After some more small talk, she suddenly remembered something, zipped over to Chris Columbus, and said playfully, "Director, got a minute?"
"I'm eating," Columbus said, pointing to his tray. "You tell me."
"Oh, so you do have time~" she grinned. "We used to chat during meals all the time."
"You're the boss. If you say I do, I do." He shrugged, smiling at the now-grown young lady. "So, Princess Isabella, what does my gracious queen wish to discuss today?"
"Oh—just one question—"
She waved a hand, half-swatting away his teasing.
"How are the Transformers and Fantastic Four projects coming along?"