After clearing out some irrelevant people, Dunn and Michael Ovitz settled into their seats on the plane. The flight attendant even brought them two glasses of Red Label whiskey.
"B and Warner Brothers, though both under the Time Warner umbrella, don't exactly get along. They've got different shareholders. When it comes to Warner's movie broadcasts, B pays every penny of the licensing fees—no discounts."
Michael Ovitz's words shut down any chance of using Warner to negotiate with B. After all, Warner and Legendary Pictures were partners now.
Dunn waved a hand dismissively, his tone cool. "B? Hmph. I'd only back down to Viacom because they're tangled up with Comcast. Time Warner and Comcast are both cable operators—rivals. You think Comcast's gonna help B stifle R Network's growth?"
Michael Ovitz paused, caught off guard. "Dunn, are you planning to play hardball?"
"B might be a veteran in the premium cable game, but my network's not scared of a fight! Competition comes down to raw strength in the end."
A smirk tugged at Dunn's lips as he let out a cold huff.
He knew DreamWorks had backed out of their deal because B must've offered an irresistible price for the North American TV rights to Band of Brothers. But today's B wasn't the powerhouse it'd be a decade from now. With just over 7 million subscribers and annual revenue shy of $500 million, how could a small fry like that take on Dunn Films? Last year, Dunn Films raked in $8.9 billion, and this year they were gunning for $2 billion!
The North American rights bidding was a straight-up price war—highest bidder wins. Dunn had made up his mind to snag Band of Brothers no matter what. Plus, Dunn Films had pumped $5,000 into the show's production, securing a 41.7% stake. After DreamWorks took its 10% distribution fee, 41.7% of the remaining profits would flow right back to Dunn's pockets. With that kind of edge, could B really afford to play?
Dunn pulled out his phone and dialed Steven Spielberg. "Steven, how much did B offer for Band of Brothers?"
Spielberg's voice carried a hint of guilt. But business was business—verbal promises meant squat, and contracts ruled. "Dunn, I hope you can understand. DreamWorks, as the distributor, has to look out for all its shareholders' interests."
Dunn silently scoffed. All its shareholders? There were only three: him, Spielberg, and Tom Hanks. He didn't buy for a second that Hanks would pick a fight with him over something this petty. After the way Tom Cruise had sidelined Natalie in the Minority Report crew, Dunn was already ticked off at Spielberg. And now this mess? It was downright infuriating.
"Let's skip the excuses. I'm an investor—I've got priority rights. Just tell me: how how much did B bid?" Dunn's tone was icy, stripped of the respect he used to show the legendary director.
Maybe this wasn't Spielberg's true nature. Maybe DreamWorks' desperate need for cash had forced his hand. But that didn't make Dunn any less pissed.
Spielberg sighed, sounding resigned. "B's offer was high."
"How much?"
"$80 million!"
Dunn's jaw dropped, and for a moment, he didn't respond. $80 million for North American TV rights? B's chairman, Jeff Bewkes, was suddenly throwing around cash like that? If he had that kind of guts, why didn't he match Dunn's terms back when they were investing in Band of Brothers? With B's resources, he could've easily shoved Dunn aside and taken over production.
Dunn took a deep breath and sneered. "$80 million, Steven? You really think Band of Brothers' North American TV rights are worth that? Sounds like B's just jacking up the price for kicks."
Spielberg countered, "A few years back, B started shifting toward premium series—they just hadn't gone big yet. Now, with Six Feet Under doing great, the market's hot. Band of Brothers riding that wave makes $80 million for North American rights reasonable."
"Reasonable?" Dunn laughed, incredulous. "Steven, don't forget—DreamWorks already started marketing. Band of Brothers is set to premiere on R Network September 9th!"
Spielberg brushed it off. "It's fine. We caught this early. We've only spent about $1.2 million on promotion so far. Compared to $80 million, that's nothing."
"Great! Just great!" Dunn's voice dripped with sarcasm, his usual respect gone. "Director Spielberg, didn't know you were such a stellar businessman on top of being a genius filmmaker!"
"I'm just doing right by the shareholders, Dunn. I hope you get that. Friendship's one thing, business is another."
"Fine, sure!"
Dunn bit his tongue, his face tight with anger. "$80 million's no big deal! I'll send someone to DreamWorks tomorrow to sign the contract!"
"Tomorrow? Isn't that a bit rushed?" Spielberg sounded surprised.
Dunn smirked. "Can't wait around, can I? What if NBC or B pops up and jacks the price even higher? Am I supposed to air this show or not?"
Spielberg caught the jab, his laugh awkward and a little ashamed. "Haha, Dunn, you're a riot. I swear, $80 million's the final bid!"
"Hope this promise actually holds," Dunn quipped, digging in one last time.
Michael Ovitz, sitting across from Dunn, listened quietly. When the call ended, he shook his head with a sigh. "Looks like DreamWorks is under so much pressure that even Spielberg had to pull this move."
Dunn's lips curled into a cold smile. "What, my goodwill's not worth a few tens of millions?"
Michael opened his mouth but didn't answer. That was a bold claim!
After a moment, he cautioned, "Dunn, you're already strong, but you're in a fight with Disney. No need to make more enemies."
"You mean B?" Dunn snorted. "Everyone knows Band of Brothers is mine. B swoops in, jacks the price up by nearly $30 million—I can't just let that slide!"
Michael sighed. He knew Dunn's temper. Shaking his head, he clarified, "I meant DreamWorks."
"DreamWorks?" Dunn blinked, then laughed. "You think I'd go after them?"
Michael nodded seriously.
Dunn waved it off. "Nah, DreamWorks isn't worth my time. Even if Spielberg pours his heart into saving it, how long can it last? He's always preaching business, but he's the one who sucks at it! Look at the films he pushed—how many made money? He's lost more than David Geffen!"
Michael could only give a wry smile. It was clear: Spielberg had seriously pissed Dunn off—maybe even pushed him to full-on rage!