At some point, Alan Horn, the president of Warner Bros., had sidled up to Dunn.
Dunn's eyes lit up. "Mr. Horn? Got any advice?"
The blockbuster strategy's biggest real-world champion in Hollywood was Alan Horn, and a lot of Dunn's talking points came straight from him.
Alan shook his head. "Advice? Hardly. Your blockbuster strategy is mind-blowing. I'd bet that for the next 30 years, Hollywood filmmakers will look to your ideas as their guiding light."
Dunn gave a modest smile. "Mr. Horn, you're too kind."
Alan's expression turned serious, though he hesitated. "But… you said the era of superstars is over. I'm not so sure I agree. Last year's hits like Speed 2, Hannibal, The Unsinkable, and Mr. & Mrs. Smith—they all leaned hard on big stars."
Dunn mulled it over for a moment before replying slowly, "When I say the superstar era is done, I'm not doubting their draw. I'm pointing out how filmmaking itself is evolving. Take Warner's The Lord of the Rings, for example. The heavy lifting's shifted from actors, cinematographers, lighting, and props to computer animators."
"Think about it—compositors, visual effects artists, motion capture specialists, modelers, renderers, software engineers, digital compositors—these are jobs that didn't even exist in old-school film crews. It all proves one thing: Hollywood's future depends more on computers than cameras!"
Alan furrowed his brow, processing. "So you're saying… the superstar glow will fade, and CGI will take center stage?"
Dunn grinned. "For commercial movies—popcorn flicks, yeah! In those, the star might be a monster, an alien, or a masked Spider-Man. Human superstars end up as sidekicks, nowhere near as crucial as they used to be."
Alan thought it over, then sighed deeply. "Warner's prepping Terminator 3 right now. Schwarzenegger's contract… ugh, it's a headache!"
Dunn couldn't help but chuckle.
With a sequel like that, no contract caps mean actors can name their price!
"Signed yet?"
"Yeah," Alan said, clearly unhappy, shaking his head. "The Terminator series without Schwarzenegger—could it even work?"
Dunn blinked, lowering his voice. "Mind sharing the details?"
Alan hesitated, then muttered, "$29.25 million flat fee, $1.5 million in perks, and 20% of the profits."
Dunn's eyes widened like he'd seen a ghost. "Twenty percent profits? Not just box office?"
Alan nodded heavily. "Yup—VHS, DVDs, ticket sales, TV rights, the whole peripheral package."
Dunn sucked in a sharp breath, gritting his teeth. "Cancer! That's a cancer on the industry!"
As a studio boss himself, he despised this kind of "extortion."
With Arnold Schwarzenegger's acting chops and pull, if Terminator didn't depend on him, his Hollywood payday would top out at $15 million!
Alan gave Dunn a curious look. "What about you? Didn't you just greenlight a sequel? Spider-Man 2 is about to drop—never hit this snag?"
"Me?" Dunn's lips curled up slightly. "Nah, I don't run into that."
"Oh?"
"To sign on for my comic-book superhero flicks, it's a 10-picture deal minimum! Don't like it? I'll recast! I don't coddle anyone. Like I said, film value trumps director value, trumps star value. Marvel's comics? That's the real gold!"
"Maybe…" Alan wasn't fully sold yet.
It was too far ahead of its time.
Mel Gibson, Tom Cruise, Will Smith—these guys still had insane box-office clout.
Dunn shrugged casually. "Wait 'til Terminator 3 hits theaters. You'll see."
Terminator 3: $200 million production, $130 million marketing. North American box office? $150 million. Worldwide? $430 million. With ancillary revenue, it wouldn't lose money, but profit? Slim chance—just enough to cover interest.
After a beat, Dunn grinned. "By the way, Mr. Horn, your Warner contract's up soon, right?"
Alan shot him a glance. "Three years left."
"Oh, well, next time you're renewing, give me a heads-up." Dunn didn't hide his intent. "I think Time Warner's been pretty unfair with your position!"
---
"The Truth of Commercial Cinema: The Blockbuster Strategy."
"Dunn Walker's First Lecture Unveils a Bold New Vision."
"Storming Into a New Era With Blockbuster Thinking."
"Film Theory Pioneer: Dunn Walker—ooh, I like that one!" Scarlett plopped into Dunn's office again, perched on his lap, flipping through magazines and newspapers with glee.
"At USC's film forum, famed Hollywood director Dunn Walker introduced a groundbreaking concept: the blockbuster strategy. It's a standardized playbook for big-budget commercial films—and the secret behind his jaw-dropping success over the past few years… Hey, why aren't you listening?"
Noticing Dunn's eyes drift shut, Scarlett huffed in protest.
Dunn chuckled, pulling her close and whispering, "These articles are all the same. Let the press hype it up—we've got to stay grounded. Don't let the noise mess with your judgment. When you're a big star someday, don't sweat the outside chatter either."
Scarlett's eyes sparkled with delight. "You really think I can be a big star?"
"You're my girlfriend! If you want to be a star, you think I won't pull out all the stops?" Dunn teased, tweaking her nose.
She shook her head in mock defiance, then asked excitedly, "So when can I get as famous as Natalie?"
Dunn gave her a look. "How old are you? Focus on honing your acting first—give it a few years!"
"Oh." Scarlett pouted, then perked up. "Could I get an Oscar nomination someday?"
"You will."
"Hehe, so Natalie's Oscar nod is in the bag, right?"
She snuggled closer, tilting her head up at him. Her breath was warm, her gorgeous face still youthful but already hinting at an irresistible charm.
A few more years, and she'd be unstoppable.
Especially with her squirming on his lap, twisting her hips.
She was playing with fire!
"Sit still, don't wiggle, or I'll have to deal with you right here!"
"Deal with me then—who's scared?"
Unlike Natalie, Scarlett didn't care one bit that this was an office.
Dunn surrendered. "Alright, stop it—I've got a meeting soon. We're picking a director for Ant-Man."
Scarlett whined, "You didn't answer me! Is Natalie getting that nomination?"
Dunn paused, thinking. "Shouldn't be an issue. CAA says the feedback's solid. Plus, after my lecture laid out the blockbuster strategy, the big studios have been playing nice. They won't block Nat's nomination too hard."
Scarlett blinked, confused. "What about Kirk Douglas?"
Dunn smirked dismissively. "My connections reach the White House. The Big Six are kissing up to me—what's one old geezer got on that?"
"You're swearing!"
Scarlett giggled.
Dunn teased, "Oh, by the way, Saw II is about to drop. Want me to grab a copy for home so we can watch it tonight?"
"No way! That stuff's terrifying!"
She shot it down without a second thought.
Tomorrow was February 1st.
Saw II, from Rampage Films, was hitting theaters soon, and the Oscar nomination deadline was closing in.
Natalie… she'd snag at least one nod, right?
But just an hour later—
Dunn was in a meeting with the production, writing, market analysis, and Marvel Studios teams, hashing out the Ant-Man director pick, when his phone buzzed with a text.
From CAA's Bryan Lord. Short and sweet: "All good!"
"哈哈哈哈!" Dunn burst out laughing.
The room froze, staff staring in bewilderment.
What was up with the big boss?
Dunn coughed, a little embarrassed. This wasn't something to spill—Bryan must've pulled some ultra-discreet strings for that update.
He hesitated, then said decisively, "Alright, it's settled then. Doug Liman's our guy! I saw his Bourne Identity footage—solid stuff. His quick-cut style's on point. Just one rule: keep the story fun and the vibe in line with Spider-Man."
"Spider-Man and Ant-Man go for witty and light; Daredevil and Ghost Rider are serious, epic vibes. Marvel Studios mapped this out ages ago," Nina Jacobson nodded, though her face was grim. "But we've got a new problem."
"What?"
"Nicolas Cage doesn't want to do Ghost Rider!"
"Huh?"
Dunn was floored.
Bill Mechanic shrugged calmly. "Not surprising. Nic's an action star—he won't lock himself into a superhero role and box in his image."
Nina added, "Exactly. He's especially against a multi-picture deal. Doesn't want 'Ghost Rider' stamped on his brand."
Dunn rubbed his temples, exasperated.
Nicolas Cage was at his peak now—proud, picky, a far cry from the broke, take-anything phase of his later years.
"Forget it. If he's out, we'll recast," Dunn sighed, resigned. "Grab a second- or third-tier actor, lock them into a long deal. Saves us some cash—works out better!"