December 5, Columbus told Isabella that the script could be bought. December 10, the copyright deal was officially closed.
If a contract takes five days to sign, it's not because of disputes over clauses. The main price was already nailed down: 250,000. No room left for haggling.
The real reason? The buyer—Isabella's mom, Vivian—didn't want to purchase it in her own name.
Instead, she registered a private limited company under Isabella's name, then had that company do the deal with Endeavor.
By doing so, the original copyright of Little Miss Sunshine still belonged to Isabella, but whatever happened in the future—whether selling or self-producing—the profits would legally count as investment income.
And under UK law, a minor's investment income doesn't need to go into a trust account.
In plain language: a neat little detour to dodge regulation.
Since this arrangement gave Isabella more financial freedom, she happily agreed. Grateful for her mom's foresight, she even gave the company a bold name—
Coypu.
Classics aren't tossed away lightly. Isabella wasn't about to cut herself off.
Grin~
But with the script secured, a new problem appeared: credits.
In Hollywood, script credits are divided very precisely. For example, "Novel by" means the work was adapted from that novel.
Besides that, you've got "Story by," "Screenplay by," and "Written by."
"Story by" = the person who came up with the core plot, basically the outline. "Screenplay by" = the person who turned that outline into a full script. If the same person did both, then it's "Written by," which implies both idea and execution.
For The Voice of the World as things stood: Isabella was "Story by," Catherine was "Screenplay by," and Columbus… though he didn't write a word, he supervised the whole process. Technically "Written by."
But Columbus refused to take the credit. He gave up "Written by" because of his beef with the original Little Miss Sunshine writer, Michael Arndt.
Everyone knew this feud, so no one pushed him.
But then Michael Arndt himself asked Isabella to remove his name from the "Written by" line too.
"What?"
"Why?"
Isabella was baffled.
Patrick, Endeavor's partner who had flown to London for the signing, leaned close to Columbus and explained: "Before the deal closed, he found out the real buyer was Chris. He can't stomach it. He feels humiliated, since you shifted the story from America to Britain…"
Columbus laughed. Isabella shook her head, but she understood.
Michael Arndt and Chris Columbus had never openly clashed, but just like Isabella had made her allegiances clear days ago, once your "sponsor" in the industry belongs to a certain camp, that mark sticks unless you have a brutal falling-out.
So when Arndt discovered his project was becoming an enemy's property, rewritten beyond recognition… well, writers do have their pride.
You tore my story apart, left only the skeleton! And now you still want my name on it? Over my dead body!
So…
"What now?" Isabella asked, bewildered. "It's just my sister and me on the credits?"
She found that a bit ridiculous. Sure, people thought she was clever, and Hermione Granger was clever too, but an eleven-year-old writing scripts? A stretch.
Columbus waved it off.
"Isabella, in Hollywood, buying a script and wiping the original author's name is completely normal. As long as the deal is a buyout, the original writer's name can be removed. Especially if he requests it himself. With that in the contract, we're legally covered and public opinion will side with us."
He reassured her further: "This script was written under my eyes. No one will doubt you. And honestly, when you've changed the story so much that only the road-movie skeleton remains, even without the copyright, no one would call it plagiarism. I only pushed to buy the rights to avoid pointless fights, because yes, we did read Arndt's script. That fact alone could spark drama later."
Legally speaking, Isabella didn't even need the Sunshine rights. Genres and structures aren't protected. But law is just the floor, not the ceiling.
Just because something isn't illegal doesn't mean it's ethical.
Buying the rights silenced all chatter. Otherwise, if The Voice of the World took off and Arndt accused them of plagiarism, it'd be a public mess. Columbus had lived through enough Hollywood circus acts to know.
So Isabella relaxed.
"Okay, director, if things blow up, you're taking the fall!" she teased, pretending to dump a big heavy pot on his head—clang, clang, responsibility ringing clear.
Columbus played along, scowling and telling her to scram. Isabella giggled and scampered away, leaving him smiling despite himself.
Patrick sighed. "What a lovely girl."
"She is," Columbus agreed. Then shot him a look. "But lovely or not, you're not signing her."
Patrick froze. Because Columbus was right.
With seven Harry Potter films guaranteed, Isabella didn't need an agency to find work. If anything, when a blockbuster franchise's lead actor can write scripts too, agencies will have to pay her to sign.
In Hollywood, agency contracts come in two flavors:
The standard: agent finds you work, takes a cut.
The elite: the agency pays you. Spielberg had that deal with CAA once.
When you are the resource, you don't share.
Meanwhile, on the corporate battlefield, smiles and curses balanced out. Warner Bros.' chairman and CEO Barry Meyer was not smiling.
Because December 19, 2001, brought the release of Hollywood's last big film of the year: The Lord of the Rings.
Its success needs no retelling. But for Warner, and especially Meyer, it was humiliation.
Peter Jackson had once pitched the trilogy to Warner. They turned him down. Only Warner's semi-independent subsidiary, New Line, had backed him.
And guess who rejected him personally? Barry Meyer.
Now Jackson and New Line had made him look like a fool.
To Meyer, missing the project wasn't fatal—everyone makes mistakes. But New Line's success was. Because New Line wasn't really Warner's. It was Ted Turner's.
The Turner-Warner merger in 1996 had technically put them under the same umbrella, but Ted Turner still had sway. The merger was a messy tug-of-war, with Warner's old guard (the Ross family) and Turner's people fighting for dominance.
And The Lord of the Rings was just Turner's second punch that year. The first had been Rush Hour 2.
Meyer was sweating bullets, reassuring shareholders: yes, The Matrix sequels were in production, yes, they'd secured Terminator 3 with James Cameron, yes, Harry Potter was their safety net, seven films guaranteed.
He hung up the phone, wiped his brow. To the public, he was Hollywood royalty. In reality, he was just another front man for the shareholders pulling strings.
Company law says shareholders can't meddle in daily operations? Please. Buffett doesn't even own 10% of Coca-Cola, yet the whole world knows Coke's executives obey his word.
Theory is theory. Reality is reality.
The kind of person who can point at shareholders' faces and cuss them out like Steve Jobs? There are maybe three in the entire world. If you're management and you don't want to follow orders? Fine, they'll just replace you.
Don't want to listen? Then get lost.
So, when you screw up, admitting it and taking a beating is better than being fired outright, right?
After glancing through Warner's two-year project plan, Barry Meyer's brow tightened again.
He'd just assured the Ross family that Warner's future was stacked with great films, but the truth? Neither The Matrix sequels nor Terminator would release next year.
The only real hope lay in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
Based on Philosopher's Stone's momentum, Chamber would surely be safe.
But…
The only film Chamber could realistically knock out next year was Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.
And what about everything else? Were they just going to ignore it?
Because don't forget—New Line also had an Austin Powers sequel lined up.
Sigh—
Other studios only needed to unite against outside rivals. Warner had the added privilege of fighting its own subsidiaries.
Absurd.
Head pounding, Meyer scratched his scalp, grabbed his office phone, and dialed a short company code.
Thirty minutes later, every production exec on-site shuffled into his private conference room.
He asked a few simple questions. The answers came with grimaces.
Next year, Warner had nothing decent on the slate.
"So, we're really going into next year with nothing but HP?" Meyer slammed the table.
"Uh… Boss… as things stand, yes."
They were Ross-family people, so no one bothered sugarcoating it.
That admission gave Meyer a migraine.
Just as he clenched his fist, ready to explode, a thirty-something junior at the far end suddenly raised his hand.
"Boss, if we really want box office firepower, maybe we can launch an emergency project."
"Hm?"
Meyer squinted at the vaguely familiar face. "Na…than? You have a project?"
"No."
Nathan shook his head.
Meyer stared, dumbfounded. At that moment, he really wanted to hurl his folder at the guy's skull.
No project, and you open your mouth? Idiot.
But before he could kick him out, Nathan quickly added:
"But, maybe there's a project in Britain. Lately, Endeavor's been sniffing around Isabella…"
Nathan, knowing Meyer's temper, kept it short.
The second Meyer realized Endeavor had been poaching under his nose, he wanted to string up his execs and thrash them.
The Potter trio had just become household names, Warner hadn't even finished milking them, and Endeavor wanted to steal them away? What the hell!
But when Nathan explained Columbus had already shut Endeavor down, Meyer's anger cooled. At least the house hadn't been robbed.
And Endeavor thought they could challenge the Big Six? Pathetic.
"So what you're saying is, Endeavor had a script, starring a teenage girl, Isabella and Columbus liked it, and they bought it?"
"Yes, word is the script's already being customized."
"Oh, I see. Then we can invest in it."
Meyer waved his hand. Get the deal done fast. Ideally roll cameras right after Chamber of Secrets wrapped.
Hollywood project greenlights could be that brutal.
Sure, Warner hadn't even read the script. Sure, YA films were volatile. But if the star was Hermione Granger and the director was Chris Columbus—arguably the second-best YA director in Hollywood—no one needed approval.
In Meyer's eyes, it was practically a guaranteed win, easily outgrossing Austin Powers 3.
And if it flopped? Whatever.
His shareholders wanted him to hold off Ted Turner's power grab. If he threw Hermione Granger and Columbus at the problem and still lost, well, then fate had spoken. Even if the Ross family got pissed, he could say he'd tried with the best.
Best lineup, best shot. Not his fault if the war was unwinnable.
In his mind, Harry Potter was his golden goose, the smartest investment of his life.
But then he noticed everyone else in the room exchanging awkward looks.
"What?" Meyer frowned.
Then the truth dropped.
"You're telling me Isabella still hasn't been paid for Chamber?"
"Hasn't it been filming for a month?"
"Yes, but… we signed her to a conditional contract."
Last year, they agreed: if Philosopher's Stone hit $500 million worldwide in its first month, Isabella's Chamber salary would rise to £1.2 million.
The clause was fine, but "first month" was fuzzy.
Hollywood had two ways to count it:
From the very first release date anywhere in the world, 28 days straight.
Each country separately—count 28 days from each release, then add them up.
Method one = the popular understanding. Method two = the insider trick.
Using method one, Philosopher's Stone could never hit $500 million in its first month. Simultaneous global release across 100+ markets was impossible back then.
And indeed, with the first method, the numbers were:
$250m in North America,
£68m in the UK (~$97m),
plus ~$70m from Germany, Belgium, Netherlands.
Total: $417m. Add stragglers, maybe $450m. No chance at $500m.
But with method two? Once Japan, France, and fifty more markets finished their individual first months, the total would easily surpass $500m.
Meaning Isabella's £1.2m would trigger.
Warner, of course, had baked in the loophole to stiff her.
If Lord of the Rings had bombed, they'd have zero guilt screwing her. But with LOTR smashing records, Warner couldn't stiff her without looking ridiculous. You can't keep milking someone while refusing to pay them.
But if they paid her using method one, they couldn't justify the extra. If they used method two, they'd be dragging out the payment until forever, which was even worse optics.
Basically, they had trapped themselves.
"Whose genius idea was it to sign this contract?" Meyer snapped, veins popping.
If Isabella were alone, Warner wouldn't care. Rowling was a foreigner in Hollywood, easy to ignore.
But now Isabella was clearly tied to Columbus.
And Warner couldn't afford to offend Spielberg's circle, not with their history. The Ross family's late patriarch had been close friends with Spielberg. Spielberg had bailed Warner out more than once.
So here they were. Stuck.
Meyer exhaled, realizing today's lowball would mean tomorrow's skyrocketing raise.
HP's leads had signed for two films only. The series had seven.
If film two was already at £1.2m, film three would be at least £5m. Film four? £10m. Beyond that? Impossible to sustain.
Suddenly, he froze.
Wait—Last year, they'd already schemed to suppress cast salaries. This year, they were about to hand Isabella her own project on top.
If that project hit big, how could they ever keep her cheap?
Her price would soar to the stratosphere.
But if they blocked her project… shareholders would crucify him.
Actually no—shareholders would definitely crucify him.
"M-FxxK! Which genius proposed this?"
It felt like his left brain and right brain were brawling.
No one dared answer.
So Meyer did the only thing he could: pass the buck.
He swiveled and pointed at Nathan, the unlucky junior who'd started this.
"Nathan! Since you know what's happening in Britain, I'm sending you to negotiate with Columbus."
"Two conditions!
One: secure the new project. Isabella must star, Columbus preferably directs, and ideally it's just his show.
Two: at the same time, lock Isabella into the next five Potter films, with total salary capped at $30 million—around £20m.
I trust you. Succeed, and I'll make you VP. Meeting adjourned!"
"???"
Nathan was stunned.
As Meyer stood and patted his shoulder, Nathan could only raise a trembling finger at himself.
"Me… me?"
"Yes." Meyer nodded solemnly.
Nathan's breath caught. He felt the sky collapsing.
Notes:
In real life, Little Miss Sunshine's original writer Michael Arndt sold his script outright. He was even fired during early production. If not for replacements quitting over bad rewrites, his name might never have been credited.
In 2001, Warner had four internal factions: the old Warner (Ross family), the Time Inc. faction, Ted Turner's faction, and AOL after the merger.
New Line founder Robert Shaye only survived because Ted Turner backed him. Warner itself had little control.
Steve Ross, the Ross patriarch, had been very close to Spielberg. Spielberg dedicated Schindler's List to him after his death.