In the Western entertainment industry, the awards season actually runs from October of one year to February or March of the next.
During this period, awards of all sizes in various countries—mostly in the United States—are announced one after another.
Of course, the most important and closely watched event is always the last one: the Oscars.
Typically, Hollywood giants only start taking the season seriously after the halfway point.
To be honest, each year's awards season is essentially a festival for drama films, because commercially successful movies rarely win the favor of the old-school critics.
The last time a movie dominated both commercially and artistically was the once-in-a-century Titanic.
Even though awards season had little to do with Harry Potter, the final results of the various awards were still a major concern for Warner and Disney. The reason was simple: The Lord of the Rings seemed poised to replicate Titanic's success.
With its release, The Lord of the Rings raked in massive box office revenue and earned a slew of nominations.
When it reached the Golden Globes and received nominations for Best Drama, Best Director, Best Original Score, and Best Original Song, Warner truly wanted to throttle New Line.
Fortunately, New Line came away empty-handed at the final ceremony; otherwise, Barry Meyer would have been in hot water again.
The Golden Globes on January 20 were just the beginning. By February 12, the nominations for the 74th Academy Awards were announced by Academy president Frank Pierson.
Immediately, The Lord of the Rings—representing the youth of countless judges—swept 13 nominations, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay, and Best Editing, becoming the biggest winner at the nomination dinner.
Although Harry Potter also received nominations, in comparison…
Best Art Direction, Best Original Score, and Best Costume Design seemed rather low-tier.
Angry at the situation, Barry Meyer slammed his fist on the table, much to Robert Iger's delight.
Because if The Lord of the Rings succeeded in both box office and awards, the Ross family's dominance at Warner would be questioned. For instance, Ted Turner could argue at the next shareholder meeting that the Ross family's choice in management was flawed, and their trusted executives had missed the next Titanic.
Don't underestimate this kind of diss.
If other profit-driven shareholders agreed with Turner, he could propose replacements at the meeting. As long as he planted an insider within Ross-controlled Warner—even as COO—they could undermine the family through subtle sabotage, information leaks, or preempting promising projects.
Put bluntly, infighting in large, dispersed corporations is like ants moving soil: power is slowly eroded piece by piece.
Since finding a breakthrough is crucial, Warner's top priority was to prevent The Lord of the Rings from winning major awards… a ridiculous task, but unavoidable.
While Warner worked to lobby Oscar voters and block New Line, The Lord of the Rings suddenly topped the UK charts.
On February 24, 2002—twelve days after the Oscar nominations dinner—the 55th British Academy Film Awards were held at the Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square, London.
The Lord of the Rings received 12 nominations and won four awards.
Although the 4/12 win rate wasn't stellar, two of the awards were Best Picture and Best Director.
When Peter Jackson—the "kid" once rejected by Barry Meyer from New Zealand—lifted both trophies in joyous laughter, the fact hit Warner like a punch to the gut.
To the public, the BAFTA was just the British Oscars, with far less influence than the real Oscars or the other major European awards—a perception that wasn't wrong.
Yet all capitalists cared deeply about it because the Academy's past presidents were of royal blood, the first being the Duke of Edinburgh, and currently the Queen's favorite Royal Princess.
When the Academy's headquarters opened, the long-serving matriarch herself even attended to cut the ribbon and leave an inscription. Since then, almost every ceremony has featured members of the royal family. In a sense, the BAFTAs function as the British Royal Family's recognition of English-language arts and talent.
Thus, every ceremony draws investors eager to network with royalty. While this may seem odd to outsiders, in the business world, everything is ultimately about opportunities.
"So Robert Sheehy went?"
Barry Meyer's face was dark as he stared at a photo of Peter Jackson raising his trophies.
"Yes," the secretary nodded.
"Any issues?"
"Well… fortunately, the Royal Princess wasn't there this year," the secretary said. "Her spokesperson mentioned she wasn't feeling well."
"Oh…"
Barry Meyer exhaled in relief. No face-to-face encounter—good.
At the time, New Line was actually more irritating than DreamWorks to the Big Six.
In film production, they already had a solid foundation.
For domestic distribution, they had long-established networks.
For promotion, they had Turner Broadcasting, capable of spreading news worldwide.
Their only real weakness was overseas distribution. There were two approaches: build their own network globally (Warner, Disney, Sony) or form alliances with local distributors in each country (Fox, Paramount, Universal). Both methods were roughly equally effective.
As long as New Line could work with UK agents, they could bypass the Big Six and distribute across the Commonwealth and Europe.
With a population of 50 million across the British Isles, the entertainment industry there largely relies on royal funding.
Since New Line hadn't cultivated relationships effectively, Barry Meyer closed the report in relief. If New Line succeeded, he'd be done for.
He also asked, "What about the Oscars?"
The secretary understood: "We have a good chance, because we're pushing Ronald."
"Ronald" referred to Ron Howard, director of Apollo 13.
This year, his film A Beautiful Mind was up for Oscars. Warner's reasons for backing him were simple:
Warner had no other projects this year.
Ron Howard was closely connected with Steven Spielberg.
Howard, from an entertainment family, had been making films since he was a minor. His breakout project, American Graffiti, was taught to him by George Lucas. Through Lucas, he connected with Spielberg, and many of his films were financed by Universal, Spielberg's personal domain.
Beautiful Mind was co-produced by Universal and DreamWorks.
Howard's wife was Clint Eastwood's sister. In short, he had half of Hollywood supporting his Oscar push. Once Spielberg, Universal, and DreamWorks lent their weight, New Line didn't stand a chance.
And indeed, by March 24, Ron Howard won Best Picture and Best Director at the Oscars.
The Lord of the Rings took home four minor awards from its 13 nominations: Best Original Score, Cinematography, Makeup, and Visual Effects.
Harry Potter fared worse—three nominations, zero wins. Losing the major awards was humiliating.
"Hah—Barry Meyer got lucky this time—"
"Ron Howard's Oscar push worked out? Oh—"
New York.
Long Island mansion.
Ted Turner closed the report Robert Sheehy had handed him with a smile.
"Bob, don't worry. We still have a second project this year and a third next year. Once The Lord of the Rings's quality is evident, the Oscars will favor it. Then we can go after Warner without delay."
"Understood, boss. Thanks for your support," Robert Sheehy replied.
A veteran of nearly fifty years in business, Turner had the patience to wait.
By contrast, Barry Meyer was sweating nervously. He had just survived a precarious situation, but the secretary's next report blew the clouds away…
"What did you say?"
"Disney just got hit, boss."
Facing his own difficulties, he might feel down—but when an opponent struggles…
Snap! Barry Meyer's eyes lit up.
"Yes, boss."
Under his intense stare, the secretary nodded: "Fox released Ice Age on the 15th, and it unexpectedly took off."
One week before the 74th Oscars, Fox's animation division released their first CGI film. Previously, they had no successful track record, so even Fox didn't expect it to succeed. They only hoped it would break even.
No one expected it to make $46.3 million domestically in its opening weekend, topping the box office over Resident Evil, Showtime, and The Time Machine.
The predicted max was $30 million—so it exceeded expectations by $16.3 million.
In today's market, $40 million+ opening weekends were summer blockbuster numbers, and this was mid-March.
Ice Age continued strong, grossing $40.98 million in its second weekend, totaling $87.29 million in ten days.
Its North American gross could easily hit $150 million, and global over $300 million. With a little push, $400 million was possible.
"Boss, outside… the media outside…"
"What about it?"
"They're saying… we're… clowns."
Crash!
In Disney's executive office, Michael Eisner flung everything off his desk.
Fox's success proved Disney had been beaten. Previously, even with Pixar or DreamWorks' success, Disney could claim it hadn't lost, citing partial IP ownership or unreplicable success.
But now, Fox independently succeeded in CGI animation. How could Disney continue wearing the crown of the animation kingdom?
Roy Disney would undoubtedly use Fox's success to criticize Disney's own failures at the next shareholder meeting, making Eisner furious.
Meanwhile, at Disney's younger exec office, Robert Iger was also frustrated.
Live-action was manageable—hire a star, get a good script, and the project could be saved.
Like Isabella Haywood and Chris Columbus—such a team was unstoppable.
But animation required long-term accumulation, and he had to figure out how to fix it.
Even if none of Disney's management issues landed on Iger personally, he still considered solutions from every angle.
He had risen from a local TV weather anchor to Disney COO, climbing rung after rung for thirty years.
Now… who wouldn't want to be crowned king?
Ding-ding-ding!
As Iger pondered Disney's animation future, the office phone rang.
"Bob, congratulations."
"…"
Barry Meyer's congratulatory words made Iger roll his eyes.
He could hear the glee in Barry Meyer's voice—mocking Disney's struggling animation division—but at the same time, he sensed a deeper desire: Barry wanted action…
Like, for instance, taking down Michael Eisner and becoming the captain of Disney himself.
And that…
"Barry, are you really congratulating me?"
Iger tapped his finger on the desk, calm but deliberate.
"Of course~"
On the other end, Barry Meyer laughed. "My good friend, of course I'm sincerely congratulating you."
Barry Meyer was just enjoying the spectacle. I sent you to steal my people! And now look at you!
Heh heh~
However—
"Okay, if you're really congratulating me, how about letting me sign Isabella?"
Iger smiled. "Let me stabilize the live-action division first, so I have time to think about animation."
"…"
Barry Meyer stopped grinning.
I called to mock you, and now you want to steal my people?
Get out!
"Bob, let me tell you this: starting today, if you even set foot in Leavesden, I'm with you."
Click.
Barry Meyer slammed down the phone in frustration.
Iger laughed at the outburst, but quickly composed himself, letting out a soft sigh.
Because…
Isabella was utterly unapproachable.
For nearly three months, neither Warner nor Disney had received a reply from her. Isabella had stated her top priority was completing Chamber of Secrets, so both studios had to wait.
Who could blame her? They were the studios, after all.
They wanted to negotiate a deal, but when the actress insisted on focusing on her work, they couldn't exactly say, Oh, filming Chamber is easy, let's talk contract first—that would have been ridiculous.
So, they waited. And during that waiting, all sorts of complications arose.
This left them helpless.
However, just as Barry Meyer thought he had survived the storm, and Robert Iger felt the situation was under control…
On April 29, 2002, an even bigger surprise arrived.
Sony released Spider-Man.
Previously, successful comic-to-film adaptations were rare. When Sony was preparing Spider-Man, they had approached directors like Roland Emmerich, Chris Columbus, Tim Burton, Michael Bay, and David Fincher—but all declined. Fincher, after reading the script, even called it "stupid as a donkey" and predicted it wouldn't make money.
So when Sony finally produced and promoted Spider-Man, the other five major studios—and even smaller companies—paid it no attention. Everyone assumed the Japanese-owned studio would continue losing money. But…
"What the fuck???"
"What the hell???"
Spider-Man made $114.8 million in its opening weekend???
Just… in North America???
On May 6, seeing the report, Barry Meyer exploded.
"Yes, boss. Spider-Man shattered Harry Potter's opening weekend record," the sweating secretary reported anxiously.
Shattered?! This wasn't just underestimating—it was everyone being completely blind!
Over $100 million opening weekend in North America alone—historical, unprecedented! This was a level previously reached only by Jurassic Park, Star Wars, or Harry Potter… and now Spider-Man had done it?
Oh—
My—
God—
Barry Meyer felt like he was going insane.
"M-Fxxk! We can't wait any longer!"
He stared at the report, then leapt to his feet and shouted to his assistant, "Tell everyone! Negotiations must accelerate!"
"I agree with David Heyman's 18-month production plan! But he has to make the film right!"
"Harry Potter has four books so far, right? Get Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire for me! I can accept single-book rights under $2 million, and I can add 0.5% more to merchandise revenue!"
"Then, we sign a lock-in agreement with J.K. Rowling—Warner will have adaptation rights for the next three novels! The rights for each of the last three must not be below $2 million; the investment team will calculate the upper limit!"
"Then…"
"Then…"
Perhaps he had said too much at once—or perhaps he was simply excited.
Barry Meyer was slightly out of breath.
After a pause, his gaze flickered as he continued:
"Nathan Bailey is at Leavesden, right?"
"Have him talk to Chris Columbus, tell him we want him to direct the last two films."
"As for the fee…"
Barry ground his teeth. "$10 million per film, plus 5% of global box office, and let him serve as executive producer like J.K. Rowling. He can list his company as a producer, show its logo at the start, and I'll pay him $10 million through his company."
"$20 million plus 5%! Bring him back!"
Barry Meyer's thinking was simple: Warner faced a very dangerous situation.
Internally, New Line's Lord of the Rings was eyeing them.
Externally, Sony's Spider-Man challenged their position.
With a $110 million opening weekend, Spider-Man had $1 billion potential. Warner had to stabilize the market with Harry Potter. If not…
Ted Turner could rally neutral shareholders to attack them, claiming Warner's failure to produce billion-dollar films was due to internal resource mismanagement.
Don't believe it? Look at Sony. After acquiring Columbia, they lost money for years. But after internal restructuring and power consolidation, they got back on track.
Even a 1–2% shareholder swayed by rumors could threaten Meyer's position. With AOL-era Warner valued over $100 billion, 1% of voting rights meant $1 billion.
With Harry Potter in his hands, any misstep could let shareholders question his competence. If he didn't act, the Ross family itself could be ousted.
So…
Stabilize! Stabilize! Stabilize! Keep the right people doing the right things!
Barry Meyer shouted in his mind.
The assistants understood immediately.
But one asked, "Boss, we can handle David Heyman and J.K. Rowling, but what if Chris Columbus refuses?"
"$20 million plus 5% is a lot for most, but for him…"
"It's probably just average."
Chris Columbus was already wealthy. Ten years ago, for Home Alone 2, he made more than anyone else on set—$10 million plus 10% of global box office, compared to Macaulay's $4.5 million plus 5% of North American box office.
Even with some flops in the past, $20 million plus 5% was acceptable.
Barry Meyer understood all this. He smiled coldly:
"If Chris Columbus refuses, tell him Warner will fund The Sound with him as producer: $10 million guaranteed, 5% of box office and home video. If he directs, we'll raise it to $20 million—$10 million as directing fee, and increase the two revenue shares by 2.5 points."
"In short, $10 million plus 7.5% box office and home video revenue."
"And he retains final cut."
"One condition: it starts right after Chamber of Secrets!"
"I heard this project will start soon?"
"By year-end, alongside Chamber of Secrets!"
"I'll let The Sound ride on Chamber's promotional wave!"
"As long as Chris Columbus returns for Harry Potter!"
The secretary's eyes widened at the offer.
Before he could nod, Barry Meyer continued:
"Then we need Isabella Haywood, right? Nathan Bailey said the script rights are hers? And she wrote a song? Talent aside, bundle the two for £1.5 million!"
"Then hire her to act, give her £1 million!"
"Then list her as producer—give her 1.5… no! 2.5% of revenue!"
"And once she signs, her pay in Harry Potter will always be on par with Daniel's!"
"M-Fxxk! Robert Iger! Eat shit!"
Bang!
Barry Meyer slammed the table.
He was going to win!!!
The dull crash and his flushed face made the secretary see the boss's determination.
"Okay, boss, I'll notify everyone immediately."
Without hesitation, the secretary nodded and hurried out of the office.