Amid Angela Ahrendts's barely suppressed laughter, Nancy Brill rolled her eyes at Simon. The three moved to the adjacent conference room.
Once seated, Nancy flipped the report to the final page and slid it toward Simon. "According to the analytics team's stats, in Blockbuster's rental and sales revenue, films from the past year that ranked in the North American top 100 accounted for only 37% of total income. Because studios take a bigger cut of hot new releases, the gross profit from that segment is even lower just 29%."
Simon glanced at the figures, noticed Angela leaning in for a look, and nudged the folder her way. "What's your point, Nancy?"
Nancy traced a slender finger across the key numbers. "These figures show the 80/20 rule, 20% of films driving 80% of theatrical box office doesn't apply to video rentals. In fact, as Blockbuster expands and content grows richer, the ratio will likely invert. The 20% of films that generate 80% of theatrical revenue will still only contribute around 20% to the video industry."
Simon searched his memory and found vague confirmation of something similar. He looked up at Nancy and waited.
She continued, "VCR penetration in North American homes was only 2% in 1980; now it's nearing 70%. Industry forecasts say over 80% in the next few years. Video revenue is exploding too, three years ago it barely surpassed theatrical; last year it hit $8.3 billion, almost double box office. The North American market will saturate soon, but total revenue should settle at around 2.5 times theatrical. Globally, the potential matches North America."
Simon nodded. "So?"
"So I recommend acquiring library assets to bulk up Daenerys's catalog. The video boom happened too fast, many classics still have huge untapped home-entertainment potential. Take Universal's E.T.: released theatrically in 1982, video in October last year, six months later, over eleven million units sold worldwide. Orion Pictures would be perfect. Hundreds of high-quality titles. Pair a strong library with Blockbuster's retail reach, and we can proactively push catalog titles through marketing campaigns the way Disney re-releases its animated classics."
Though Run Lola Run and Pulp Fiction's success hadn't halted Orion's decline, the company's library was undeniably strong.
In its decade-plus existence, Orion had distributed award-and-box-office winners like Amadeus and Platoon, plus commercial hits The Terminator, RoboCop, and the Rambo series. Woody Allen's recent films were Orion too.
The company's troubles were complex: overambitious expansion to rival the majors, inconsistent releases, executives skilled in filmmaking but not management, chaotic finances, runaway production costs, and a worsening industry climate.
Orion's cautionary tale was fresh. Without last year's hits and steady reality-TV income, Simon would have tightly reined in Daenerys's growth.
His strict financial controls, marketing focus, and company culture were all deliberate efforts to avoid Orion's fate.
In the conference room, Simon strongly agreed with expanding the library.
In the early eighties, studios undervalued catalogs, Michael Eisner pegged Disney's at just $200 million in 1984.
But with video's rise, 1950's Cinderella alone, re-released on tape a few years ago sold over seven million units, earning Disney more than $200 million. The library's value had skyrocketed tenfold.
In the original timeline, Sleepless in Seattle's success unexpectedly boosted 1957's An Affair to Remember to two million tape sales, pure windfall.
Beyond video, libraries generated revenue through re-releases, remakes, cable licensing.
Hollywood studio libraries were gold mines.
Simon closed the file. "I'll seriously consider it, Nancy. Send major analytics reports to my office going forward. Now, show me the movie database you've been building."
Nancy didn't push. She knew Daenerys's finances.
Cash flow was strong, but not yet enough for Orion. She'd raised it because she was certain Simon was making a fortune in Japan, more than enough when the time came.
With that settled, the three headed to the third floor, home of the movie database team.
Nancy's database wasn't paper archives; it was digital.
"I outsourced data entry to L.A. college students, it saves a fortune," she said, leading them through the office and into the server room with its SUN workstations. Emerging, she couldn't resist complaining to Simon: "Per your orders, we used Oracle's database software. Disaster. Larry Ellison's a total con man. Constant bugs. Every time tech support calls, he claims they've already found the issue and are fixing it. I swear, if we didn't report problems, he'd never know how bad his product is. And he keeps calling, angling for Blockbuster database contracts."
Simon hadn't expected a female executive to see through Ellison so quickly. Pleased, he nodded. "Sometimes con men succeed more than honest folks."
Walking beside him, Nancy tilted her small face up and gave him a disdainful sidelong glance as if categorizing her boss.
Angela, on Simon's other side, found their subtle dynamic amusing.
After just one lunch, she'd sensed Simon's inherent detachment from others yet with Nancy he showed clear indulgence.
Like the Blockbuster situation.
Angela knew she'd never dare interfere in a subsidiary's management without explicit approval and believed Simon disliked such behavior. Yet Nancy had quietly appointed herself senior operations consultant, and Simon had only laughed.
The three entered an office. Nancy called in an on-duty weekend staffer to demo the database.
Simon had given Nancy a memo modeled on IMDb's eventual site, but this database was utterly different.
It served one purpose: utility.
No trivia, reviews, message boards. Entries listed only synopsis, genre, key crew, box office, media scores, data useful to Daenerys Analytics.
The interface mimicked a graphical web browser, but content was pure text—no images.
Beyond basic film data, the tech team planned software integrating Blockbuster terminal feedback for comprehensive analysis.
Nancy had zero interest in building a public IMDb. Her goal was clear: use these resources to achieve the efficiency, cost reduction, and competitive edge outlined in her original report.
Compared to big-data-era sites analyzing user behavior via backend tracking, Daenerys Analytics' methods felt primitive to Simon. Yet the underlying concept was far ahead of contemporaries.
Hearing Nancy describe last month's Pet Sematary boosting Stephen King horror rentals and Blockbuster's rapid inventory response, Simon thought again of An Affair to Remember.
One of Analytics' greatest strengths: enabling far more precise content allocation, with reaction speeds far surpassing rivals.
If Sleepless in Seattle arrived on schedule and sparked demand for An Affair to Remember, competitors would still be asleep when Blockbuster guided by Analytics feedback, rushed stock to stores.
Blockbuster could capture the lion's share of that unexpected two-million-unit surge.
Moreover, as customers discovered Blockbuster consistently stocked what they wanted first, it would become their default choice, competitiveness growing subtly over time.
Details decided success in business too.
Simon spent the afternoon at Analytics headquarters. Beyond confirming his investment was paying off, the database inspired another realization: the time was ripe to begin internet layout.
In a way, he'd already started.
Most Westeros tech holdings tied directly to the coming internet era.
Beyond public companies like Microsoft, James Rebould had invested in Cisco (15% stake) and recently pushed Quantum-Link--25% owned--to rebrand as America Online.
Cisco for network hardware, AOL for services, perfect infrastructure for the internet's rise.
What was missing: content providers, and the unifying global internet concept.
If memory served, Tim Berners-Lee would formally propose the World Wide Web this year.
Then the decades-brewing computer network would take flight.
Monday, Simon's first workday back he asked Jennifer to gather all available materials on computer networking.
With hardware and service providers in place, his next move was securing an early edge in content.
…
Burbank.
Renée Russo drove away from Universal Studios, stomach turning at the nearly seventy-year-old director's audition hints.
Zero power, still wants freebies.
Think I'm an easy mark?
Look at yourself.
It was Friday, May 12, another week gone.
Details from that night grew sharper in her mind.
She touched the Gucci Floral scarf still around her neck and felt a surge of inexplicable resentment.
She'd hoped the experience might improve her Hollywood standing. Nothing had changed.
Damn little man.
Scoundrel!
Bastard!
Villain!
Demi's coveted Ghost lead remained undecided, she had even less hope.
Just a dream after all.
Driving slowly, anger built. She untied the scarf, stopped by a trash can, rolled down the window to toss it hesitated, noticed the newsstand owner staring, found an excuse, and tucked it away.
She pointed at a Los Angeles Times, paid.
She'd glimpsed Daenerys's name.
Lately she couldn't help noticing the company.
She parked at a nearby outdoor café, ordered coffee, and flipped open the paper.
A headline about Daenerys and ABC's new Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Season 2 contract. A game show on the front page?
But the subhead: Daenerys conceding $80 million in the deal.
Tsk.
Her mood lifted instantly.
She beckoned the waiter for dessert too.
Figure be damned.
Celebrate first.
Sipping coffee, she read the article carefully.
Then gaped.
Good God.
A simple quiz show earning $250 million? Is this robbery?
Daenerys gave up $80 million yet still came out ahead of ABC.
Hm.
$170 million.
She drifted into fantasy.
What would I do with 170 million?
Reality snapped her back. No chance in this lifetime.
She'd always been pragmatic.
Raised by a single mother, she rarely indulged unrealistic dreams. Dropped out at sixteen to help at home, stumbled into modeling, gained decent fame yet always weighed down by lifelong financial pressure. At thirty, modeling dried up; she rushed into acting.
Started in community theater, took classes only landed a small TV role two years ago.
Finally some traction.
Still aware age was her biggest liability.
Last month her first film released: baseball story Major League. She played a woman repeatedly dumped by a playboy yet crawling back, felt idiotic. In real life she'd give such a guy zero second chances. Persistent? Beat him, then call the cops.
Hm.
Already met one.
Doesn't count.
Major League was doing well, over $30 million in a month.
New auditions followed.
Only to feel sickened.
World-weary, she usually handled industry sleaze. Probably that Friday night lingering.
Sigh.
Damn little man.
Lost in thought, she finished coffee, read the paper cover to cover, resisted most of the dessert.
Dusk falling, she paid and was leaving when her pager buzzed.
She checked: agent, urgent callback. She headed to a payphone.
A strange anticipation stirred.
Connected, the agent relayed Simon Westeros wanted her at a Beverly Hills address by eight.
The agent sounded thrilled.
She felt a mix of excitement and resistance.
I'm not the kind of woman who comes running.
But since he actually remembered her, fine, she'd go. Tonight, though, he wouldn't get his way again. Men never valued what came too easily.
Hanging up, it's already 6:50pm.
She hurried to her car.