235-237

Chapter 235: A Commercial Movie Mindset 

Dunn’s work chugged along like clockwork, completely unfazed by the heated ban showdown between the two companies.  

After wrapping up the acquisition and restructuring of Focus Features, Dunn headed to Boston, Massachusetts. In the university hub of Cambridge, he’d finish shooting A Beautiful Mind.  

The film’s lead, John Nash, had worked mainly at MIT and Princeton. Dunn picked MIT for the bulk of the shoot for one simple reason: it’s a stone’s throw from Harvard.  

Some of Harvard’s lab courses even happen at MIT—a ten-minute drive, tops. Perfect for Natalie’s visits.  

Day one was mostly easy stuff—short takes and wide shots. Starting simple let the crew ease into the vibe.  

To nail the texture, they even brought in the real John Nash, now in his seventies.  

The old guy looked dazed, moved slow, but those cloudy, sharp eyes? They had a piercing, world-weary wisdom.  

In front of this revered mathematician, Dunn kept it humble. After the day’s shoot, he approached him. “Mr. Nash, tomorrow we’re filming the Nobel Prize scene. The team’s setting up the auditorium. Any thoughts?”  

John Nash shook his head. “It’s your story.”  

Dunn’s face flushed, and he scrambled to explain. “Mr. Nash, movies come from reality but go beyond it. Sure, over half the script’s made up, but that’s what gives it punch.”  

A Beautiful Mind was based on Nash’s authorized bio, a legit rundown of his wild life.  

But for the film’s sake, Dunn had tweaked it big-time. He used Nash’s life as a scaffold—genius to schizophrenia to Nobel Prize—and built a half-fictional tale around it.  

When the script hit the Writers Guild, they didn’t slap a standard “adapted by” credit on it. Nope, it got the full “written by” original treatment.  

That alone showed how far the script had strayed from the source, turning into something freshly crafted.  

It was a necessary call.  

John Nash’s life was epic, but not exactly shiny. In his twenties, he fathered an illegitimate kid, spent years bouncing between bisexual flings, and thanks to mental illness, racked up some wild scandals.  

Later, his widely admired wife, Alicia, divorced him despite all the blessings thrown their way…  

On paper, A Beautiful Mind was arthouse. In reality? It was a commercial cheerleader for mainstream American values and the American Dream. Dropping post-9/11, it had to be beautiful, inspiring, legendary, and stirring—core tenets of its DNA.  

Even when Nash’s mental illness peaks into full-blown split personality, the script spins it into a “patriot” persona—helping his country gather intel during the Cold War.  

Bottom line: the movie shows his best, most touching side, tailor-made to move America and heal hearts after 9/11.  

John Nash’s face stayed blank, stiff like early dementia, but his mind was sharp. “You’re the director. The movie’s yours.”  

Dunn let out a relieved breath and smiled. “Thanks for getting it, Mr. Nash.”  

With a legend like this, quirks were par for the course. If he’d rather tank his screen image than stray from facts, Dunn would’ve been screwed.  

“I’m just curious—why’d I dream up three people?” Nash asked, all scientific precision. “I don’t even know them.”  

Dunn was channeling Oliver Stone’s biopic mojo now—his grasp of film structure was top-notch.  

“To me, a big part of hooking an audience is building a ‘satisfying’ connection with them,” he said, summing up commercial movies in one line.  

Nash didn’t flinch, his expression still a blank slate.  

Dunn went on, slow and steady. “Back in the ‘50s, social psychologist William Schutz came up with this three-dimensional theory of relationships. He said human bonds boil down to three needs: inclusion, control, and affection. That’s how I steer the rhythm of a commercial film.”  

“People watch movies for two reasons. One’s self-attachment—looking for bits of their own familiar, loved life on screen. The other’s through the eyes—connecting with characters, rebuilding what they’ve lost inside, or claiming something they never had.”  

“In real life, even the smoothest talkers—those charming, all-around pros—still feel misunderstood or lonely sometimes. So pretty much any viewer can spot that raw, lingering isolation in the lead. Then, through the three imagined figures, they get that psychological payoff—feeling recognized, needed, depended on.”  

Nash’s eyebrow twitched. He’d spent his life buried in academics, not movies.  

Hearing Dunn lay it out, he finally clocked the tangled link between film and social psychology. No wonder they call movies a mashup art form.  

“Mr. Walker, your success isn’t luck,” Nash said, genuine respect in his tone. “I get it now. The first hallucination, the roommate Charles, fills the inclusion need. The second, defense official William Parcher, hits control. And the third, that little girl Marcee, sparks a deep emotional pull—affection.”  

Dunn grinned. “Mr. Nash, you getting it is the best win for our work.”  

Nash waved it off, glancing at the sky. “I’ve got a meetup tonight with some old MIT geezers. Want to tag along?”  

Dunn stifled a laugh.  

This Nash guy—too deep in research, not so hot with people.  

A bunch of old-timers chewing over academics—what was Dunn supposed to do there?  

His bits of sociology, film theory, and psych? Good for dazzling outsiders, but he’d be out of his depth in a real debate.  

Plus, since Cannes, Nicole Kidman had moved out of his place. He’d been itching for that Aussie mermaid ever since.  

No question—filming here was a chance to rekindle old flames.  

Right on cue, Nicole strolled over, makeup done, glowing like a star. Her flowing hair, cool elegance, killer curves—half the crew was drooling.  

“Sorry, Mr. Nash, I’ve got plans,” Dunn said, feigning regret before tossing in a half-joke. “Hey, you know this area—any good date spots around?”  

Nash kept it short. “Harvard 4:30.”  

“Huh?”  

“The library.”  

Dunn blinked, then turned purple, caught between a laugh and a groan.  

This John Nash—he was a riot!  

He’d heard from Natalie how hardcore Harvard kids were. The library stayed lit up till 4:30 a.m., with Natalie often grinding late into the night.  

Nicole bit back a giggle, her high-class scent wafting as she whispered in Dunn’s ear, “I think Mr. Nash’s idea sounds pretty good.”  

Dunn gave an awkward grin, said bye to Nash, then turned to her with a mock growl. “You want those college kids to eat you alive? Take a spin through the library!”  

Even Harvard nerds would lose it over a stunner like Nicole Kidman.  

She smirked, teeth grazing her lip, throwing him a flirty glance. “Library kids eating me there, you eating me back at the hotel—what’s the difference?”  

Dunn cracked up. “You only know which dish is tastiest after you’ve tried ‘em!”  

Nicole rolled her eyes big-time. “Tastier than Charlize Theron or Sophie Marceau?”  

Dunn laughed harder. “Stir-fry, cold cuts—they balance each other out. Soup or grilled meat—each has its charm.”  

She shot him a playful glare. “You’re so greedy. I bet you wouldn’t dare say that to Natalie.”  

“Why not?”  

“Fine, I’ll quote you word-for-word to her sometime.”  

Dunn shrugged, grinning ear to ear. “Nat’s a vegetarian—she’s all about the greens. Me? Heh, I’m out to taste every delicacy in the world!” 

Chapter 236: Carving Up the Profits! Things weren’t unfolding the way Michael Eisner had pictured. 

He’d figured Dunn’s hotheaded blacklist against Disney would slam Dunn Pictures with crushing pressure, leaving the company teetering on collapse. But reality? Dunn Pictures was still charging ahead full steam. 

Not only did they drop $16 million to snap up a small indie studio, but A Beautiful Mind kicked off production without a hitch. Dunn ditched all company headaches and bolted east to shoot his movie. On the surface, it looked like he’d given up—but really, it screamed unshakable faith in Dunn Pictures. Disney’s squeeze? He didn’t even blink. 

Where the hell was this kid getting his confidence? 

Michael Eisner couldn’t wrap his head around it! 

Joe Roth kept saying it: Dunn Walker didn’t play by the rules—you couldn’t judge him with a standard lens. Now, it sure seemed that way. 

Take Dunn’s new flick, A Beautiful Mind. It was lighting up the media and drawing major buzz. The real kicker? The crew dropped a bombshell: Jack Nicholson, veteran Oscar champ and acting legend, had signed on as an agent character. 

To outsiders, it might’ve been no big deal—top director, top actor, a match made in heaven. But in Hollywood’s upper ranks, it sent shockwaves. 

Disney and Dunn Pictures were at each other’s throats, locked in a nasty showdown. A ton of actors were playing it safe—staying mum, picking no sides, keeping out of the fray. James Franco, Dunn’s golden boy from Spider-Man, and Nicolas Cage, who’d gone action-hero under Jerry Bruckheimer, both dodged questions in interviews, waffling like pros. 

Then Jack Nicholson made his move, loud and clear. Joining A Beautiful Mind—even for a small role—hit Disney like a sucker punch. With the blacklist feud raging, everyone in Hollywood’s inner circle knew the score. Nicholson stepping up now wasn’t just about working with Dunn—it was a blatant slap across Disney’s face. 

After Marlon Brando and the old guard faded, Nicholson, Al Pacino, Dustin Hoffman, and Robert De Niro were the acting titans holding up Hollywood’s craft. They were idols—Leonardo DiCaprio mimicked Pacino’s intensity in the mirror, Matthew McConaughey worshipped Hoffman, even young Tom Hanks carried Hoffman’s echoes. Nicholson picking Team Dunn? That could sway a legion of his followers. 

An actor of his caliber wielded serious clout. 

For Eisner, throwing in the towel wasn’t an option—just a bit more elbow grease, that’s all. He’d assumed Dunn’s blacklist would tank him without extra prodding, that the MPAA’s other members would swoop in and smack Dunn Pictures down. But so far? The other studios were just watching from the sidelines, popcorn in hand. 

No worries—they wouldn’t jump? He’d nudge them along. 

“Terry, it’s me, Michael! Haha, busy lately, huh?” Eisner’s tone carried a rare hint of flattery. 

On the line was Terry Semel, Warner Bros.’ chairman and CEO. He’d once run Disney’s entertainment distribution arm, so he had a hunch what Eisner wanted. “Oh, Michael! I’m alright—same old, same old.” 

Eisner chuckled. “Heard Yahoo’s courting you. Made up your mind?” 

Terry stayed cool. “Haven’t locked anything in yet.” 

Eisner played concerned pal. “Old buddy, I’d say Yahoo’s a solid pick! Warner’s holding you back these days. From Warner Bros. to Time Warner to AOL Time Warner—sorry to be blunt, but that’s not a good look.” 

His words dripped with a little divide-and-conquer spice. 

Eisner ran Disney, a media empire. Terry? Just an exec under a bigger media umbrella. Still, Eisner’s jab hit a nerve. “Yahoo’s stock’s been shaky,” Terry said evenly. “Turning that around won’t be a cakewalk.” 

Eisner caught the drift—Terry jumping to Yahoo was all but sealed. “Heard some chatter—Dunn Capital, that outfit Dunn controls, they’re shorting Yahoo stock on the sly?” 

Terry’s lip twitched. “Rumors. Besides, I’m still Warner’s chair—I only answer to them.” 

Eisner laughed heartily. “Of course, of course! But Dunn Pictures lately—they’re stirring up trouble, throwing Hollywood’s order out of whack.” 

“You mean the blacklist?” 

“Heh.” 

“Didn’t Disney start that game?” Terry quipped. He was Hollywood-bound for Silicon Valley soon—no need to kiss Eisner’s ring anymore. 

Eisner brushed it off. “That’s different. Disney’s blacklist was just a little lesson—contained, no harm. Dunn Pictures, though? That’s cutthroat market sabotage—wrecking Hollywood’s business vibe.” 

Terry’s face flickered with amusement, voice flat. “Is it? I wouldn’t know—I’ll have someone look into it.” 

Eisner sensed the dodge and frowned inwardly. Had Dunn cozied up to Terry? Nah—no whispers of that. At most, Dunn had swapped hellos with Warner prez Alan Horn a few times. 

Seeing Terry sidestep, Eisner pulled his ace. “Dunn Pictures has been on a roll these past few years, huh? Especially Spider-Man—makes us old-timers a little jealous.” 

“Yeah, Dunn’s directing chops are top-notch,” Terry conceded. 

“It’s not just that—Marvel’s superheroes are the real gold. In our hands, the big studios, they’d shine even brighter.” 

Terry’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? What’re you getting at?” 

Eisner bared his fangs. “Dunn Pictures is small fry. Marvel’s heroes? An untapped jackpot. Comic sales are through the roof lately. And I hear Warner’s got ties with Dunn Pictures on Narnia and Harry Potter projects?” 

Smart guys, they both caught the greedy undertone. If Dunn Pictures was just a little fish, they couldn’t hold onto Marvel, Harry Potter, or Narnia forever. Big-budget A-list flicks needed big studio muscle—like DreamWorks leaning harder on partners these days. But let Dunn Pictures grow unchecked? No one could stop his expansion. 

Terry’s gears turned. “Alright, Michael, I get you.” 

Eisner laughed loud. “Terry, I’d kill to clink glasses with you right now! To Hollywood’s shared prosperity!” 

“Guess it’s a toast from afar then—cheers!” 

Terry matched the laugh, but his face stayed stone-cold. 

It all boiled down to profit. 

After hanging up, Eisner dialed Sony, Paramount, Universal, and Fox, laying out the same pitch: Dunn Pictures was a cancer, and he had a cure. A mix of charm and muscle—he wanted them to team up, crush Dunn Pictures, and split the spoils: Marvel heroes, Harry Potter, Narnia, the works. 

• Avengers series: Universal and Paramount split it. 

• Fantastic Four: Sony Columbia’s bag. 

• Harry Potter: Disney and Warner divvy it up. 

• Narnia: Fox and Warner carve it out. 

Everything seemed neat and tidy. 

Eisner leaned back in his office, legs crossed, finger tapping the desk rhythmically, eyes half-closed in thought. The Big Six’s responses were lukewarm, no firm yeses. But he was cocky enough to bet on it. 

Slicing up Dunn Pictures? Too juicy a prize for the giants to pass up. 

Back in the day, RKO—one of Hollywood’s original Big Eight—handled Disney’s toon releases. Walt Disney wasn’t content being a small-time animation shop, so he rallied the other majors, gutted RKO, and took its spot. RKO faded into history; Disney rose to titan status. 

Dunn Pictures versus old-school RKO? No contest. 

Eisner’s wheels were turning—dismantle Dunn Pictures, divvy the loot. It was already in motion. 

“If The Crew could just outgross Girl, Interrupted, it’d pile more misery on Dunn Pictures!” 

A flicker of anticipation sparked in Eisner’s chest. 

Chapter 237: Clearing the Path  

Terry Semel had been mulling it over for a while—he was ready to ditch Warner and jump to Yahoo!  

The holdup? Some terms still needed hammering out.  

He wouldn’t officially bounce until next spring, giving him about six months left.  

For now, Terry Semel was still Warner Bros.’ top dog. Professional pride meant he had to finish strong—protecting Warner’s interests while picking a solid successor.  

Two contenders were in the ring: Vice Chairman Barry Meyer and President Alan Horn.  

Alan Horn was the content guru. Over the past few years, he’d been the big shot running Warner Bros.’ movie production, with killer business chops.  

Barry Meyer, though, handled the admin side—expansion, channel-building, that sort of thing. Plus, he had a deeper Rolodex.  

Terry leaned toward handing the reins to Barry. Warner Bros. wasn’t just a movie mill—it had home entertainment, TV production, DC Comics, and a TV network. They needed someone well-rounded.  

And honestly? Terry and Barry were tighter.  

The catch: Barry had never run the movie-making side, Warner’s bread and butter.  

Then, a few days back, Barry met with Michael Ovitz and pitched a game-changer.  

Slate financing for films!  

If Ovitz’s talk panned out and they locked in a long-term deal, it’d solve Warner’s cash flow headaches big-time—giving their movie biz a rock-solid boost.  

Pull that off, and Barry Meyer would be the obvious next-in-line!  

Michael Eisner’s pitch to carve up Dunn Films? Tempting, sure. But slate financing was the real prize!  

Splitting Dunn Films might net them a few film rights, but for old-school giants like Warner, Fox, and Universal, creativity and IP were never the issue. Cash was what they craved!  

Only Disney—a lightweight in live-action—would drool over Dunn Films’ handful of titles.  

Terry hadn’t bitten on Eisner’s offer, but he wasn’t just stringing him along either. He’d pick whatever served Warner best. He called Barry in and cut to the chase. “How real is this thing?”  

Barry read the gravity on his face and knew what he meant. He thought it over. “At least 80%.”  

“Oh?” That high? Terry’s eyes lit up.  

Barry nodded, dropping a loaded hint. “Terry, we’ve got to look at Dunn as an equal—maybe even give him a little extra credit.”  

Terry’s gut stirred. He shot Barry a glance. “You’re saying… Michael Ovitz is just the frontman, and Dunn Walker’s the real brains?”  

“I’d bet on it!” Barry’s tone was dead serious. “This slate financing plan—it’s mind-blowing. It’s not Ovitz’s style at all. Only Dunn, with his Wall Street ties and investment savvy, could dream this up.”  

Terry mulled it over, then nodded. “If it works, Hollywood owes Dunn big-time. But Disney…”  

Barry waved it off. “Dunn saw Disney’s counterpunch coming—that’s why he rolled out slate financing!”  

“If that’s true, this kid’s playing chess while we’re still on checkers,” Terry said, sucking in a breath. “But we can’t just take their word for it. Ovitz is a negotiation shark—we’ve got to stay sharp. Maybe… hedge our bets.”  

Slate financing succeeding? Awesome—everyone wins. Even if some studios miss out on Ovitz’s deal, they’d see the upside and jump on the bandwagon.  

But if it’s all smoke and mirrors? They wouldn’t play nice.  

Disney was already the bad guy—they could swoop in, hammer Dunn Films with zero guilt, and split the spoils.  

Either way, the big players couldn’t lose.  

“Only one hitch: we’ve got to stall Disney!” Barry grinned, sly as an old fox. “Word is, Ovitz is in New York, and Dunn’s filming out east—close to NYC. If they’re serious about bringing slate financing to Hollywood, we’ve got to buy them time.”  

Terry jumped in. “Damn right. Not just stall Disney—we need to step in a bit, ease some pressure off Dunn Films. Compared to nibbling at Dunn Films’ scraps, slate financing could be Hollywood’s turning point!”  

Barry nodded. “Disney’s gonna pull every trick to rally everyone against Dunn Films right now. We’re solid, but some companies—backed by media giants—might be too shortsighted, chasing quick wins…”  

He didn’t name names, but Terry knew he meant Paramount under Viacom!  

Sure, Dunn Films and 20th Century Fox had beef in the past, but on a make-or-break moment like this, Fox was reliable.  

Rupert Murdoch, the Aussie mogul, was shifting News Corp.’s assets from overseas to the U.S.—a long-game masterplan.  

20th Century Fox caught that vibe too.  

Companies take after their leaders, after all.  

Viacom’s Sumner Redstone, though? Brutal and nearsighted—classic family biz flaw. Turning down Dunn Films’ kids’ channel pitch was a dead giveaway.  

Paramount, stuck under Viacom, lacked the vision and scope of a true Hollywood titan.  

When Viacom snagged Paramount, it was the top dog in town. A decade later? That shine was long gone.  

In another timeline, Paramount birthed slate financing, sure. But they tried to game it—smoothing out profits to screw over investors for petty gains.  

That nearly sparked a war between Wall Street and Hollywood. Zero foresight. After that, no serious investors touched Paramount’s slate deals, and their movie output—quality and quantity—tanked hard.  

Viacom scrambled, buying DreamWorks to prop up Paramount and regroup.  

Didn’t last. A few years in, Viacom clashed with DreamWorks’ shareholders over profits. DreamWorks bailed, cozying up to Disney instead.  

Viacom’s old-school playbook flopped again and again, shrinking a global media giant into a $10 billion shell. Laughable.  

Redstone’s buy-sell-split shuffle over the years pissed Terry off more than Eisner ever could. He said coldly, “No matter what, we’ve got to give Dunn two months! Nobody touches Dunn Films till then!”  

Barry felt the same. “Dunn Films lives and breathes movies. Girl, Interrupted just hit screens—it’s getting good buzz. Some critics are already calling it an Oscar contender for next year.”  

“Then let’s give him a boost!” Terry paused, a spark hitting him. “Wait—hasn’t Dunn been crowing about crushing Disney at the box office?”  

Barry chuckled. “Yeah, Dunn… he’s young. Can’t keep a lid on it.”  

“Keep a lid on it? If he stayed quiet any longer, Dunn Films would’ve been toast!” Terry smirked. “Let’s see how much noise he can make with an arthouse flick.”