Faced with these pointed questions, Jeff didn't rush to respond. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass repeatedly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. With his prominent hooked nose, he looked like a vulture eyeing a carcass.
"You know, we don't have a tradition of selling copyrights..."
Leon understood perfectly. The subtext was clear: Be a sucker. Pay for the movie, but don't even dream of owning the rights.
What was the difference between this and paying for a wife, only to need someone else's permission to sleep with her?
It was pure cuckoldry.
Leon knocked on the table, cutting straight to the chase. "Then aren't you just wasting everyone's time?"
"Not at all. I'm acting with the utmost sincerity, or we wouldn't be sitting here," Jeff countered smoothly. "It's just that Warner is very strict with copyright management. That's the market reality. No company wants to casually hand over an IP. Who knows if what you sell today might turn into a goose that lays golden eggs tomorrow?"
With the explosion of the Harry Potter series and superhero movies, popular novels and comics had become the Holy Grail of the film industry in the new millennium.
The publishing industry, particularly comics, had seen similar heights after World War II. In 1950, there were 650 comic titles in the US, with a staggering monthly circulation of 68 million copies. Three years later, in 1953, Ian Fleming began writing the 007 novels.
However, the comic boom came to an abrupt halt in 1955 with the establishment of the Comics Code Authority (CCA). The association mandated that all comics had to pass a pre-screening by the industry body; only those with the seal of approval could be published.
This was a devastating blow to an industry that thrived on creative freedom. By the late 50s, the number of comic titles had plummeted from around 650 to about 250, and over 20 comic companies went bankrupt.
To survive the shifting political tides and social movements, comic companies had to adapt or die.
Responding to the Civil Rights Movement, Marvel introduced the first black superhero, Black Panther.
Responding to student activism, Marvel introduced the first teenage superhero, Spider-Man.
Responding to the feminist movement, Marvel introduced the first standalone female hero, Black Widow.
During this period, Marvel began mortgaging and selling off rights. Back then, no one saw the massive potential of superhero IPs.
In 1968, Cadence Industries bought Marvel from founder Martin Goodman for just $15 million—a fraction of what the Spider-Man IP alone is worth today. At the time, it was widely seen as a foolish, money-losing deal.
Leon tapped the table again, his expression serious. "Listen, Jeff. Copyright is my bottom line. Otherwise, there's nothing to discuss. You can sit tight and wait for Spielberg. Maybe in ten years, he'll find the time to bring this movie to the big screen."
"I understand your point, no need to be so tense," Jeff said, showing the shrewdness of a seasoned executive. "Warner isn't short on cash; we don't need to sell rights for investment. But without our IP support, this movie will be very hard to make."
The original work was packed with Easter eggs paying homage to classic films like The Shining and The Wizard of Oz. Plus, DC superheroes like Superman and Batman were crucial elements. Without Warner's copyright support, it would indeed be a headache.
They were locked in a subtle stalemate.
But Jeff clearly underestimated Leon's ability to handle pressure. Despite seeking investment, Leon was posturing like he was the one holding all the cards.
Leon decided to flip the table. "I don't think there's anything left to discuss. I've completely lost interest in this movie."
Before he even finished the sentence, he stood up to leave.
"Wait..." Jeff hadn't expected the negotiation to break down so quickly and panicked. "Terms are negotiable..."
"Copyright is the bottom line. If we can't reach a consensus on this, there's no point in continuing."
They wanted investors to foot the bill to test the waters, yet wanted to keep the rights in their pocket to cash in on sequels.
In what world does a deal like that exist?
Seeing Leon about to walk out the door without looking back, Jeff finally played his hand. "Alright, you win, kid. Sit down. Let's talk about the copyright seriously..."
"I hope you're bringing some sincerity this time." Leon rolled his eyes, pretending to turn back reluctantly, grabbing the bottle to pour himself another drink.
The probing was over. The real negotiation had begun.
Jeff sipped his drink and shook his head, muttering a few curses. "Fck, I think I finally understand how you made so much money just a year after your debut... You're not only talented creatively, but you also show enough greed in business, constantly thinking about how to eat the entire pie yourself."
Leon shot back, "Greed? You need to understand one thing. Ready Player One is like an ugly, high-maintenance hooker. No one wants to touch her. The pimp is begging me to pay to sleep with her, not me begging the pimp."
Although he didn't name names, the implication that the President of Warner Bros. was a pimp was loud and clear.
Jeff, surprisingly, wasn't angry. After a few seconds of silence, he actually laughed. "I like that analogy."
In the past, he saw Leon as a sucker crossing over from the music industry, making a fortune in film through sheer luck and a keen sense of the times. Even though Leon was a big shot now, he was only 21. Most people who struck it rich in entertainment at that age were spendthrifts and arrogant fools.
Now, Jeff truly saw Leon as an opponent at the negotiating table, not a fat sheep waiting to be slaughtered.
"Since you're so obsessed with the copyright, let's talk about it," Jeff said. "This is a bestseller with over a million copies sold in the US. The company has high expectations for it."
"Give me a number. I don't like beating around the bush."
"Alright." Jeff spread his hands, casually dropping a figure.
"10 million dollars? Did I hear that right?" Leon tilted his head. "Is there something wrong with my ears?"
"You heard right. Universal Pictures previously wanted to buy the rights to this novel, and their offer was also this number." Jeff shrugged, looking innocent. "I haven't raised it by a single cent. It's a fair price."
"Fck... How much did J.K. Rowling get for selling the Harry Potter rights to Warner? If I remember correctly, it was 12.5 million dollars..." Leon curled his lip. "That was in 1999. It's only been twelve years. Has inflation in this country gotten that bad?"
"12.5 million was just the movie licensing fee..." Jeff shook his head. "Do you know how much Warner has paid that British woman over the last decade? It's an astronomical figure even I don't want to mention..."
Movie licensing and buying out copyrights were two different things.
In 1999, Warner Bros. bought the film rights for Harry Potter from Rowling for $12.5 million. This deal covered all elements related to the series, including characters, names, and plots. However, Rowling retained the underlying rights, meaning she got a cut of the box office and merchandise sales. She eventually raked in over $400 million from the franchise's success, becoming the world's richest author.
"It's still ridiculously expensive. If it were a niche DC superhero IP, I might consider this price," Leon said, shaking his head.
"You're overthinking it. Even Black Panther, that n-word IP the company doesn't think much of, has an expected value of no less than 50 million dollars."
"Warner spent only 2 million dollars when they bought the novel Ready Player One. Forgive me for not accepting such a high premium..."
Leon glanced at his watch, his casual demeanor showing no trace of acting.
Shooting Ready Player One was a different beast from Straight Outta Compton. The former was on a completely different level in terms of production difficulty and investment risk.
He would have preferred if his "cheat code" had refreshed a low-budget horror movie, guaranteeing a ten-fold return with ease.
The production cost of Ready Player One was conservatively estimated at over 100 million dollars. It involved complex copyright issues and, as a CGI-heavy film, a long production cycle.
Dropping 10 million dollars just to buy the rights, then wrangling with greedy Warner Bros.—Leon's initial enthusiasm was already half-extinguished.
"Thanks for the whiskey. It's getting late, and I have a poker game to catch." Saying this, he stood up, ready to head back to Taylor's mansion.
This was the second time tonight this had happened.
For the extremely arrogant and high-ranking Jeff, he wouldn't typically beg someone to stay a second time, not even a superstar like DiCaprio.
"Wait, you are the most impatient negotiator I've ever met. Any great deal is made through repeated tug-of-war."
"The atmosphere right now doesn't feel like a negotiation; it feels more like brutal exploitation. You don't seem to be treating me as an investor."
"You think the atmosphere is off? Want me to call Dennings back and have that girl keep you company?"
Jeff started applying pressure. Using actresses for "casting couch" tactics was standard operating procedure in Hollywood when dealing with wealthy investors. For most actresses without nepotism on their side, relying on "skills" was the only way to get ahead.
"No need. Do you think that girl's big tits are worth 10 million dollars?"
Leon almost laughed out loud. That amount of money in Brownsville could unite every girl in the neighborhood and let him live a debauched life like a king.
"I was just joking; the atmosphere was too tense." Jeff downed the rest of his drink and said in a low voice, "The copyright fee was decided by the board, but I can continue to fight for you. As long as you can handle the IP issues—especially those Japanese IPs... That is the cornerstone of the movie's success and my leverage with the board."
"Really?" Leon's face was written with distrust.
The guy had just been acting like a ruthless capitalist; why was he suddenly so easy to talk to?
But thinking about it carefully, it wasn't strange.
It all came down to Spielberg. Not only did he have personal conflicts with Jeff, but his grudge with Warner Bros. had lasted for nearly 30 years.
Not only were Warner absent from his recent films, but he rarely worked with them throughout his entire directing career.
It all started with the 1982 classic E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. They had established an intention to cooperate. Just as they were about to sign the contract, Spielberg suddenly jumped ship to Universal Pictures.
The reason was that Warner's greedy management refused to let his Amblin Entertainment serve as the film's distributor, insisting that Warner control everything.
In the end, E.T. leveraged 10 million dollars into 630 million in global box office and became a cinematic legend.
This event was viewed as a major strategic failure for Warner Bros. in the 80s. For the next twenty years, they drifted further apart from Spielberg, missing out on his golden age of money-making.
It wasn't until 2001, brokered by DreamWorks partner David Geffen, that he directed Kubrick's posthumous work A.I. Artificial Intelligence for Warner Bros.
If not for Leon's interference and Jeff's scheming, Ready Player One was supposed to mark the true thawing of relations between the two sides.
"Of course, don't forget what I said. IP is the key to the movie's success; we rely on this to attract fans to buy tickets!" Jeff said. "This movie is significant. I hope to minimize the risk of failure."
"That's no problem for me. I'll handle it." Leon agreed readily after a moment of thought.
Even though Japanese copyrights were famously difficult to secure—to a maddening degree.
Nintendo, holding the Pokémon IP, was the ultimate defender of copyright.
There was a rumor in online gaming communities: In a remote Venezuelan mountain village, a boy loved Nintendo's Mario. Because he had no money, he made a cardboard handheld console to play Mario.
Nintendo found out, flew to that mountain village immediately, found the boy, and taught him a harsh lesson.
Because creating an unauthorized Mario game and uploading a video of it online infringed on their rights. The boy, along with those who helped him make the cardboard game and record the video, had seriously violated Nintendo's copyright.
In the end, the boy received a lawsuit from Nintendo personally, demanding 200 million dollars in damages.
Although it was an exaggerated joke, it highlighted the Japanese companies' obsessive control over copyright.
Leon had just signed with Columbia Records, whose parent company was Sony—the most influential Japanese company. Even though Ready Player One didn't involve many Sony IPs, their influence made it easy to reach agreements with other Japanese companies.
Sony executives in gaming, film, and music moved frequently between divisions and had close relationships. The current President of Sony Interactive Entertainment, Shuhei Yoshida, was the brother-in-law of Saburo Kitano—the Japanese exec who had pushed to poach Leon from Roc Nation from the start.
Leon's relationship with the Japanese exec was decent, and he was a Sony artist himself. Solving the IP issue wouldn't be difficult, just time-consuming.
"Excellent. I like your ambition. Look at you, only 21, yet your appetite is astonishing..." Jeff said. "We will report today's conversation to the board, persuade them to sell you the novel rights at the lowest price, and get the movie greenlit in the shortest time. Remember, I will do everything I can to stand on your side!"
"Thanks a lot." Leon grew more suspicious the more he listened. The guy was acting too sincere—so sincere it was unbelievable. He probed tentatively, "You mentioned earlier that Warner also wanted to invest in this movie. What's the investment ratio?"
"Who told you that?"
"Doesn't matter. Just some grapevine rumors, you know." Leon didn't plan to name Amber Heard.
Jeff shook his head. "This movie is too risky. I've tried everything, but I couldn't convince the board and other management... By the way, I forgot to tell you one thing. In this cooperation, Warner will take a 20% cut of the box office as a distribution fee."
"WTF? Are you talking about profit sharing or total gross box office?"
"Total gross box office. This ratio is hard to change."
"Fck, I think you guys are crazy."
Leon felt the Warner executives were either insane or on the wrong meds.
In the film industry, it's standard for the distributor to take a cut of the box office, but the ceiling is usually 15%. Taking 15% implies mobilizing top-tier resources for promotion, plastering posters and videos in every country across five continents.
"I think it's a very reasonable ratio. It includes licensing fees for all Warner IPs. Yes, you can use DC Comics resources freely—I fought for that for you." Jeff explained, "The resources invested in promotion will also be unprecedented. Since a large part of the audience for this movie is gamers, we will use massive online channels for promotion, which is a considerable expense."
"You think it's reasonable?" Leon curled his lip. "It's not your money, of course you think it's reasonable."
"No, I've decided to invest in this movie."
"What?" Leon sat up straight, staring at him with interest.
"Yes, you heard right. I'm investing in this movie personally. I believe we will create a classic that goes down in history!"
Hearing this, all of Jeff's previous motives made sense.
If he was buying in, fighting for Leon's interests was fighting for his own.
Leon fell silent. The news was neither good nor bad for him.
On one hand, he couldn't pour all his funds into the movie; it would hamstring his other businesses. So, having someone share the financial pressure was good.
On the other hand, Jeff would likely make a terrible partner.
Arrogant, massive ego, extreme control freak...
These were not the traits of a good partner.
Leaving aside whether they could maintain a friendly relationship after collaborating on a movie, just getting the film finished without disaster would be lucky.