Miramax was just an indie film company with shallow pockets. Even scraping the bottom of the barrel, they could only muster $75 million.
Peter Jackson, though, was thrilled. For the first time, he'd get to helm a big-budget commercial project!
Sure, $75 million to shoot two films back-to-back was peanuts.
Soon, the scripts were ready—The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers.
But then Miramax reassessed the project. To pull off these two movies, they'd need at least $140 million!
Harvey Weinstein had connections, resources, and know-how—but no cash.
He turned to Disney's president, Joe Roth, got a hard no, then went to Michael Eisner.
Eisner was ice-cold.
No way was he letting Miramax dive into big-budget blockbusters to compete with Disney's main studio. He stuck firm: $75 million max, not a penny more!
Harvey Weinstein was crushed.
He'd already sunk $10 million into pre-production.
At that point, his only option was the last resort—hand the project off.
Project handoffs were common in Hollywood.
Miramax's The English Patient and Shakespeare in Love came from transfers. Pulp Fiction and Good Will Hunting were secondhand pickups too—and they'd all turned into gold.
Harvey knew The Lord of the Rings had potential, but with the money crunch threatening to kill it, he had to find a new buyer.
"Back then, Harvey set three brutal conditions. First, any company taking it had to pay $12 million within 24 hours. Second, the Weinstein brothers had to be credited as executive producers. Third, Miramax would get 5% of the global box office, and Saul Zaentz, who owned the Rings rights, would get another 5%."
Bob Shay shrugged, his tone casual, but you could see the gleam in his eyes he couldn't hide.
Taking on a project this massive with such steep terms took serious guts from whoever made the call!
"At the time, two companies were in the running—New Line and PolyGram. That record label had been churning out hit films and was hooked on the movie game. But then PolyGram's cash flow tanked, they went bust, Universal Music snapped them up, and New Line was the last one standing."
Dunn nodded. "So… you're the one who agreed to take on The Lord of the Rings?"
Bob Shay grinned. "Peter Jackson was a nobody back then—no box office wins on his resume. The fantasy and epic vibes demanded top-notch CGI, and shooting back-to-back meant a sky-high budget. New Line had never tackled anything this big before, but I said yes anyway."
"And you upped the budget too, right?"
"Yep. The Lord of the Rings is a trilogy of books—why squeeze it into two parts? A three-parter was the way to go. For this unprecedented project, we budgeted over $270 million."
Dunn smirked. "$270 million for three movies isn't exactly a fortune. You know James spent $200 million on Titanic alone!"
Bob got serious. "It's different! Titanic was shot in the U.S. The Rings trilogy was made in New Zealand—better tax breaks, cheaper labor. $270 million there is like $400 million here!"
Dunn smiled faintly, not arguing, but his mind was elsewhere.
The Lord of the Rings hadn't hit theaters yet, but anyone who'd seen the cuts knew Peter Jackson's work was going to shine!
Even that shoddy, panned animated version from 30 years ago made decent money. A polished, effects-heavy take like this? No question—it was a slam dunk.
The unsung hero behind it all? Harvey Weinstein.
Without his initial $10 million-plus investment and his wrangling with agencies, producers, and studios, the Rings project wouldn't exist.
"I won't deny Harvey Weinstein's talent, but I can't stand the guy," Dunn said, not bothering to hide his thoughts.
Barry Meyer frowned. "Harvey's not Brett Ratner. Right now, you can't touch him. Neither can I!"
Dunn shrugged nonchalantly. He'd already mapped out his plan.
Bob Shay piped up, remembering something. "Oh, and when Harvey handed off The Rings, he tacked on an extra condition. If New Line ever does The Hobbit, he gets a cut too."
Dunn gave him a sly look. "Simple fix. If Saul Zaentz picks a new partner, New Line's deal with Harvey falls apart."
Bob's face tightened, his eyes flashing with unease as he stared at Dunn.
This guy wasn't eyeing The Hobbit and planning to snatch it from New Line, was he? That'd break Hollywood's code!
Barry Meyer's brow furrowed too.
If Dunn stepped in personally, with his golden reputation, Saul Zaentz might actually ditch New Line for Dunn Films.
Dunn laughed. "Relax, I'm not about to poach a friend's prey."
The rights to The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit were a mess—Saul Zaentz, Harvey Weinstein, New Line's film rights, MGM's distribution rights, and the Tolkien Estate's 7.5% profit share…
The tangled web of ownership would seriously gum up tie-in projects.
Future lawsuits over profit splits were practically guaranteed.
By contrast, Dunn was more intrigued by the TV rights for The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings!
Back in the day, Tolkien sold the film rights, but the TV rights stayed put, controlled by the Tolkien Estate—clean and free of messy disputes.
Flash forward to 2017: Amazon shelled out a jaw-dropping $250 million for the global TV rights to The Rings!
It was only 2001 now. Dunn was keen to scoop up the TV rights for The Hobbit and The Rings, plus any related adaptation rights, in one neat package.
If he could snag The Silmarillion too, even better!
With The Rings still unreleased, even if they asked for the moon, the price wouldn't be sky-high.
…
Lately, Dunn had been grinding, drafting outlines for scripts—mostly big-name TV shows from the future—then registering them.
Beyond that, he'd tasked his copyright team with snapping up book rights on the market. The crown jewel? A Song of Ice and Fire.
But George R.R. Martin wouldn't budge. He didn't think current effects tech could do his vision of Westeros justice.
"Fine, if he won't sell, we'll hold off. Once New Line's Rings drops, he'll see what today's CGI can pull off," Dunn said.
He called in his copyright head, Manola Dargis, and gave her a new mission. "I want the TV rights to The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings!"
Manola, already clued in on these classics, jumped in. "That shouldn't be tough. The film rights to The Hobbit and Rings have been floating around forever—little Tolkien's lost control, so there's no point clinging to the TV rights. But The Silmarillion? That's a clean slate, all his. Getting that one's going to be a slog."
Dunn nodded. "The Silmarillion—if we can grab it, great. If not, no sweat. It's a beast to adapt anyway."
Manola nodded, then perked up with a smile. "Oh, I saw the Juno cut. Ms. Portman's got a shot at some awards."
Dunn shook his head. "I know her acting—it's still a bit green. But with some maneuvering, an Oscar nod should be doable."
It was the "9/11" year, and war was looming.
Next year's Oscars pulling off at all would be a miracle. The picks would lean hard into political correctness—Black actors for Best Actress and Actor. Juno's feminist streak fit the vibe too.
"But…" Manola hesitated, glancing at Dunn. "I've heard some rumors."
"Rumors?"
"Some industry vet's unhappy about the Oscars getting too young and kid-friendly—especially with you and Ms. Portman as poster children. You nabbed Best Adapted Screenplay last year; she got Best Supporting Actress. Word is, next Oscars might shake things up."
"Industry vet? The Academy wouldn't float that kind of talk!" Dunn paused, then it clicked. His eyes sharpened. "Wait—Kirk Douglas?"
Manola shook her head. "Just hearsay. You've got the connections—dig into it."
Dunn snorted, unimpressed. "The tide's the tide—he can't control the Oscars! With political correctness in full swing, A Beautiful Mind is this year's frontrunner."
"But what about Ms. Portman? Even if Juno doesn't snag her Best Actress, she deserves a nomination. She shouldn't lose a shot over outside noise."
"Relax, we'll deal with it after Juno drops, closer to awards season. No rush."
Dunn's face was calm, but his vibe turned chilly. "I'd love to see some old-timer try to stir up a storm!"