Since Iron Man and Fantastic Four both came from Marvel's stable, after acquiring the rights to Iron Man, Isabella naturally wanted to know how Chris Columbus's Fantastic Four project was going.
As for why she casually brought up Transformers? Simple. In her previous world, those two projects had popped up around the same time.
And let's be honest—Transformers was the one she really wanted.
Heh. Columbus understood that look on her face instantly.
So, catching the mischievous grin on the girl's face, he didn't bother with suspense and dove straight into it.
The first thing he talked about—naturally—was Transformers.
"Back in January this year, Steven officially signed with Hasbro. He got the rights to develop Transformers," Columbus said.
"But he's not starting it right away. Too busy."
"He's got two big fires to put out first."
"First, distribution. You know DreamWorks' ten-year deal with Universal ends this year, so he needs a new partner before it expires."
"Then there's General Electric, which bought Universal. They're trying to keep him, even went as far as talking to his father."
"That made Steven furious. He hates family being dragged into business."
"The second thing is... a split. The DreamWorks trio can't stand each other anymore."
Columbus snorted through his nose and raised an eyebrow at her.
The girl instantly made an okay sign and smiled. She got it.
DreamWorks' distribution problem she already knew about—Warner and Disney had both mentioned it to her.
And as for the studio breaking apart? She'd heard whispers about that in her past life.
DreamWorks might have looked like a luxury ship, with its three brilliant founders from film, animation, and music—but let's not kid ourselves.
People who can build empires don't exactly lack ambition.
On paper, their "clean slate" partnership—nobody bringing in old resources—looked fair.
In reality, though… the film side could pocket profits through directing and producing credits.
The music side could funnel profits through record labels and distribution tricks.
Animation? Well, if it's hand-drawn, the main cost is artists' wages; if it's CGI, it's hardware and modeling.
Meaning: real profit came from merchandising.
And Katzenberg couldn't just put that under his own name, could he? Even Michael Eisner wouldn't dare pull that stunt.
So, yeah—there was your crack in the hull.
Katzenberg was the only one making real money for DreamWorks, but he had to split it with the other two. Naturally, the guy snapped.
Since all three of them were wily old foxes, Isabella knew better than to pick sides. She just nodded cutely and said, "I know Steven's busy, so…"
"Okay, okay," Columbus interrupted, grinning. "I had dinner with him last year around New Year's."
That caught her full attention.
"I told him someone was interested in Transformers—someone who wouldn't star in it herself."
"He said he's seen The Voice, The Game Plan, and Queen Bee. If Queen Bee performs decently, that'll prove Margaret can be a real superstar."
"Then he'll have a screenwriter develop a 'girl and her car' story."
"He already knows you're willing to bet on this, and he thinks it's fun."
"Oh, and he wanted me to tell you he genuinely loves Harry Potter. Purely, without politics."
"Okay, got it!" Isabella beamed. "What about Fantastic Four?"
"Fantastic Four…" Columbus hesitated, watching her reaction.
Seeing her blink in mild worry, he smiled. "Thanks for asking."
"It's going well."
Compared to Transformers, Fantastic Four was smooth sailing.
Last November, right after finishing Prisoner of Azkaban, Columbus met with Constantin Film.
They hit it off. Constantin loved his old script, said it only needed light revision.
Revisions began in early December. By mid-month, they signed the development deal.
The project officially kicked off in early January.
Fast progress too—while they were working on Goblet of Fire, director selection for Fantastic Four had already begun.
Columbus originally wanted Sean Astin (Sam from Lord of the Rings), but Constantin disagreed.
After two months of back-and-forth, in March, they settled on Tim Story as director.
"If all goes well, casting starts this month," Columbus said. "I'm not up to date since I'm here, but in our plan, it's a fast process. I even have some casting ideas. For example, Doctor Doom—I'd like Robert Downey Jr. for that."
"You know Downey, right? Chaplin?"
Of course Isabella knew. Iron Man himself.
In her old world, Downey did return to the MCU later as Doctor Doom.
But the idea that Columbus wanted him for Doom before Iron Man? That was news to her.
"You've already contacted him?"
"I'm not sure. I left that to Bernard—Bernard Eichinger, head of Constantin."
"Call him," Isabella said sweetly. "Tell him not to approach Downey."
"Why?"
"Because I've got a project that might use him."
Columbus frowned, blinking in realization.
Then it hit him. "Isabella, you're not seriously planning to make Iron Man, are you? Making movies isn't that easy."
"I know it's hard," she shrugged, smiling. "But I'm not paying for it. Warner is."
That playful tone made him want to flick her forehead. "It's your money either way! You're taking less for Harry Potter to fund this!"
"Oh, right, I guess that's true~" she said with mock enlightenment.
Columbus sighed. "Talk properly."
"Okay, okay." She giggled. "Chris, I get you're being protective. But I can't stay an actress forever, right? After Hermione, there's not much left for me to play."
"So, if I want to stay in the game, I have to evolve. Why not start early? I'm unstoppable right now anyway—might as well have some fun."
She couldn't tell him she knew Iron Man would be a hit. So she went with the "career shift" excuse instead.
Columbus just stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head with a smile. "You really have a punchable way of phrasing things, you know that? Saying you'll just 'play around' making movies while you're invincible? If other actors heard that—"
"They'd grind their teeth to dust."
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" Isabella spread her hands and tilted her head innocently.
Yeah, she knew she sounded unbearable. But what could she do? She was that good.
As they chatted more, she found out Sean Astin had been his first pick because of The Goonies—a Columbus film.
When he added that Constantin rejected Astin because he was Columbus's guy, Isabella laughed even harder.
Nepotism truly was a global language.
If you start a project, of course you'll hire your own people. Otherwise, what are you doing?
And when investors realize only one "side" controls a project, they panic about losing influence.
So, yeah—same old story: where there are people, there's politics.
Given her close ties with Columbus, her request to keep Downey free was granted immediately.
That night, he summoned his trusted producer Michael Barnathan.
"Call Constantin," he said. "Tell them we're recasting Doctor Doom."
When Bernard Eichinger picked up the phone and heard that Goblet of Fire had started shooting, the busy tone that followed made him sigh.
He stared at his desk phone for a moment, then dialed another number—Gail Berman, president of Fox Broadcasting.
With no real choice, he reported everything he knew.
Berman glanced at her calendar.
April 28. The timing looked perfect.
"Okay," she said. "If Goblet of Fire has started, we can move."
"And since Chris suddenly wants to 'revisit' the casting, we'll make our move through him."
"For step one…"
"Tell Tim Story that Chris wants to replace someone. Ask his opinion. Don't say much—he'll play his part."
Bernard forced a bitter smile.
In that moment, he felt like a marionette on invisible strings.
But then again, without those strings, he'd have been cut loose long ago.
So, after a brief sigh, he did as ordered.
When Tim Story heard that Columbus wanted a recast, he frowned.
After confirming with Eichinger that it seemed like a "last-minute decision," he immediately called Tom Rothman, Fox's chairman and CEO.
He reported everything carefully.
Then, after hanging up, he looked at Eichinger regretfully.
"Sorry, Bernard. My boss says the reason Fox agreed to work with you guys in the first place was because we loved your proposal. We can't accept sudden changes."
Eichinger smiled stiffly. "Really? But Doctor Doom isn't that important, is he? I mean, I personally think a replacement wouldn't matter."
"Doom's the villain! Of course he's important."
"Then maybe call Chris and tell him that yourself? You know he's the lead producer—it's in the contract. I actually rank below him."
"Alright, I'll contact him."
Tim dialed Michael Barnathan's number, waiting for the line to connect, posture tense and polite.
To Eichinger, though, he just looked… pitiful.
Because the truth was, Tim Story—the director of Fantastic Four—was Fox's man through and through.
Or, to put it simply—he was Fox's man.
Before joining the project, Tim Story had made four films in total.
The first two were practice runs, shot on DV, with a combined budget of under $200,000.
But starting with his third film, every project he directed had been backed by Fox.
That third film was Barbershop, starring Ice Cube.
A $12 million budget, grossing $77 million worldwide.
Solid success.
It made him one of Fox's key protégés. His fourth film was a remake of Luc Besson's Taxi. Fox secured the remake rights and invested $25 million in it.
As Fox put it: "We're just testing his potential again."
Of course, Fox hadn't made a big announcement about it.
First, because the Taxi remake hadn't been released yet. Nobody knew if it would bomb or not, and if it did, all that early hype would just make Fox look stupid.
Second, every genius risks being poached. No studio flashes its golden child around before he's officially proven. Look at Christopher Nolan—before Batman Begins exploded, even Warner didn't shower him with media resources. They were afraid someone else would steal their guy.
And really, having big capital behind you? That's a blessing no matter who you are.
In Tim Story's world…
Right now, he was deeply grateful to Fox.
As for why?
Because he was Black.
Yeah—Tim Story was African-American.
Even on a global scale, Black directors were few and far between. So when Fox offered to cultivate him? He basically dropped to his knees in gratitude.
And for Fantastic Four, his assignment was simple:
"Just finish the project properly. As long as the first film makes a profit, you'll direct the sequel too."
That's right.
Tim Story had no clue about Rupert Murdoch's deeper schemes.
But that didn't matter, did it?
A plan, no matter how clever, is worthless if it can't be executed. And the more people who know about it, the greater the chance it fails.
Take the role of a chess piece, for example.
Whether a pawn enters the board depends entirely on whether the player chooses to pick it up.
The player doesn't care how the piece feels.
And the piece… only realizes how many traps it's stepped into once it starts moving upward.
Under Eichinger's watch, Story dialed Barnathan's number.
When Barnathan heard that Story refused to change the casting, his brows instantly furrowed.
Because of the time difference, it was already late at night in London.
Leaning against the headboard, exhausted but sharp-minded, Barnathan asked, "Tim, can you tell me why you don't want to change?"
"Because I think your original plan was perfect."
"But plans can be changed."
"I joined because that plan was perfect."
"…."
Barnathan went silent.
Because, frankly, Story wasn't wrong.
Any experienced director can usually tell if a movie will work even before shooting starts.
Most of the time, when they still go along with trash scripts, it's because they have no power to fight back.
For instance—
When a producer says, "I don't want what you think; I want what I think," most directors are helpless.
Only the big names can slam the table and say no.
Or when investors say, "This is all the money you get—make it work. We're not adding a cent," most directors can only obey.
Only those who've repeatedly proven themselves can threaten to walk out and force a bigger budget.
Like James Cameron.
What? Ordinary people can't fight back at all?
Of course they can!
Story was doing exactly that—fighting back.
Hollywood operates on a "producer-centered" system, sure, but the relationship between a director and a project is still a two-way street. Producers pick directors, and directors can pick projects—unless, of course, they're so broke they'll take anything.
Since everything's negotiable, everything can be renegotiated.
For example—
Facts and reason still count.
If you invite me saying we're making Script A starring Tom Cruise, and then halfway through filming you tell me it's Script B starring Tom Hardy? I'd stab you twice without hesitation.
Yeah, that "A/B script" trick that works in mainland productions? Doesn't fly in Hollywood.
Any producer caught using a fake script to get contracts signed would be blacklisted by the Producers Guild, banned by the Directors Guild, and sued by investors for fraud.
So…
After a few seconds of thought, Barnathan's eyes gleamed. "Okay, I get it."
No more words—he just hung up.
After a pause, he called Eichinger.
Once confirming Eichinger was alone, he asked, "What exactly did you tell Tim?"
"I simply passed along Chris's opinion."
"And he disagreed?"
"He said he has to think about his career. Opportunities for black directors are rare. He doesn't want to gamble with his future."
Lying came naturally to Eichinger.
And his explanation actually made sense.
At the time, Hollywood had only a handful of notable Black directors—Spike Lee (Do the Right Thing), Antoine Fuqua (Training Day), and a few others.
So Story not wanting to risk his hard-earned break? Totally reasonable.
With everyone's motives understandable, Barnathan decided not to overreact.
After a short chat, he hung up and went to sleep.
The next morning, over breakfast, he reported the situation on the West Coast to Chris Columbus.
"You're sure Tim won't go along with our plan?" Columbus asked seriously.
"Yes."
"Tch—told you I didn't want him. Knew he'd be trouble." Columbus muttered. "If it were Sean, this would've been done already."
Barnathan nodded.
This was exactly why people always preferred to work with "their own."
Talent's nice and all, but what's the point if they don't listen?
Still, what's done is done—no point dwelling on it.
For now...
"Let Tim go ahead and invite Robert Downey Jr.," Columbus said after a pause.
"Then call Downey yourself."
"Have him turn it down."
"Okay?"
"No problem," Barnathan said, making an "OK" sign.
He understood perfectly.
If Story wanted to play hardball, fine—let him.
He could invite Downey all he wanted; they could just make sure Downey refused.
Not because Columbus controlled Hollywood or anything.
It's just—Downey was on their side.
He had a great relationship with the legendary director Richard Attenborough.
And Attenborough?
Let's just say, when Spielberg invited him to play John Hammond—the old white-bearded park founder in Jurassic Park—the man didn't even hesitate.
So… sure, go ahead and try inviting Downey. If you actually succeed, I'll admit defeat.
As for why Columbus didn't just fire Tim Story outright? Simple.
Replacing a director was a trivial matter.
Making a huge fuss over something that small?
Not worth it.