A Four-Billion-Dollar Rumor

For days after the Oscars, MGM's wins remained the lead story in entertainment coverage. Its films had collected twelve awards, and even the nomination count gave columnists plenty to argue about. They praised its resurgence, debated the close races, and asked whether a studio with Ethan Hawthorne's reach had become too difficult for the Academy to ignore.

Ethan knew how much work had gone into the campaigns. Every serious contender had publicists and screening schedules; MGM had paid for both. That was different from buying a vote, whatever the angriest message boards suggested. He could not measure how much goodwill the company's size had bought him, and he was not inclined to pretend otherwise.

La Vie en Rose benefited immediately. The film was still playing on a limited number of screens when exhibitors began asking for it. MGM expanded it to more than 3,300 theaters and gave the picture one last chance to earn before its run ended.

On the Dragon Ball set, a very different audience gathered during lunch. Jay Chou had finished his scenes and would leave that afternoon. He sat with a keyboard and performed Qi Li Xiang for the crew. Most of them did not understand the Mandarin lyrics, but they listened to the melody and applauded when he stopped.

Crystal Liu tilted her head. "I like it. I still lose a few words when you sing."

Jay covered his face. Ethan laughed. "People recognize him the moment the song starts. That's worth something."

"Or maybe I forget the words and make it sound deliberate," Jay said.

"How did the album do?"

"Around three and a half million across Asia," Jay replied, trying not to look too pleased with himself. "Not a bad year."

"That's more than 'not bad' in this market. Ever think about pushing harder in the US?"

Jay shook his head. "I tried a Las Vegas show back in 2002. I had this picture in my mind of a huge room and strangers shouting my name. Instead, most of the audience already knew me from home. I was grateful they came, but it taught me what the gap looks like."

"The language?"

"Partly. A great melody can travel, but selling an entire career across markets takes more than one melody. Radio, promotion, arrangements, the people who decide what to play. I haven't found the way through all that."

Ethan thought of Jackie Chan and Jet Li, who had built American film careers without pretending the transition was easy. "Somebody has to try long enough to open the door."

"Maybe. I'm doing well where I am. I don't want to spend years chasing a door that may stay shut. Another artist might choose differently."

He said it without contempt for either audience. Ethan respected the calculation, even if he would have made a different one. By afternoon Jay was on his way to the airport. They would meet again for reshoots or the premiere, whichever came first.

The long shoot left Ethan worn down. He asked his father about rest and recovery, and got a recommendation for a yoga instructor. Ethan also called Han, who knew a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine connected to the tonic Ethan had used before. Han suggested an appointment instead of treating a bottle as a substitute for sleep. Ethan had reason to visit that region soon anyway: postproduction on The Meg was nearing its next milestone, and he wanted to see how the associated facility expansion was progressing. He made no plans to put either visit ahead of medical sense.

By late March, La Vie en Rose had completed two weeks of wide release and finished its North American run around $85 million. Several overseas territories remained open, but its strong European showing suggested a worldwide total approaching $200 million. For a biographical drama without the action of MGM's tentpoles, the return was formidable.

MGM had otherwise kept its promise to leave a stretch of the theatrical calendar to smaller distributors. Disney and Warner had not rushed to fill the space either; they released a few modest pictures and held their larger fights for later. The pause made the streaming side of Ethan's empire look even busier.

Lionheart launched four productions in March: Daredevil, Rick and Morty, Alone, and Family Feud. The release schedule was deliberately crowded. Paramount, Fox, Sony, and Universal were pressing for a decision on their stakes in the platform. More viewers and more visible hits could change the price before Ethan signed anything.

Daredevil reached comic readers first. Its fights had weight, and Hell's Kitchen looked like a neighborhood where every victory left damage behind. The hero's powers mattered, but the show did not treat them as a substitute for character. Some viewers compared its pace favorably with Smallville, whose audience had been waiting years to see Clark Kent fully become the hero they knew.

The 2003 Daredevil film returned to online debate as well. Fans on forums and early video-sharing sites held scenes side by side and argued over tone. Ethan did not need the film to fail a second time for the series to succeed. He needed the series to stand on its own, and the response suggested it had.

Jessica Jones, Iron Fist, and Luke Cage each appeared during the first season. They were brief introductions, not promises that every character would carry a show. But the response gave Marvel and MGM enough confidence to begin separate development for all three.

Rick and Morty drew even more noise. The silhouettes of its central pair invited comparisons with Back to the Future before viewers heard a line of dialogue. Then the series took that familiarity somewhere stranger: science fiction, family resentment, tenderness, cruelty, jokes that ran too far and occasionally found their way back. Its references ranged across horror, space adventure, cartoons, and games. Not everyone loved the same episodes, but people who rarely watched animation were talking about it.

Some early admirers were already comparing it to The Simpsons and South Park. Ethan thought that was premature. Building one season was not the same as sustaining years of inventive work. Lionheart's writers knew the difference better than anyone. The room had grown from three writers to six, then eight, then eleven; after more than a year, they had produced fifteen episodes.

The process should become more efficient in a second season, but he had no intention of cutting the team to save money. The show's future depended on ideas that could survive the pressure of becoming a hit. He also knew, from the other timeline he remembered, that writers shaped in a room like this could later help make projects as different as Loki. Keeping talent mattered as much as owning the title.

Merchandise was already moving through Twin Star Entertainment and Hasbro. The show cost more than an ordinary animated series to write, but its earnings did not stop at subscriptions. Alone found viewers through its unfamiliar survival format. Family Feud, with Steve Harvey hosting, gave the platform a lighter draw and an audience that might never click on Daredevil.

Four releases in a month made Lionheart's numbers look less like a single-hit accident. Ethan knew the studios watching the platform would draw the same conclusion. Better yet, the public could see the work for itself. An investor deck could claim a library was valuable; a screen full of programs people actually wanted was harder to dismiss.

In mid-April, the arrangement finally became public. Lionheart, Paramount, Fox, Sony, and Universal issued a joint statement: the four studios had taken stakes and would make films, television series, and unscripted titles from their catalogs available to the service under the new agreements. Rights and windows still had to be cleared title by title. The practical effect, once the libraries arrived, would be a catalog several times larger than the one Lionheart had carried alone.

The announcement explained the abrupt end of the studios' campaign against MGM. It did not disclose what each company had paid. Industry chatter nevertheless put the combined transaction in the neighborhood of $4 billion or more. Ethan refused to confirm a number. The actual consideration was spread across cash, rights, and negotiated terms, and he intended to let his rivals keep guessing until the filings forced clarity.