Three new trailers had arrived—it felt like an entire life unfolding. One could say it ironically, yet the three films climbing in tight succession hit hard. What remained unfinished over time hung suspended: first came the story of Spirit, then the tale of Narnia—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. As the buzz kept running, The Polar Express was slated for release in the first week of December, competing cleanly with Antz, Jeffrey Katzenberg's first installment, which he chose to release in December 1998, alongside The Polar Express, with a December–January production calendar—just enough time to recoup the budget.
--I'm not in charge of that. —Billy replied, returning Jeffrey Katzenberg's handshake; it was a simple idea.
--I know you're not in charge of it. —Jim handles all of that. —Billy added. —I think The Polar Express also has Pixar's approval; that's what Randall says.—
--Well, it is what it is. —Jeffrey sighed; now wasn't the time to fight over trivialities. Disney's blockade with The Prince of Egypt had been a real problem, along with Tarzan, which had broken the simpler molds. One long sigh—it had taken just enough to earn a little, and they hoped December would give way to Antz, as a stand-alone; what a clash it would be. Now it was about thinking through December as a whole, closing out a space, a slight dip. Nothing superstitious—just recognizing that Disney already had the bandwidth to release two to three films a year, while Billy was putting out four to six, a calendar packed without gaps. So, by decision, they consulted with Lux Animation to determine the best timing to organize the schedule.
--These are two different matters. —Billy said. —But I can help; you know how it is: acquiring film rights. I always need high-quality pictures to do the work, building and building a library.—
Billy was certain. For some time now, Jeffrey had been trying to get into his company, always presenting himself as indispensable, dangling profits, but Billy knew a shark like that—invest little, earn a lot. With Disney's support gone, problems were coming from every angle. One of them was the full weight of responsibility when a company failed. Take Spielberg's outfit, for instance—it was a black hole: it made money, but it spent just as much, very outdated.
What could be done?
Since DreamWorks emerged, certain things have been clear and steady: Amistad, Men in Black (a co-production with Lux Animation and Amblin), The Peacemaker, Mouse Hunt, Deep Impact, Paulie: the Talkative Parrot, Small Soldiers, and Saving Private Ryan.
--We want to double the number of films in a year. —Jeffrey said, for some time, he had been tailoring revenue to his needs—they were averaging the bare minimum.
--Just bring the projects. —Billy replied; he already knew, almost by chance, about these projects.
Billy laughed inwardly; the desperation in his voice amused him—this from the man who once spoke with a certain arrogance, claiming he would need no one, relying on his money and his way of being.
--I mean, I don't think failure matters. That's what the job entails. You can follow my recommendation: salary caps, specialized actors, maybe one or two marquee signings, cut costs—and if you want, ask me. I think experimentation is a good idea. Success or failure doesn't matter; only by thinking about success can you reach it. And if you picture it somehow, you already know how to get there. It may be imperfect, but in a way, it's what we have. —Billy replied.
Jeffrey didn't like to gamble with his money. He was stingy—worse than any trader—he wanted a full return, over anyone, even at others' expense. But when it came to work, he gave everything he had, even if it meant spending entire weeks at it, from dawn to dusk, without rest.
***
Spirit was a film that explored—if only as a minimal premise—how human characters might take the form of an animal and tell what people themselves long to express.
--It's strange you didn't come with a partner. —Winona remarked.
She had bought the rights to a script and scaled down the whole project to make room for her next film. From Billy, she had learned that difficulties demanded bold moves, and when she saw the opportunity, she acquired the production rights to Shakespeare in Love. It was a delightful way to take on the role, and she wanted Billy to act alongside her—it felt poetically right, not overly simple.
--Well, Monica is in Paris. —Billy replied, thinking about the film already in production and his reluctant involvement. A single emblem—and that emblem spoke plainly.
--I have a script, and I want your company to produce it. It's one of those films that can be exactly what we've always hoped for. —Winona said. For some time, she had held onto the idea—an idea for a film that was simply what she needed for the Oscars. The independent hundred would define the margin of the next slate; among them, she planned to position herself, living in Europe, to make the most of it all.
--You bought the production rights? —Billy asked.
--Yes, I did. Since I've been with you, I realized that when you want something, you have to do it yourself. So I bought the rights, spoke with the director, and made an offer that wouldn't unsettle anyone. —Winona replied. Now sheltered under the power of capital, her involvement was straightforward: she began with small supporting roles in more commercial projects that generated enough money to make modest investments. And that was the minimum.
--So you want to produce it. That can be done. —Billy said.
--I have Miramax behind me, and I don't want to work with Harvey Weinstein, even as I want to make the film with you. I just think we have a lot to say already. And you and I are the kind of pairing people need. —Winona replied.
Billy was somewhat surprised
...