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The Lincoln rolled away from JFK and headed toward Rhode Island.
New York traffic did its best to make the journey feel longer than the flight, but Ethan barely looked out the window.
Daniel Chen sat up front with a folder open across his knees.
Martin Wolff had already gone ahead to coordinate the meeting.
Ethan’s phone rang halfway through the drive.
“They said you were in New York,” Warren said.
“I am.
On my way to Pawtucket.”
“Hasbro.”
“That is the idea.”
“You will get them.”
“It would be nice if negotiations worked by confidence alone.”
“Fine.
Then while you are charming toy executives, I will report from the low-budget trenches.”
Warren’s voice shifted from friendly to almost professional, which told Ethan that Bema Hardy was already rubbing off on him.
“AK Films has a deputy general manager starting this week.
Bema found her, vetted her, and scared accounting into liking her.”
“Good.”
“The Sharknado script is underway.
The writer says he can finish a usable draft in about a week.”
“That fast?”
“Apparently writing a tornado full of sharks does not require three years of soul-searching.”
“It requires exactly enough soul to keep the sharks pointed in the right direction.”
Warren laughed.
“He did ask for one thing.
He wants the money, but not the credit.”
“Embarrassed?”
“Deeply.
He said he has relatives.”
“Pay him properly.
If he wants a pseudonym, legal can handle it.”
“Actors are mostly set, except the male lead.
No names you would recognize.
Total acting payroll is under a hundred thousand.”
That was the natural world of tiny productions.
Hollywood was full of people who had spent years chasing the one role that would turn rent anxiety into recognition.
Most never got it.
Some did good work in invisible films.
Some drifted into commercials, guest spots, real estate, restaurants, teaching, or bitterness.
AK Films did not need stars.
It needed people hungry enough to commit to absurdity without winking at the camera too early.
“For the lead,” Ethan said, “try Ryan Reynolds.”
“Ryan Reynolds,” Warren repeated, writing it down.
“Canadian.
Started young.
He had National Lampoon’s Van Wilder earlier this year through Artisan.
It raised his profile, but it did not make him expensive yet.”
“You think he will do Sharknado?”
“If we give him money, a clear pitch, and a reason not to see it as career suicide.”
“Which is?”
“Tell him the movie is bad, but distinctive.
There is a difference between being forgettable and being remembered for surviving something insane.
If he understands the tone and performs well, MGM will keep him in mind for future roles.
Not a blank check.
A real consideration.”
“You want me to promise him a major role?”
“No.
Promise that I will watch his work and that a strong performance puts him on our list.
If there is a fitting supporting part in a bigger project, he gets serious consideration.”
“That sounds much less magical.”
“It also sounds like something a lawyer will let us say.”
“Noted.”
“Director?”
“Still searching.”
“Try Keenen Ivory Wayans.”
Warren whistled.
“Scary Movie?”
“Yes.
He understands parody and timing.
He may reject it because Sharknado is not exactly elegant, but make the call.
If he passes, AK chooses someone who can shoot fast and stay on budget.”
“Got it.”
The car slowed.
Daniel glanced back.
“We’re here.”
Hasbro’s headquarters rose ahead in Pawtucket, clean and corporate, a long way from the sun-baked MGM lot but no less important.
Toys looked innocent from the outside.
Inside, they were brands, licensing, manufacturing, shelf space, holiday warfare, and childhood memory turned into cash.
Daniel stepped out first and opened Ethan’s door.
Martin Wolff waited near the entrance beside a man with glasses and the calm weight of family-company authority.
“Boss,” Martin said, “this is Alan Hassenfeld, Hasbro’s chairman and chief executive.”
Ethan moved quickly, both hands reaching for the handshake.
“Mr.
Hassenfeld.
Thank you for seeing us.”
“Mr.
Hawthorne,” Hassenfeld said warmly.
“After the MGM acquisition, I have to admit I was curious.
Hollywood has been talking about you.”
“I hope not all of it is defamatory.”
“Only the interesting parts.”
They shared the polite laugh that opened expensive conversations.
Martin had done good work.
In barely two weeks, he had turned a cold target into a meeting with the top of the company. New chapters come out on g.com first.
That did not happen by accident.
Inside, the tour was brief.
No one pretended they were there to admire conference rooms.
Hasbro wanted to know whether MGM could turn Transformers into a live-action event.
MGM wanted the rights before another studio realized how much money was waiting inside those machines.
The success of Spider-Man had changed the temperature of the room.
Every company with a recognizable property was now asking the same question: if a comic-book hero could swing through Manhattan and print hundreds of millions, what else could be reborn on a big enough screen?
Transformers was not just a cartoon.
It was a toy line with generations of emotional memory attached.
That made it dangerous.
If the film looked cheap, it would not merely fail.
It would damage the brand.
Hassenfeld said exactly that once the meeting settled into the real issues.
“The audience for Transformers is global,” he said.
“Children know it.
Adults remember it.
But a poor live-action version could hurt the property more than no movie at all.
Can current digital effects support what you want to do?”
“That is our central concern too,” Ethan said.
“This cannot be a man in a metal suit pretending to be a robot.
If we do this, it has to be an effects-driven film with serious technical investment.”
“How serious?”
“MGM is prepared to contractually commit to a visual-effects and digital-production spend at a level appropriate for a tentpole.
We are modeling as much as one hundred million dollars dedicated to effects-heavy production and post needs if the project requires it.”
The Hasbro side shifted.
Ethan had their attention now.
Hassenfeld’s eyes sharpened.
He knew Spider-Man’s reported production cost.
He knew what a commitment like that meant, or at least what MGM wanted him to believe it meant.
“That is a significant promise.”
“Transformers needs to look like the future arrived early.
Anything less wastes the brand.”
For a moment, the room warmed.
Then Hassenfeld placed the second card on the table.
“There is also the licensing fee.
Given the strength of the brand and last year’s performance in animation and merchandising, Hasbro would like a twenty percent increase over the base fee currently under discussion.”
Martin Wolff did not move.
Daniel Chen did not move.
Ethan smiled as if he had expected the punch.
Of course Hasbro wanted more.
Everyone wanted more when the rights were in their hands.
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I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.