Although Roy Disney had already taken a swing at Michael Eisner, that didn't an Eisner would imdiately pack his bags and leave Disney.
After decades of running the company, Eisner had basically turned parts of Disney into his own personal fiefdom. He owned Disney shares himself, had allies among the shareholders, and even had considerable control over the board of directors. One of his "good brothers" was none other than independent director George Mitchell.
And Mitchell wasn't so nobody—he was a U.S. politician, a mber of the Democratic Party.
A lawyer by training, he'd worked under Carter and Clinton, served as Senate Majority Leader, and later as the U.S. Special Envoy to Northern Ireland. After Gore's loss, he'd left politics to lay low for a while, only to glide smoothly through the revolving door into the boards of global giants like FedEx, Unilever, and, of course, Disney.
With a guy like that around… well, let's just say Roy Disney's attempt earlier that year to launch an audit of Eisner was forcibly shut down by Mitchell himself, who declared that "an unfounded audit would negatively impact Disney's stock price and be irresponsible to shareholders."
Once he dropped a hat that big, unless Roy Disney was secretly sitting in the Republican camp, there wasn't much he could do. The FBI, CIA, or IRS weren't going to show up and haul anyone off.
So—
As long as Roy Disney couldn't land a fatal blow, the internal war within Disney was destined to be long and ssy.
And since Eisner wasn't about to die on the spot, there was no way a corporate tyrant like him would just sit there and bleed. Wounded beasts bite hardest. He'd lash out at anything he saw as a threat.
And sure enough, in his eyes, Iger—the man who'd dared to strike at him—deserved to be crushed.
When Iger caught that cruel grin spreading across Eisner's face, he knew what it ant: Eisner was launching a counterattack.
And this counterattack wasn't even subtle—it was an open, calculated move.
After all, overseeing company production and daily operations was literally the COO's job.
So if Eisner used Iger's own job description to trap him, who could possibly complain?
"Alright, Michael. I'll look into it right after this eting."
Iger accepted Eisner's jab with a smile.
But before his words had even finished echoing, Eisner's grin widened even more.
"Then let's adjourn," he said lightly.
"Move quickly. I want to see results by the end of this year."
He rose smoothly, smile frozen in place, and strode out of the room without looking back.
Iger, still smiling, gathered his notes and followed him out—but once he shut the door to his own office, his expression darkened.
With a loud bang, he slamd his notebook against the desk.
He sank back in his chair, exhaling twice, trying to purge the frustration boiling inside him—or maybe just cursing Eisner in silence. After a long pause, he grabbed the phone and dialed an internal number.
"Notify the ABC Entertainnt executives—eting in my office at five."
ABC had two headquarters: one in Manhattan, one in Burbank.
The forr handled broadcasting—New York being Arica's economic heart, after all. The latter ran entertainnt—naturally based in Hollywood, the global capital of showbiz.
By 5 p.m., every available ABC Entertainnt exec had arrived at Disney HQ. When Iger saw the packed eting room, he didn't waste ti with pleasantries.
He told them straight: the Disney overlord wanted a new variety show, and fast.
The room went dead silent.
Everyone knew that was... complicated.
"Bob, you ca up through ABC yourself—you know it takes ti to develop a variety show."
One of his VPs of Entertainnt, relaxed since they were all insiders, spoke frankly:
"Normally, from project approval to air date takes at least ten months. It's already April—ten months later, that's next year. It's just not feasible."
"Yeah, and there's also the business side to consider," another exec added.
"Our broadcast schedule for this year was locked last year. To insert sothing new, we'd have to bump sothing old off the schedule."
"And those old shows already have advertisers. Contracts, deposits... If we cancel them suddenly, we'll owe money."
Running a TV network was complicated—shows didn't just pop up because soone snapped their fingers.
Especially variety shows.
Sure, Arican networks used subscription models, but the real lifeblood wasn't subscription fees—it was ad revenue.
And ad deals took ti. You had to convince advertisers your show would blow up before they'd invest. That was why even the fastest show developnt cycles took ten months.
Without ad deals, no project.
Without a project, no show.
And since every show needed sponsors, squeezing a new one into the yearly lineup was basically asking for chaos.
But—
"I know it's tough," Iger said, smiling. "But the Chairman has spoken. We do it."
"Don't worry—today, I'm just asking whether we have any reliable show ideas in-house we can develop. Ideally, sothing guaranteed to catch fire."
"I'll handle the rest personally."
That last part seed to ease everyone.
If the boss was taking full responsibility, then all they had to do was throw ideas at him.
Folders opened. ABC's creative vault ca spilling out.
"Bob, we've got one idea in our concept library called Who's Your Daddy?" said one exec.
Who's Your Daddy?—a massive "find your real parent" reality show.
Inspired by The Maury Show, that infamous talk show which, in later years, Chinese netizens would dub "North Arica's premier paternity drama."
Because lodrama and gossip always sold, ABC's creative team thought it might work.
But Iger shook his head.
"The Maury Show has been running twelve years. Its audience is loyal. There might be room in the market for another, but ABC doesn't need it."
Next idea.
"Bob, a famous New York real estate developer wants to make a business reality show called The Apprentice."
"NBC's interested, but no deal's been finalized, so…"
"We steal it?" soone said.
Iger sighed. "Yeah, I've heard of The Apprentice. Great concept—but not for us. That developer isn't exactly easy to deal with. If he slls our interest, he'll sit down and 'negotiate' us to death. And the one thing we don't have right now is ti."
Another idea down.
A third exec stepped up. "I've got one: Extre Makeover."
A ho renovation show that helps people in need—usually with so tear-jerking backstory.
That kind of emotional hook always worked with Western audiences.
Iger nodded. "That could work. We could even start it imdiately. But its ratings won't reach Millionaire levels. And right now, we need sothing that can."
The room fell silent again.
The first VP who spoke earlier gave a helpless chuckle. "Bob, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire is a once-in-a-generation show. We can try, but if you're asking for sothing on that level..."
He shrugged. "That's going to be... difficult."
He was being polite.
Millionaire was a phenonon. One show, airing three tis a week, still pulling 30 million viewers per episode? That wasn't television—that was witchcraft.
It was a miracle, on par with Star Wars.
And Star Wars, everyone knew, was impossible to replicate.
Except... wait. Maybe it wasn't?
Because just three years ago, Hollywood had started buzzing about a project that people were calling "the next Star Wars."
Its na? Harry Potter.
And as soon as soone ntioned that, the ABC VP suddenly pictured a certain beaver-like little girl popping her head out of a portal and waving at him.
He blinked, startled, then slamd the table.
"Hey! How's Arican Idol doing lately?"
The room jumped at the sudden outburst.
Then soone shouted back, "Twenty million! Season two averages twenty million viewers!"
"Okay! Thanks!" the VP said, then turned to Iger, eyes gleaming.
"Bob—twenty million viewers per episode. You can live with that, right?"
"If so—why don't we develop a singing competition? Like Arican Idol, but with our own twist."
"We hold auditions across all fifty states, let drears and singers co forward."
"Winners from state rounds advance to the national competition."
"Top three from each state get to compete nationally."
"And then—the best 150 singers battle it out for the championship."
"And during the competition, we can also have the contestants tell stories, weaving emotional monts into the show. For example, they could talk about their grandparents' love story, or share how their parents fell in love."
"Or maybe tell the story of an uncle or sister chasing their dreams?"
"Bob, what do you think of calling the show The Voice of Arica?"
Whoosh—
The huge conference room erupted in gasps of amazent—
"Oh—Sxxt! That idea actually sounds doable!"
"Damn—how did you even co up with that—this concept practically brings in sponsors on its own!"
"Ohhh—look, I can't guarantee it'll beat Millionaire, but surpassing Arican Idol shouldn't be hard, as long as we allow minors to compete and bring Isabella on board. The first part's easy for us—Disney already has experience with the Mickey Mouse Club—and the second part's even easier, because…"
The speaker turned toward Iger. "Bob, it's up to you."
Exactly.
If miracles can be copied, then why not let the person who copied a miracle do it again?
Uh…
Twisted phrasing, but the aning's simple:
Right now, the hottest new variety show in Arica is Arican Idol.
Season one launched last sumr, averaging around 11 million viewers per episode.
Season two started earlier this year and is still running, with average viewership around 20 million.
Judging by that growth, talent shows are the future of television.
And since "talent show = future," shouldn't ABC just jump on the train?
They even have a ready-made IP—
Their ally Isabella Haywood just made The World's Voice last year!
And The Voice brand clearly has more influence than Arican Idol—
Box office? Exploded. DVDs? Sold out.
Who doesn't know her na now?
Over ten million people have paid for Isabella's work!
anwhile, Arican Idol's peak viewership barely tops 20 million!
If Idol's numbers can't even beat Isabella's paying fans, then turning The Voice into a variety show practically guarantees it'll crush Arican Idol—with eyes closed!
And if The Voice can succeed that easily—
Then all their current problems just… disappear, don't they?
Eisner wants to slap Iger around?
Heh—
With The Voice in hand, who's slapping who isn't so certain anymore.
Once this thought hit, Robert Iger's eyes lit up.
He waved decisively—eting over.
But when he returned to his office and reached for the phone to call Isabella, his hand paused.
Not just because of the ti difference—midnight on the U.S. West Coast ant dawn in the U.K., and Isabella was definitely asleep—but because he realized the plan could be improved.
After thinking it through, he turned to his assistant:
"AOL, Ti, and Turner Broadcasting—aren't they trying to sell Warner Music?"
"Uh… yes!"
The sudden question startled the assistant, but he quickly nodded. "Those three are hoping to weaken the Ross family's power in the conglorate by selling off Warner assets."
"The latest word is that Vivendi Universal's vice chairman, Edgar Bronfman Jr., might be the buyer—planning to pay around $3 billion in cash to acquire Warner Music."
"Of course, Barry yer's against selling."
"That's why they're delaying Isabella's mini album until after the Oscars."
"They want to boost performance first, to show shareholders the value of the music division, so they'll take their side."
Iger knew exactly what Barry yer was thinking.
So what he wanted to know was—how could the world's most notorious spender afford to buy Warner Music?
"Where's Bronfman Jr. getting the money?"
"Can he sell his Vivendi Universal shares?"
"No," said the assistant. "Bronfman Jr. is still Vivendi's largest single shareholder. He can't just cash out, and Vivendi itself can't buy Warner Music—it's already drowning in debt. And if Universal Music rged with Warner, it would trigger antitrust scrutiny."
"So now the rumor is, Bronfman Jr. plans to form a separate investnt group to acquire Warner Music, with major funding from Boston. That way, he controls Warner without triggering an investigation."
"Not a bad idea—but it'll take ti."
"At best, he'll have the money ready by next year."
"Boston" here wasn't just a city—it was shorthand for the Boston financial consortium.
One of Arica's top ten financial groups, still powerful even if no longer dominant.
And a decade ago, they'd been part of the deal where Ti sold DC the park rights to Six Flags and dumped the loss on Warner—making $175 million in profit from it.
So…
Bronfman Jr.'s money for buying Warner Music was coming from that Boston group?
Wasn't this just Ti, Turner, and AOL trying to repeat their old bloodbath?
The realization made Iger's eyes glint.
He ground his teeth, then grinned.
"So what do you think about partnering with Barry yer?"
"Disney doesn't have a pop music catalog. We could outsource the music work to Warner."
"Let Warner be our music provider."
"That way, yer boosts his performance numbers."
"And once Warner Music's performance improves, its sale price changes. That gives yer a chance to help the Ross family keep what the last patriarch built."
"And anwhile, it'll make sponsorship and investor recruitnt way easier for us, right?"
"Isabella's under contract with Warner, she can't freely endorse outside brands, but…"
"How about bringing Coca-Cola in as The Voice's main sponsor?"
"Coke already holds the Harry Potter licensing rights."
"They throw in a hundred million today, and we start production tomorrow!"
"With them onboard, we don't even need an investnt summit!"
Disney's only real weak spot in the entertainnt world was pop music.
Because Walt Disney's guiding principle was "creativity above all."
They wanted to own every creative property.
But pop music is ruled by talent, not corporate control. Top songwriters and singers are practically companies themselves, never willing to hand Disney their song rights.
So when Disney realized music couldn't be monopolized, they stopped bothering with that business.
aning—if they wanted to launch The Voice, they needed a music partner.
In theory, that partnership could be with anyone.
They didn't need to own the rights—so who cared which label they used?
But if you're going to pick soone, why not pick your own allies?
People who'd actually want the show to succeed.
And besides…
Iger's real boss was Warren Buffett.
He wasn't afraid of the Boston consortium.
His assistant nodded along, seeing the plan's logic.
Iger felt imdiately lighter.
He grabbed the phone and dialed Barry yer.
As soon as the "Hello" ca through, Iger laughed. "Barry yer? Call daddy!"
"…"
Barry yer froze on the other end.
"Are you insane, Robert Iger!"
Still at his Warner office, yer slamd his desk and shouted, "You called just to make say that? You've got crap for brains!"
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