Chapter 132: Who Dares to Rival

The King of Comedy?

At this moment, no industry giant dared to overlook this company any longer. Burying one's head in the sand was pointless; it was time to devise a serious strategy. Warner Bros. was already beyond salvation; Steve Ross should be praying to God, for the probability of him being shown the door was astronomically high. It was a pathetic situation, really—they were planning to go toe-to-toe with *Star Wars*, and unless they brought out Superman, anything else would just be cannon fodder.

George Lucas felt incredibly fortunate that he hadn't crossed this kid. If they had actually clashed, Lucas wouldn't even have tears left to shed. Everyone had different production budgets; it didn't matter if your box office was higher if you didn't look at *how much* higher. Given the current trend, the gap would be negligible. Hollywood had its own calculus: once the first week's box office was out, as long as the film's word-of-mouth didn't collapse, the final figures were essentially locked in.

And the word-of-mouth for *Beverly Hills Cop*? It could only be described as overwhelming. Hollywood's film studios were beginning to feel dizzy. Damn it, three films, three films with box office earnings over one hundred million—could you be any more absurd? Let whoever wanted to court disaster do so; many had already backed down. Rather than fighting him, it was better to humbly study his methods.

United Artists was in a bit of a bind. Although *Home Alone* wasn't directed by William White, they didn't have the courage to compete with him either. Seeing the film United Artists planned to pit against him, William couldn't help but laugh. *Heaven's Gate*? It was a fitting title—United Artists was indeed about to be sent to heaven. In Hollywood history, this film was infamous: a production budget of nearly fifty million, a celebrated Oscar-winning director, and a star-studded cast. The result, however, was tragic. With a box office of less than three million, it single-handedly sank the studio.

In that era, final cut authority rested solely with the great directors, especially for art-house films; these directors would never permit outside interference. The director was certainly talented, but unfortunately, the audience couldn't appreciate his mode of expression and truly couldn't grasp what he was trying to say.

"Lucas, what on earth is this guy doing? The box office is already stellar; why waste more money?"

"Spielberg, I think we underestimated his ambition. Making money doesn't seem to be his ultimate goal."

"That is the only logical explanation. How are the overseas markets?"

"Sweeping everything. There isn't a single rival. London is slightly ahead of us, but elsewhere, there really is no competition."

"Lucas, next time we should be bolder. This simultaneous release with London was excellent; we should aim for that in the future."

"Hmm, I will seriously consider your suggestion. Actually, I have some regrets; *Raiders of the Lost Ark* should have been a collaboration with William White. Now, that bunch of idiots only cares about short-term gains."

In truth, this was nonsense. Even if William had invested, he would never have gone all out on advertising. Subsequent versions had nothing to do with him, and the merchandising was the studio's benefit. Since William had no grudge against the Almighty Dollar, how could he possibly work to someone else's advantage?

A valuation of five hundred million US dollars. That was the figure provided by Morgan Stanley; if a total acquisition were required, there were too many uncertain variables. This was the value of White Pictures.

"I have that much money now?" William smiled at the news. Clearly, he had no intention of an IPO. Whether he sought financing didn't concern the public; what the American people cared about was this legend of wealth. This wasn't the story of some rich heir; he had built the film company with his own two hands. Adding his software company, his game console company, and his newly emerging comic book company, calculated by those in the know, William White’s personal wealth was approaching two billion dollars.

Two billion in this era was a terrifying number. No public figure known to the masses had ever reached such heights. The Hunt family could have, but they had botched it; their loan amounts had long since exceeded their assets. William White, however, had almost no debt; these were two entirely different matters. Not only were the American public stunned, but the major financial consortiums were also dumbfounded. They were well aware that William White had just made a killing in gold futures, netting at least two hundred million dollars.

Faced with such a rapidly rising monster, the consortiums were in a dilemma. Suppress him? Devour him? Don't be surprised; this was standard operating procedure for the consortiums. They had been doing it for a hundred years and, of course, intended to keep doing so. The problem was the industry: he had even sold off his only traditional business. Now that he was only messing around in the entertainment industry, could they really build another one to compete?

Official pressure was currently impossible; he was a major donor to the Elephants, and he spent money without hesitation. Who would dare to act recklessly during such a sensitive period? Whose face were they trying to slap? This sudden turn of events left the ten major consortiums feeling disoriented. They had just finished tearing down a Texas family; how could someone even more troublesome appear?

William White’s recklessness was no secret in the upper echelons. If you pushed him to the edge, it would absolutely be a major headache. The consortiums might not fear him, but individual families couldn't afford to be on his radar. Perhaps they could co-opt him? But there was a balance among the consortiums, and they fought each other for interests as well. This guy had managed this much without support; if he were to join one of them, the balance would inevitably be broken.

Among these people, the ones most familiar with William White were undoubtedly the Texas consortium. Regarding the questions from the old guard, the Texas consortium naturally wouldn't commit. In truth, they knew clearly: *Go ahead and mess with him, you idiots. Do you really think his security company is just for show? I have no interest in participating.*

The old men's conversation ended there, yielding no results. Everyone was wary; no one succeeded purely by luck—that was simply unrealistic. William White was well aware of his situation. In a word: speed. He had to accelerate his layout so that those sluggish old men wouldn't have time to stop him.

Faced with the skyrocketing box office, White Pictures was in a frenzy. Their boss wasn't stingy; as long as you put in enough effort, you would certainly receive the corresponding rewards. Eddie Murphy finally breathed a sigh of relief. He had bet correctly this time by not choosing those unreliable scripts.

"Eddie, as a friend, I suggest you improve yourself. Without a breakthrough, this style of performance will last you ten years at most. It won't be as easy to get by after that."

If someone else had said this, Eddie Murphy would surely have dismissed it. But coming from William White, it was different. Although ten years was quite a long time, everyone hoped for a longer artistic life.

"All right, Boss, I'll go take some classes at an acting academy."

"It's not that I'm criticizing you, but Rowan Atkinson has a very solid foundation. He might not show it in the short term, but in the long run, he will definitely surpass you. Look at our crew now—even the supporting roles are of a very high standard."

"Yes, Boss. Although the British are annoying, they certainly have acting talent."

"Hmm, as long as you know. You have plenty of time, and you're not short of money anyway. Just take it slow."