Chapter 59: The One Who Covets Marvel

Looking at the stack of comics in his hand, William White couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion. Whether it was Marvel or DC, these were undoubtedly treasures that made anyone’s mouth water. It was strange, really—DC had done an excellent job adapting their comics, while Marvel remained largely quiet. DC had Superman, didn’t Marvel have Captain America? DC had Batman, and Marvel had Spider-Man.

He remembered hearing comic fans in his previous life suggest that it would be best if Marvel acquired DC, sparking an Avengers vs. DC crossover—the kind of intellectual property that would make a fortune. But, truth be told, these people weren’t true comic fans. If such a collaboration had real value, the two companies would have joined forces long ago. One simply needed to understand Hollywood’s operational model: the movie studios here were little more than empty sacks carrying rice—they didn’t have funds of their own. Every time a major production rolled around, countless fools would line up to throw money at them.

Strange, isn’t it? They’d been traumatized by big productions—think Pearl Harbor, Windtalkers, or the infamous Heaven’s Gate—each a bizarre disaster that could single-handedly bankrupt a studio. Don’t be fooled by legendary directors—when Titanic was released, its first week’s box office was so dismal the company was ready to close its doors, and James Cameron was prepared to go back to driving trucks. If not for phenomenal word-of-mouth, yet another giant would have fallen to the curse of big-budget films.

Shawshank Redemption—wasn’t that an iconic film? Yet its box office results were abysmal. If not for video rentals, the studio behind it would have gone under. The Silence of the Lambs—critically acclaimed, a box office smash, and Oscar winner—yet even that studio collapsed before dawn.

After so many painful lessons, Hollywood’s model shifted to crowdfunding. The studios would provide a script, a director, and distribution, handling the production logistics. Investors would put in money as they saw fit—one million, ten million, whatever they could afford. At its peak, capital from all over the globe flooded Hollywood, and the major studios quickly realized they could reap steady profits without taking on risk.

Of course, each investor had their own motives—some wanted to make money, some to promote their brands, others to boost a star’s profile. And yes, some had ulterior motives involving certain celebrities—a public secret in Hollywood. If you had enough cash, Hollywood became your private playground.

Initially, European capital invested heavily, only to be burned and retreat to their own markets. Then came the Japanese, buying up everything in sight. Hollywood films of the 1980s were saturated with Japanese cultural elements. As for profitability—those naïve investors never even considered it; they were simply fleeced.

Chinese investors joined in, but they were far smarter. They weren’t interested in foreign actresses—there was nothing to be done about that, like tossing a toothpick into a chopstick holder, unless one was particularly gifted. The Chinese preferred tangible assets, so the theater chains went to them. Real estate was always the top business for the Chinese—“one shop feeds three generations”—a testament to their obsession with commercial property.

American theaters were still lucrative, but Americans favored cross-industry ventures, leading to all kinds of reckless investments. Apart from Sumner Redstone’s successful transformation, everyone else seemed to have been wiped out. If you owned a decent theater chain in America without much bank debt, it was truly a fine business—yet Americans still managed to mess up something so simple.

Even without Chinese capital, Hollywood still had to court China. For a long time, Japan was the world’s second-largest box office market, but after China surpassed them, the Japanese gave up the race. It was only a matter of time before China replaced America as the top box office market. If it weren’t for the exploitative revenue-sharing ratio, Hollywood might have moved there already.

Japanese elements were often seamlessly integrated into films, but Chinese elements were awkwardly shoehorned in. This was likely due to arrogance and prejudice—whenever a Chinese city appeared in a film, it was invariably depicted as dirty and chaotic. Look closely and you’ll see that scenes involving China are always rendered in drab, gray tones. Many so-called “Chinese” characters weren’t even Chinese—some weren’t even Asian, just Koreans playing the part.

Granted, Koreans were also unfairly portrayed—just watch “2 Broke Girls” and you’ll understand. If the boss in that show had been cast as Chinese, the series would have been blacklisted. This portrayal didn’t reflect reality; there were fewer Koreans than Chinese in America, but they were much more united.

Another notable trait: Koreans would risk everything for money. The Chinese valued harmony in business; if robbed by African Americans, as long as it wasn’t excessive, they’d simply chalk it up as a loss and move on. Koreans, on the other hand, might open fire over a pack of gum.

The chaos in Los Angeles during the 1980s was triggered when the wife of a Korean store owner shot a Black girl. Of course, there were many other reasons—sky-high unemployment among African Americans, a dire lack of social safety nets. In the end, however, the Koreans took the blame. Koreatown in Los Angeles was nearly burned to the ground, with direct losses running into the hundreds of millions.

That said, African Americans learned their lesson. Though they’d made the Koreans suffer, they never dared provoke them again—Koreans were willing to shoot to defend their wealth.

But that’s getting off track.

William White was conflicted. He wanted to acquire Marvel but worried he might disrupt Marvel’s trajectory. This was still the Bronze Age, with plenty of good material yet to emerge.

Stan Lee was a lovable old man, the creator of virtually everything at Marvel. Without him, Marvel’s development would indeed be in question. America’s Golden Age of comics was destroyed by its own hand, culminating in the bizarre assertion that comics impaired children’s intelligence.

To be honest, many comics weren’t intended for children. Personal bias had single-handedly crippled an entire industry. American politicians truly had no scruples—driven by ambition, they’d stop at nothing to raise their profiles. Stirred up by various interest groups, they concocted a theory about the harmful effects of comics.

If America hadn’t cut off its own arm, Japanese comics would never have had their chance. By the 1940s, American comics were already highly developed. The U.S. comic market had tens of billions of dollars in spending power—a pie so enormous, and yet they destroyed it themselves.

Look at how well the Japanese handled it. Why not just implement a rating system? Children’s comics could be sold in bookstores, adult comics at newsstands—just don’t sell them to kids. The Japanese took it even further; their comics reached levels unsuitable even for adults.

America invented the movie rating system—why not do the same for comics? In Japan, the comic industry occupies a crucial place in the economy. And it’s not just about money—it’s also a matter of cultural export.

Do you know how many Americans love Dragon Ball? Its popularity is probably on par with Iron Man. That was perhaps the earliest example of fan adaptation, though it’s hard to understand how it seems so unrelated to the original Monkey King.