Prisoner (2)
He had poured in everything he’d earned up to that point, and then taken out loans on top of it.
He’d even brought in Nate Horwitz, a once-famous actor who was now dismissed as a has-been, and cast him in the lead.
The film they made that way was Zombienado.
But...
Contrary to the expectation that it would be a huge hit, the results were dismal.
They managed to recoup half the production cost by selling it to cable TV and OTT platforms, but the rest remained as debt.
The loss from Zombienado was a staggering one million dollars.
For a major studio that spent a hundred million dollars on a single movie, a one-million-dollar loss was nothing. But for a mid-sized film company, it was enough to make the whole operation wobble.
Worse still, they had jumped straight into making the sequel, assuming Zombienado would obviously succeed.
They needed to make movies to pay off the debt, but who was going to invest in a sequel to a film that had already flopped?
With even staff salaries becoming hard to cover, filming was suspended indefinitely.
“I think we’re going to have to get investment.”
“We don’t have much choice.”
B-movie studios sprang up and collapsed by the dozens every day. There were plenty of them out there looking for investment.
Fortunately, investment firms and production companies alike had shown interest.
The problem was the terms.
The investors demanded that production of Zombienado 2 be halted, along with authority to revise the screenplay.
Those were conditions they simply couldn’t accept.
Just as they were agonizing over what to do, someone appeared before them.
A shabby warehouse in Burbank, LA.
When Han Miru and David Lockhart entered Prisoner’s headquarters, two men in their mid-thirties came out to greet them.
One was a tall white man with pale skin; the other was a shorter Hispanic man with a generously rounded belly.
These two were Simon Linus and Fernando Sanchez, co-founders and co-CEOs of Prisoner.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The four of us exchanged warm handshakes.
“You’d like to invest in our studio?” Simon asked.
Han Miru replied, “It’s not just an investment. I’d like to acquire Prisoner.”
The two of them looked taken aback.
“We hadn’t really planned on selling the studio...”
“I’ll pay three million dollars for the acquisition.”
“...”
Simon snapped his mouth shut at once, while Fernando cried out in shock.
“Three million dollars!”
It was far too large an amount to refuse.
The two men exchanged a quick look, silently conferring.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. More precisely, I’ll pay two million dollars for the equity purchase and use another one million dollars to settle the company’s debt.”
Prisoner’s assets were essentially nonexistent.
The only things of any real value were the eleven films they had made so far. They generated royalty income whenever they were broadcast or sold, but it was so small it might as well have been negligible.
“Why would you want to acquire our studio?”
The answer was surprising.
“Because I’m a fan of Zombienado. When I heard the sequel had been shut down, I thought I should acquire the company and help fund production.”
Fernando was beside himself with joy.
Not only was Han Miru going to acquire the studio, he was going to support production of Zombienado 2 as well!
“Really?”
“Of course. How much are you thinking for the sequel’s production budget?”
“Two million dollars, but... ah! If we cut back on the CGI, we might be able to do it for 1.7 million.”
Han Miru answered briskly.
“I’ll invest two million dollars right now for the production of Zombienado 2. What’s the point of cutting CGI because you’re short on money? Put in as much CGI as you want.”
“Huh!”
Neither of them could close their mouths.
Fernando’s huge backside practically bounced with the urge to start filming at once.
“By the way, how many of these are you planning to make?”
“We’ve outlined the story through twelve installments.”
“Mm...”
David let out a groan before he realized it.
He wants to make eleven more movies like that?
Han Miru was a little surprised too.
Before I regressed, I think I watched up to the eighth one. I had no idea there would be four more after that.
Simon spoke carefully.
“We founded this studio so we wouldn’t be at the mercy of capital, so we could make the kinds of films we actually wanted to make.”
“So you’re saying you want investment but no interference in production?”
From an investor’s point of view, that was an impossible demand to accept lightly.
Ordinarily, investment firms interfered with everything from the screenplay to the casting, filming, and product placement.
Even at major Hollywood studios, directors were constantly dropping out because of conflicts with investors.
But Simon had no intention of compromising on this point.
“That’s right.”
Han Miru nodded.
“Then let’s do it that way.”
“Pardon?”
“I won’t interfere at all in production or management. I’ll make sure that’s explicitly written into the contract.”
The two of them still looked doubtful.
In truth, writing it into a contract didn’t mean investors would never interfere. If the studio didn’t listen, they could always cut off the money.
“I’ll also allocate at least two million dollars of production budget for each installment, with no questions asked. Make exactly the movies you want to make, just as you are now.”
Fernando reacted first.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. Zombienado isn’t just a movie; it’s a work of art. Art should be left to the artist. What would a layman like me know about it, anyway? I’ll never interfere with production.”
David thought to himself, It was art?
Was he the only one who didn’t understand art?
Simon and Fernando were overwhelmed with emotion.
Who would have thought there was someone who would understand their artistic souls like this?
There was no reason to hesitate any longer.
“All right. We’ll sign.”
“Good decision.”
David handed over the contract he had brought, and the two men signed away their equity.
From that moment on, Prisoner belonged to Continue Capital.
Han Miru told them, “Mr. Linus, I’d like you to continue leading the studio as CEO, just as you have been. And Director Sanchez, please resume filming Zombienado 2 as soon as possible. There are a lot of fans waiting.”
The two men nodded.
“Understood.”
After finishing the investment, we sat down at a nearby restaurant for a late lunch.
As I was happily tearing into pancakes and an omelet, David hadn’t touched his food at all.
“What’s with that face?” I asked.
“What does my face look like?”
“Like you’re ready to quit and move over to Shark Management at any second.”
“...”
Why couldn’t he answer? Had I hit the nail on the head?
David let out a sigh. “Did you really invest because you enjoyed Zombienado?”
“That was part of it. Mostly, though, I invested because I thought it would make money.”
Whether I invested or not, Prisoner would still be sold and Zombienado 2 would still get made. I was just the one taking on that role now.
“The three million dollars for acquiring the studio isn’t the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“The problem is that the investment will keep flowing in. Movie production costs can balloon far beyond initial estimates. If things go wrong, it’ll become a bottomless pit.”
“Wouldn’t it be fine if Zombienado 2 turned into a huge hit?”
People misunderstood this all the time, but Zombienado wasn’t just some absurdly thrown-together trash movie. The story was unexpectedly intricate, solid, and airtight in its logic.
Scenes that seemed completely random in the first film got their explanation by the sixth, and every seeded payoff was brought home perfectly.
It hadn’t become more popular with each successive entry for nothing.
“Even if it does become a smash hit, the revenue from selling rights to cable TV and OTT platforms is clearly limited.”
“Then why not do a theatrical release?”
David asked in disbelief.
“You didn’t even release the first one theatrically, and now you want to release the sequel in theaters?”
“There’s no reason it can’t happen.”
At launch, Zombienado 2 was distributed to cable TV and OTT platforms just like the first film.
Then word of mouth spread, and it developed a cult following among zombie maniacs, which eventually led to small-scale theatrical screenings.
And then something rather absurd happened.
A film called PerfectNado happened to open in theaters around the same time.
It was a disaster movie about a violent tornado sweeping across California, directed by Steven Taylor and starring Vincent Berry and Jessica Edward, two of Hollywood’s biggest names.
The budget was a staggering 200 million dollars.
Everyone expected it to be the ultimate summer blockbuster, the kind of movie that would sweep the box office clean.
But the subtitle of Zombienado 2 was, of all things, PerfectNado too.
Because the subtitle had been printed larger than the main title on the poster, audiences who came to theaters looking for PerfectNado accidentally walked into Zombienado 2 instead.
They thought they were watching a disaster blockbuster, and then zombies started pouring out of the tornado. The audience was struck with shock and horror, and it made enough of a stir to be covered by several news outlets.
Universal Studios, which had distributed PerfectNado, threatened to sue Prisoner, but once it was revealed that Prisoner had used the word “PerfectNado” first, the whole thing turned them into a laughingstock.
As Zombienado became famous, crowds came flooding in and the number of screening rooms expanded rapidly. Where PerfectNado had been pulled, Zombienado 2 went up in its place.
That was how Zombienado 2 became a massive hit, and the Zombienado series grew into a franchise that kept the company alive.
By the time I regressed, there had been eight films and two spin-offs, so it had been coming out steadily, one a year.
And thanks to the support of one fanatical enthusiast, Director Fernando Sanchez would later go on to create a new sci-fi franchise that rivaled Star Wars.
Prisoner eventually grew into a major studio that threatened Disney’s stronghold, but that was a story for later.
“There was actually one other reason I acquired Prisoner.”
“What’s that?”
I took a bite of pancake and said, “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, let’s eat.”
The next destination was Santa Monica.
“So where are we investing this time?” David asked.
Instead of answering, I asked him a question of my own.
“Do you like games?”
“Not really, no.”
Well, between studying, working, and raising a child, he probably hadn’t had the luxury of playing many games. But most people did enjoy them.
“Then what do you think about the future of the gaming industry?”
“I think it’s extremely promising.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because people’s leisure time keeps increasing. More leisure time means more demand for games. I’d say the industry is going to explode in size over the next few years.”
Even now, the content industry was growing by leaps and bounds every year. But the one seeing the biggest surge of all was gaming.
The idea that games were just for kids was already old news.
By ordinary common sense, music and film seem far more mainstream, while games are something only a handful of fanatics enjoy.
In terms of user numbers, that belief is accurate. But in terms of industry scale, it’s completely wrong.
Games were now a global form of content and a core pillar of the IT industry.
The worldwide gaming market was larger than music and film combined. And unlike other cultural industries, which had largely plateaued, it continued to grow by more than 20 percent every year.