Dunn was floored. Since when did Natalie know Mel Gibson?
As if sensing his confusion through the phone, Natalie chirped cheerfully, "Just yesterday! Mr. Gibson swung by the set."
Dunn's confusion deepened. "He visited your crew? Why?"
"To check in on Nicole and Naomi," she said with a giggle. "They're all Aussies, you know. He's got a real big heart."
Big heart? Dunn almost laughed. Wait till you hear Mel Gibson's anti-Semitic rants in a few years—you'll be singing a different tune. For now, though…
Dunn raised an eyebrow. Mel Gibson was famous for his bold, generous spirit. In the '90s, a wave of Australian actors had stormed Hollywood, outshining even the Brits, and Mel was the heavyweight pushing from behind. He'd even set up the Australian Actors Foundation to help his countrymen chase their dreams in Tinseltown.
In another life, when Naomi Watts was broke and evicted, Mel bailed her out. When Robert Downey Jr. was a pariah after jail and drugs, Mel stepped up, giving him a shot that led to *Iron Man*. Even Jodie Foster got a freebie—Mel starred in her directorial gig just to lend a hand. In a town ruled by self-interest, Mel Gibson was a rare "big brother" figure, all loyalty and grit.
But *The Passion of the Christ*? That was a nightmare—funding, production, distribution, all a mess. When it hit theaters, the backlash was brutal, especially from Hollywood's Jewish power players, who branded it anti-Semitic. Mel, a devout Catholic, stuck to his guns—shooting "Jesus" by the book, his faith's book. What was wrong with that? Then, in 2006, a drunken tirade against Jews sealed his fate. The Jewish moguls ran him out of town, back to Australia. A superstar, fallen.
Dunn couldn't help but sigh at the memory. Now it clicked: Mel wasn't plotting some conspiracy by slamming Bruce Willis—he was thanking Dunn for looking out for Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts, two Aussie talents. Whatever the reason, Dunn owed him one.
"Maybe…" Dunn's eyes lit up with a wild idea. Mel had invited him and Natalie to Australia. Why not take him up on it? Get close, see if the guy's as stand-up as he seems. If so, Dunn wouldn't mind tossing him a lifeline. Mel was a genius—blockbuster draw bigger than Tom Cruise, acting chops to rival Tom Hanks, directing talent pegged as the next Martin Scorsese. Letting a triple-threat like that fade away? Shame. Plus, Dunn didn't exactly have warm fuzzies for the Jewish elite anyway.
---
On October 21st, *Spider-Man* wrapped. The crew disbanded, set to regroup in January for ADR in the UK. Dunn didn't head straight back to California. Instead, he met someone in New York: Scott Swift, Taylor Swift's dad—a stockbroker.
A market crash was looming, and Dunn was ready to pounce, using his foresight to cash in big. Movies were fine for pocket change, but to hit America's elite rich list? No chance. Dunn had picked up some stock-trading tricks, but next to a pro like Scott, he was a rookie. Good thing Scott was around to help navigate the chaos.
Back in California, Dunn Films had a mountain of work waiting. *My Big Fat Greek Wedding*'s DVD and VHS sales and rentals had pulled in $58.9 million. After 20th Century Fox took their cut—$8.8 million for distribution, $1.2 million for marketing, $1.3 million for prints and shipping—Dunn Films pocketed over $47 million. That cash wasn't going to taxes or loans; it patched the company's strained finances.
Dunn greenlit $5 million for Andrew O'Hare, who'd been nagging him about *The Chronicles of Narnia*. He'd struck a deal with the rights holders: $5 million plus 5% of future profits. To keep Manohla Dargis happy, Dunn handed her $5 million too—go wild buying up adaptation-worthy rights. Original stories rarely nabbed Oscars; classics and real-life tales were the ticket.
"Oh, Warner reached out," Manohla added. "They're asking when we'll kick off *Harry Potter*."
Dunn smirked, a touch mocking. "Perfect timing, huh?"
Manohla grinned. "I brushed them off politely. The contract gives us three years to start it. One more thing—Disney sent a warning."
"What?" Dunn blinked, sure he'd misheard. "A warning?"
She sighed. "Yeah, pretty harsh tone. They say your Bruce Willis comments broke Hollywood's rules and cost them big."
Dunn laughed, incredulous. "I broke the rules, so they get to trash my movie? Screw Disney—tell them to get lost!"
Disney's appetite had ballooned lately—snapping up the Muppet Company, Miramax, ABC, morphing from animation house to media titan. They'd even poached AA's big boss, Michael Ovitz, nearly tanking the agency. Internal power plays sent Ovitz packing with a $200 million golden parachute. But Dunn? He wasn't scared. His ambitions dwarfed Disney's.
"Dunn, I think we should lay low," Manohla said, earnest. "*Harry Potter*'s already set to clash with Warner. Add Disney to the mix, and even with Fox in our corner, we're toast."
She had a point. Dunn mulled it over, eyes narrowing. "Got it. Tell Andrew to lock down *Narnia* fast—next summer at the latest, we start it."
"What?" Manohla froze. "Boss, *Narnia*'s huge—bigger budget than *Spider-Man*. If we dive into that series, we won't have bandwidth for *Harry Potter*."
Dunn smiled faintly. "Risk management. Delaying *Harry Potter* dodges the Warner mess."
"But—"
"I've got a plan. You'll see."
"Alright," Manohla sighed, then smirked. "Hey, big boss, Reese is off acting full-time soon. Time for a new secretary."
Dunn caught her teasing look and coughed. "We'll deal with that later! How's *The Wedding Crashers* doing?"
"North America's at $190 million, overseas $68 million. Should hit around $300 million global."
"And *Star Wars*?"
"Over $1.1 billion."
Dunn flashed a proud grin. In its original run, George Lucas's *Phantom Menace* barely cleared $900 million worldwide, limping past $1 billion with a 3D re-release. Dunn's version? $1.1 billion and gunning for $1.2 billion.
"I'm not here to repeat—I'm here to create!" Dunn said, gazing into the distance, eyes sharp.
"Dunn?" Manohla blinked, half-worried he was getting cocky again.
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