The Super Bowl's the ultimate mash-up of sports and commerce. This one game, stretching four or five hours, rakes in more cash than the Olympics and World Cup combined!
Viewership? Untouchable. Every year, over 100 million Americans tune in—second only to the 123 million who watched *Titanic*. It crushes every other movie out there.
Super Bowl ads are mostly 30-second spots, unless it's something massive. This year, the heavy hitters—like the blockbuster *Spider-Man* and Microsoft, the world's top company—scored 45 seconds each.
During a break in the game, Dunn kept his eyes glued to the big screen ads. About a third of them were from internet companies.
The dot-com bubble was still flexing its muscle for the whole world to see.
*Spider-Man*'s trailer dropped in the second half—the Super Bowl folks hyped it as a marquee moment, timed for when the game was at its most intense.
Even though ABC, the broadcaster, was under Disney's umbrella, they had no choice but to play ball and push *Spider-Man*.
The halftime show? Dunn couldn't care less. Some Black singer belting it out didn't spark a single ounce of interest for him.
Finally, three and a half hours in, during a timeout, the stadium screens and ABC aired the main event—*Spider-Man*!
"With great power comes great responsibility!"
The trailer kicked off with that iconic "Spider-Man" voiceover, laying out the movie's core vibe. Thumping electronic beats mixed with orchestral swells hit hard, giving off this upbeat, powerhouse energy.
Dunn was a huge fan of Hans Zimmer's score—this was their second collab after *Star Wars Episode I*.
Next up: Spider-Man soaring between Manhattan skyscrapers, leaping and swinging like a pro. Rocking his red mask, red-and-blue top, and tight blue pants, he showed off a ripped physique.
He shot webs from his hands, zipping between buildings, then swooped down fast to the street, saving a little girl from getting flattened by a bus.
It all looked effortless—no smugness, just quick-witted charm: "If you've got the power to help someone, you've got the duty to step up. That's what living's about—not a choice, but a responsibility!"
After that first sequence, the screen flipped to Spider-Man owning that responsibility.
The cackling villain, Green Goblin, loomed on the Manhattan Bridge. Spider-Man clutched his girlfriend Mary Jane in one arm while his webbing strained to hold a yellow school bus packed with twenty-plus screaming kids.
The bus was too heavy—his webs snapped one by one. The tension was suffocating, blanketing the whole stadium in dead silence.
"Spider-Man, drop your girlfriend or ditch the kids—your call! Heh-heh!" Green Goblin's creepy voice slammed into everyone like a gut punch.
A no-win situation—what's a guy supposed to do?
Then Spider-Man looked up, locking eyes with Green Goblin. "I'm Spider-Man… I'm a superhero!"
The crowd—both in the stadium and at home—let out a collective breath, mentally cheering.
Right, he's Spider-Man! A legit superhero!
But *how* was he gonna pull this off?
The trailer switched gears again. Now it was Mary Jane, played by Jessica Alba, whose stunning looks drew gasps from the stadium crowd.
She wasn't happy, though. With her dad yelling in the background, she bolted outside to the yard.
Enter "Spider-Man" Peter Parker, holding a book. The camera zoomed in slickly for a close-up—*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone*.
Bill Mechanic, who'd been sucked into the trailer's vibe, burst out laughing and jabbed a finger at Dunn. "You little punk, always stirring the pot!"
Dunn kept a straight face. "I paid for the ad slot—gotta advertise, right?"
After three straight scenes, 35 seconds were down. The final shot? A massive explosion in Times Square.
The CGI stitching wasn't done, but quick flashes of iconic buildings clued everyone in on the location. Green Goblin popped up with his freaky laugh, putting the crowd on edge again.
Three bombs flew out—trouble was coming fast.
*BOOM!*
The real-deal explosion footage was raw and jaw-dropping!
The sound hit harder than the crowd's cheers earlier, shaking the place to its core.
Mary Jane clung to a crumbling balcony, her life hanging by a thread.
Everyone else's faces screamed despair—what now?
Then a Black kid pointed into the distance and yelled, "Spider-Man!"
The camera swung to him—hooded up, leaping off a skyscraper, swinging straight toward the chaos…
The screen cut to black, the *Spider-Man* title froze for a second.
Then it flipped again, flashing the director's name—Dunn Walker.
The 45-second trailer wrapped with that epic explosion and Dunn's name in lights. The whole stadium seemed too stunned to react.
"Dunn, this trailer… isn't it—"
"Feels like it's missing something, doesn't it?" Steven Soderbergh piped up, picking up on the vibe.
Dunn let out a frustrated sigh. "What can I do? The distribution deal's still up in the air—no release date yet."
"Huh?" Steven blinked, thrown off.
Big Hollywood blockbusters usually lock in distribution *before* filming starts, right? Otherwise, you shoot the thing and can't find a distributor—or they jack up the price. That's a recipe for disaster!
Dunn turned to Bill Mechanic. "Got nothing to say about that?"
Bill paused, then spoke slowly. "Dunn, you keep surprising me. Just this 45-second trailer's already flipped my whole take on superhero movies."
Dunn rolled his eyes. "Bill, I sank $150 million into this flick! You think I'd mess around with that kinda cash?"
Bill straightened up, all business. "Dunn, *Spider-Man*'s marketing and distribution need to kick off *now*. A blockbuster like this? Delay the hype, and you're asking for trouble."
"But Dunn Films… we're short-staffed, missing whole departments!" Dunn sighed, sneaking a glance at Bill.
Bill kept his cool. "Since I left Fox, my core team there—all fired."
"How many we talking?"
"About 25."
Dunn nodded. "Cool. If they're willing to stick with you, Dunn Films can take 'em all."
Steven Soderbergh was totally lost, trying to follow their cryptic back-and-forth—until that line hit. "Stick with you"? Boom, it clicked! Dunn was roping Bill Mechanic into joining Dunn Films!
No wonder he'd jumped at funding *Traffic* so fast. But… damn, that's a big appetite!
Bill Mechanic had been the top dog at Twentieth Century Fox!
"Salaries can drop by 20% max," Bill said, mulling it over.
Dunn waved it off, all swagger. "No need! Whatever Fox paid, Dunn Films can match!"
Bill nodded, pleased. "So… who're you handing *Spider-Man*'s distribution to?"
Dunn shook his head. "I just wanna focus on the movies and the money. Distribution, marketing, operations, management? I'd rather leave that to the pros." He chuckled. "But no way it's Disney, Warner, or Fox."
Bill liked that answer. In a partnership, splitting the power right is key. Dunn, young as he was, nailed it effortlessly—boosting Bill's confidence. "I'm leaning toward Universal," Bill said.
"Universal?"
"Yup. Ron Meyer's the chair there—old buddy of mine. He co-founded CAA, gets along great with Brian Lord."
Dunn hesitated.
His big play lately? Snagging Universal Pictures. They'd been bought out by Panasonic, then Seagram, bleeding cash year after year—right up there with Sony's Columbia as Hollywood's saddest cases, drowning in debt.
Dunn was banking on Seagram's crisis to swoop in and buy Universal cheap. Sure, he wasn't certain how much he'd rake in from the dot-com bubble, but couldn't he handle one Universal?
Handing *Spider-Man* to Universal, though, felt like tossing them a lifeline. What if it bailed out their immediate woes and gave Seagram a shot to regroup?
Then he laughed at himself.
Seagram, Vivendi—mega-corporations like that? When they tank, it's billions down the drain. No way they'd sell out otherwise. Movies are small fry in that game. Even if Universal cashed in big, it wouldn't patch up a giant's gaping losses.
"Alright, Universal it is," Dunn agreed. "Oh, and last year, Dunn Films put out three movies. We can bundle 'em for the deal. The other two… they're kinda out there."
"No need to warn me about that," Bill said, waving it off.
Dunn grinned wide, sticking out his right hand. "So… happy collaboration?"
Bill grabbed it with both hands, gripping tight. "What do I call you now? Dunn… or boss?"
Dunn huffed. "Bill, you messing with me?"
Bill and Steven locked eyes and burst out laughing.
Steven, especially—after the shock wore off, he was floored. This guy, younger than him, had *this* much pull? Dragging in a heavyweight like Bill Mechanic to work for him?
Talk about ambition knowing no age!
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