Chapter 487

Cheng Long was overjoyed to see Wei Ming and jumped up to hug him—meeting an old friend in a foreign land.

He didn’t know Wei Ming was in America, but he’d specifically booked the Hyatt Hotel where they’d once lived together, never expecting to actually run into him.

Wei Ming told his aunt and the others to go upstairs first while he chatted with Old Long; Cheng Long’s gaze flickered over Li Zhi—she was an absolute gem, but alas, one doesn’t steal a friend’s concubine.

After sitting down and chatting, Wei Ming learned Cheng Long had come to sign the contract for *Bullets Over Broadway 2*, and would then head to Australia to film—he had only a minor role.

“Once this film wraps up, me, Big Brother Da, and Yuan Biao are going to Spain to shoot a new movie.”

This new film was surely *The Fast and the Furious*, also a classic.

He also told Wei Ming good news: “*Project A*’s box office in Japan ultimately reached 3 billion yen—too bad it fell just under a hundred million short of *Shaolin Temple*.”

This narrow gap pained him deeply; he only hoped one day he could soon crush that kid named Li Lianjie.

Three billion yen equaled over ten million U.S. dollars—more than one hundred million Hong Kong dollars—a result far exceeding the film’s Hong Kong box office. Now, Zou Wenhuai’s feelings toward Wei Ming had shifted; he desperately wanted Wei Ming to write another script that would sweep Japan and Korea.

But Wei Ming had no motivation; even if he wrote another, it’d be hard to surpass *Project A*, unless he aimed for Hollywood—but it wasn’t the right time yet.

When Cheng Long asked Wei Ming why he’d come to America, Wei Ming smiled: “I’m planning to pursue graduate studies here.”

“Graduate studies? Won’t you have to get a Ph.D. next?”

Wei Ming: “I’m considering it.”

Cheng Long sized Wei Ming up: “Tsk tsk tsk—I thought you’d already started directing films and would settle permanently in Hong Kong. I never expected you’d come straight to America. Aren’t you worried your little girlfriend will be uneasy?”

“A man shouldn’t be shackled by emotions,” Wei Ming said, speaking against his true feelings.

Cheng Long loved hearing this and lightly clinked his tea cup against Wei Ming’s: “By the way, a couple days ago, I was out to dinner with the guys and saw your little Zhou Tianhou.”

“Impossible—my Min never goes to places like that.”

Cheng Long: “We didn’t just go to those places—this time we met her on the Jumbo Seafood Floating Restaurant.”

“Oh? Who was she with? Anita Mui?”

“No, she was prettier than Mei—very alluring, just a bit too thin,” Cheng Long recalled; thinness was a minus for him, unlike Zeng Zhiwei, the bony guy who still ate well.

“Oh~” Wei Ming replied with a knowing tone.

After checking in, Cheng Long couldn’t sit still—he wanted to hit the bars on Sunset Boulevard, but Wei Ming didn’t join him.

Cheng Long’s debauchery meant drinking foreign liquor and boasting about foreign women, while Wei Ming didn’t need alcohol—he could just boast directly.

After going upstairs, Wei Ming went straight into Melinda’s room; she was reviewing New Line Cinema’s materials, focusing on their past track record.

“This company has been around for over a decade, but none of its films are familiar to anyone, and not one has earned over ten million. The highest was just over five million—and that one lost money due to excessive costs. Valuing this company at ten million is too high.”

Wei Ming sat beside her: “Coca-Cola spent twice Columbia’s market value when they bought it—they were buying time, acquiring it outright to use immediately. I feel the same about New Line. Though small, it has everything it needs. Companies that survive over a decade have something valuable. Robert Shaye is a veteran who’s been in Hollywood for twenty years. Once we bring him on board, we’ll avoid countless headaches.”

Melinda said: “The price you offered is hard to refuse—he’ll probably call you tomorrow. How long do you estimate until you recoup your investment?”

“If everything goes smoothly, one year,” Wei Ming said, slipping his hand into Melinda’s blouse.

In Hollywood, even a mid-tier hit with tens of millions in box office can fully offset their investment.

Melinda’s hands grew restless too: “What if we turned *It* into a movie? The novel’s hugely popular in America—get a skilled director, and I think the box office would be great.”

Wei Ming kissed her: “I thought the same…”

Just as the two were about to ignite on the sofa, the phone rang—neither knew if it was his aunt or his little sister.

It turned out to be Robert Shaye.

“Mr. Wei, I agree to cooperate. Shall we meet tomorrow?”

He was eager. Wei Ming: “Fine. Come to the Hyatt tomorrow morning. Mr. Shaye, looking forward to our partnership.”

"Partnership is enjoyable."

At that moment, Robert Shaye had little sincerity—he was only after money. But Wei Ming would make him understand how sweet it was to ride a coattail.

Wei Ming hung up. Melinda picked up the receiver again—no one else would disturb them now.

An hour later, Wei Ming, spent, told Melinda: “Set up a DreamWorks Pictures in the U.S. to acquire New Line and invest in its films.”

In Hollywood, regardless of size, studios always bring in investors to avoid using their own money and reduce risk. Wei Ming trusted his judgment, so he’d profit from the investors’ money too.

Melinda: “Alright, but I’m in Britain—who’ll run this company?”

Wei Ming: “Don’t trouble two people for one task. Li Zhi runs DreamWorks Hong Kong—let her run DreamWorks America too. It’s just bookkeeping.”

Melinda put the phone back and joked: “Should we call her over now to discuss it?”

Wei Ming hugged Melinda tightly: “Tomorrow. Sleep.”

DreamWorks America had another mission: acquiring promising copyrights, like the works by Tolkien that Wei Ming had asked his aunt to look into—not just promising, but highly anticipated masterpieces.

Tolkien was widely regarded as the father of modern fantasy literature; in the 1950s, his works sparked a global reading frenzy.

His major works were a sweeping series of stories set in Middle-earth, spanning countless ages and races, centered on *The Hobbit* (1937), *The Lord of the Rings* trilogy (1950s), and his posthumous work *The Silmarillion*, compiled by his son and published in the 1970s.

Wei Ming most wanted *The Lord of the Rings* trilogy—not only because it was a massive box office success, but because its derivative value was enormous, ranking among Hollywood’s most successful examples.

The next day, Wei Ming booked a conference room at the hotel and invited Wei Hong too—this kid hadn’t played video games for over ten hours; she was testing her self-control.

Robert Shaye also brought along the other shareholders in the company. In the end, only one minor shareholder holding 2% sold his stake for $200,000; everyone else kept their shares. DreamWorks now held 72% of New Line.

This acquisition couldn’t be completed in a day or two—it involved establishing DreamWorks America.

Wei Ming also needed to review New Line’s upcoming projects: cut the garbage, scrap the useless films—New Line needed to ascend to a new level.

New Line had already made breakthrough progress; Wei Lingling was eager to return to Hong Kong to set up the video game division: “We’ll head back to Hong Kong first—you and Melinda keep watching.”

Wei Ming: “Didn’t I ask you to look into Tolkien’s copyrights?”

Wei Lingling: “Robert’s right here—ask him. A veteran like him must know.”

That made sense. Wei Ming directly asked his partner Robert.

He’d asked the right person: “I’m a loyal reader of *The Lord of the Rings*. I wasn’t satisfied with the earlier animated versions of *The Lord of the Rings* and *The Hobbit*, so I looked into it. But our company never had the capacity to invest.”

“Oh? These two were made into animations?”

“Yes, but the quality was average,” Robert admitted honestly—one from 1977 (*The Hobbit*), one from 1978 (*The Lord of the Rings*).

But it wasn’t surprising they’d chosen animation—current technology still couldn’t realistically depict Middle-earth’s races and magic in live-action.

He continued explaining the copyright issues.

“First, in the late 1960s, Tolkien, needing money, sold the copyrights for *The Hobbit* and *The Lord of the Rings* to United Artists—including film adaptations, stage plays, games, merchandise. As you know, United Artists was later sold to MGM, which belongs to casino tycoon Kirk Kerkorian.”

Wei Ming: “How much did he get?”

“One hundred thousand pounds plus a share of adaptation box office revenue,” he said. “The copyrights for his other works remain with the Tolkien Estate Foundation, managed by Tolkien’s son, and box office royalties must be paid to that foundation.”

Wei Ming nodded—he didn’t know exactly what “box office revenue” meant here, and suspected the copyright ownership wasn’t this simple.

Indeed, Robert continued: “United Artists once tried to make a live-action *The Lord of the Rings*, but canceled it due to massive costs. A few years ago, they sold partial rights to the famous producer Saul Zaentz—the animated versions were produced by him and United Artists. But his most famous work was *One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest*, the Oscar-winning film.”

Li Zhi, the assistant, took notes, writing down this key name.

“Saul Zaentz formed a company called Middle-earth Enterprises specifically for these rights. To make *The Lord of the Rings*, you must license it from Saul.”

“License?”

“Yes—he doesn’t sell, only licenses. But so far, no fool has taken the bait,” Robert laughed heartily—then his laughter died as he looked at Wei Ming. “You want to make it?”

Wei Ming: “I was just thinking—but I’d rather buy Middle-earth Enterprises outright, once and for all.”

Wei Ming remembered that in his past life, Amazon had made a *Lord of the Rings* TV series—but it was a prequel.

Robert didn’t know many of the copyright’s inner details—he was just an outsider. Only direct contact with Saul might reveal the truth.

As they saw Robert Shaye off, they ran into Cheng Long, who was puzzled and asked Wei Ming who the foreigner was.