Part 2: The Pitch

December 10, 2002 – 7:00 AM

The Office of Robert Shaye – New Line Cinema Headquarters

The early morning sun fought through the thick marine layer of fog, casting a cold, grey light over the “shrine” Mark had spent all night constructing. On the mahogany table, the 1985 Elmore calendar sat alongside the 1987 Dragonlance Adventures hardcover. Mark had flanked these with the recent War of Souls bestsellers, their glossy covers a sharp contrast to the weathered paperbacks of the original Chronicles. Alongside them was a printout showing estimated sales figures for not only the current series, but the rest of the line: Over 20 million books sold since the 1980s.

Toby Emmerich entered first, clutching a steaming cardboard cup of coffee. He didn’t look at Mark. He walked straight to the table, his eyes immediately locking onto the 1987 sourcebook. He flipped a page, his gaze lingering on a map of Ansalon.

“This isn’t just a story, then,” Emmerich muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s a geography. There’s a logic to the borders.” He skimmed quickly through the book, then grabbed a copy of Dragons of a Fallen Moon, the newest Dragonlance hardcover novel.

Shaye marched in a moment later, the smell of fresh cedar and unlit tobacco following him. He looked at Mark—really looked at him—for the first time. “You look like hell, kid. I hope what’s in those books is worth the bags under your eyes.”

Mark stood at a stiff, respectful attention. “It is, Mr. Shaye. Between Chronicles, Legends, and the spinoffs? You're looking at thirty million books in circulation.”

Shaye grunted and sat. “We’ll see. Toby. Talk to me.”

Emmerich didn’t look up from the War of Souls hardcovers. “The pulse is real, Bob. These hit the New York Times list within the last twenty-four months. Hell, this one just got released a few months ago. This isn’t a dead brand; it’s alive and kicking. And the structure is exactly what we discussed. A core trilogy. A group of friends. A world-ending war.” He tapped the Elmore art of Raistlin Majere. “And this character... he’s the hook. He’s the anti-Gandalf. He’s tragic, he’s dying, and he’s dangerous.”

“What about the legal rights?” demanded Shaye. “How is this not under Sweetpea’s rights umbrella?”

“That a question for the legal department to answer, sir,” replied Mark. “But Dragonlance is a distinct property created by TSR, now owned by Wizards of the Coast. It’s not the generic Dungeons & Dragons brand.”

“Alright, kid,” said Emmerich, still perusing the materials. “Give me the quick version of how a movie would work. Forget trilogy, let’s stick to just one movie at the moment. What’s that movie, in twenty seconds?”

“It’s Dragons of Autumn Twilight,” replied Mark. “A fractured group of former friends reunite in a world where the gods have been silent for 300 years. Among them is a crippled mage who may be more dangerous than the enemy. When they discover the first proof the gods may have returned, they become targets of a rising Dragonarmy. After their hometown is destroyed, they lead a slave rebellion inside an enemy fortress and defeat a Dragon Highlord in the first battle against dragons in a thousand years — ending with hope reborn as the war truly begins.”

“Fine,” interrupted Shaye. “But who’s the villain for this movie? You said this wasn’t about eyeballs in a tower.”

“Verminaard,” answered Mark immediately. “He’s the Dragon Highlord leading the invasion. He destroys the heroes’ home halfway through the film and becomes the face of the war. The movie builds toward a final confrontation with him inside his own fortress while dragons tear the sky apart above them.”

“And what makes him interesting?” asked Emmerich. “Why should the people in the seats care about this guy getting it at the end?”

Mark frowned. “Verminaard is the first priest of the true gods since the Cataclysm — the first man in three hundred years to wield divine magic. That makes him more than just a general; he’s living proof the gods have returned. He believes he’s chosen to cleanse the world.”

Shaye grunted. “And he dies in the end? No ‘miraculous escape so he comes back in a later movie?’”

“No, sir. He’s a Dragon Highlord, but he’s not the Dragon Highlord. There are others who will lead the war after he’s gone.”

Shaye considered for a moment, his eyes lingering on the artwork on the table. “Alright, so this works as a standalone movie with possible sequels if it makes good at the box office. I’m not going to sign off on a three-movie deal right off the bat, I don’t care how much the Kiwi makes next week.” His eyes flicked back to Mark. “Alright, kid, now for the real question. How does this make money for us?”

Mark took a deep breath. “Because, sir, it already has a multi-million reader fanbase that’s been active for nearly twenty years. And fantasy isn’t a one-brand market — The Lord of the Rings proved there’s appetite, but so did Harry Potter. This is a different tone: grounded, war-driven, character-first. It skews slightly younger than Gladiator but older than Potter. And Raistlin gives this movie a breakout anti-hero audiences can latch onto the way they latched onto Hannibal Lecter or Tyler Durden. It’s not just a fantasy — it’s a character franchise.”

“You came prepared, kid,” said Shaye with an approving note in his voice. “Alright, what’s the tone of this? Is it dark? Funny? Is it for kids?”

Mark shrugged. “It’s a war epic, sir, with humor that comes from friendship. The stakes are real, but the characters are human. It’s accessible without being childish—emotional without being grim.”

Shaye’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s it going to be rated? War movies get a lot of ‘R’ ratings.”

“PG-13,” was Mark’s firm reply. “The war has consequences, but this isn’t an R-rated bloodbath. If it’s ‘R’, we lose a lot of the core fantasy audience. If it’s ‘PG’, nobody believes the war. It needs to be intense enough to feel real, but accessible enough that a 13-year-old can see it without it being traumatic. That’s the lane where fantasy performs best.”

“He’s right,” said Emmerich. “PG-13 keeps the tension high but doesn’t alienate the ticket buyers. We want a lot of the same crowd Jackson’s getting, right?”

“Right. If this is the sort of thing they want, we’re the ones that can give it to them. But what about the director, Toby?” he asked, leaning forward. “You said you had a name that wouldn’t make the trades bark.”

“Antoine Fuqua,” Emmerich said firmly.

Shaye paused, his cigar halfway to his mouth. “The Training Day guy? For elves and dragons?”

“For the war, Bob,” Emmerich corrected. “Fuqua doesn’t shoot fantasy. He shoots conflict. That’s what this story is—a war movie with dragons. He’ll shoot this movie like it’s a combat zone. He’ll make the dragons feel like heavy artillery, not pets.”

“We just said we’re going PG-13, not R-rated. How is Fuqua the guy for that?”

Emmerich pointed to a picture of Sturm Brightblade facing off against a blue dragon. “He can make this feel real without loading it up with gore.”

“Why not Petersen? He loves that war stuff.”

“He’s neck deep in Greek mythology with Troy. Pulling him off that project would be starting a war with Warner.”

Shaye nodded. “I see your point. What about del Toro? He likes monsters and stuff, and he’s in the New Line family.”

“Hellboy,” replied Emmerich. “That’s a passion project that he’s spent years trying to develop. Now that it’s finally greenlit, pulling him would make the same waves as Petersen. But with Fuqua, he’s between projects. We can sign him and have him in a production office in Vancouver before Jackson even gets his Oscar nominations for Two Towers.”

“Vancouver?” repeated Shaye.

“Yeah, let’s make this as much the ‘anti-Ring’ project as possible and film it right here. This is an American, homegrown property, and let’s make that clear right from the start. Film it all in North America, use the natural vistas in a way Jackson never thought of. He’s got paper-mâché trees; we’ve got redwoods. He had to build that snowy mountain set from scratch; we’ve got mountains galore from the High Sierras all the way up through Canada and into Alaska, and glaciers all over the Canadian Rockies that can be more intimidating than anything Jackson dreamed up on that little hook of an island.”

Shaye nodded. “That’s true. And filming it here means the jobs stay here or in Canada. The unions will pounce on it.” He looked at Mark. “Mark. You played this game as a kid, right? Let’s see if you’re up to speed on Hollywood. Why Fuqua?”

Mark swallowed, keeping his voice low and professional. “Because the heroes aren’t perfect, sir. They’re broken. Fuqua knows how to film people who are losing their souls. He’ll make the audience feel the dirt and the blood. It won’t look like a fairytale. It’ll look like a survival story.”

Shaye stood up, his hand hovering over the 1985 calendar. He looked at the image of the companions huddled around a fire, then at the legal papers from Jackson’s camp still sitting on the corner of his desk.

“Alright,” he said with a grimace. “But we’re going to do this right. And we’re going to do it fast. If we’re doing this, we’re not playing small. There’s exactly twelve months until Return of the King hits theaters. I want a teaser in front of that movie. And I want to ink the release date: December 2004.”

“That’s a pretty tight schedule,” noted Emmerich. “Two years to get the movie finished and we don’t even have a script yet.”

“We’ll get one,” Shaye barked. “If Jackson can shoot three movies in a row in the middle of nowhere, we can shoot one in our own backyard.” He jabbed a finger toward the table. “I want a location scouting plan on my desk by four o’clock today. Mark—your last name?”

“Sterling, sir. Mark Sterling.”

“Sterling. Let’s see how fast you are on your feet. What’s the final shot of the teaser? The one that gets people talking instead of watching the credits of the movie they paid to see?”

Mark’s brain fired like a shorted circuit. He grabbed the Dragonlance art book and flipped it to the cover photo of Dragons of Spring Dawning, tapping the image of the red-robed mage. “The teaser fades out,” he said quickly. “Audience thinks it’s done. Then from the darkness we hear a whisper.” He lowered his voice. “Shirak.” Mark pointed at Raistlin’s arm in the painting. A flash of light from the Staff of Magius, and they see a golden hand in red robes gripping the Staff of Magius. No face. Just the arm.”

Silence filled the room. Shaye stared at the picture. Then he looked at Emmerich.

Emmerich slowly nodded, a thin, predatory smile forming.  “That’ll play,” he said quietly.

Shaye leaned back in his chair. “If I send Toby,” he said, gesturing with the cigar, “the trades hear about it before the plane lands. If I send legal, Wizards thinks we’re about to bury them in contracts.” His eyes settled on Mark. “But you? You’re a fan. You walked in here with the books. You spoke the language.” He tapped the table once. “They’ll listen to you.” A pause. “You’re going to Seattle.”

Mark blinked. “Seattle, sir?”

“Toby’s office will make the arrangements,” Shaye continued. “You meet the people at Wizards of the Coast. As high up the ladder as we can get you.” He leaned forward again. “New Line comes knocking, they’ll listen. You tell them we want the whole package. Film rights. Author participation.” He paused. “And absolute silence. If they want to be part of what’s coming next in fantasy movies, they sign with us. Fast.” His finger shifted to Mark. “You’re the bridge, Sterling.” Another pause. “Don’t let it collapse.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said, finally allowing himself a breath.

“Good.” Shaye stood up. “Now let’s see if you can swim with the sharks.” He waved toward the books. “Pack that stuff up. I don’t want anyone seeing it.”

Mark immediately began gathering the materials.

Shaye turned back to Emmerich, his tone dropping to something colder. “Especially Ordesky.” Emmerich raised an eyebrow. “EVP or not, he’s Jackson’s concierge,” Shaye said. “He’ll run straight to the Kiwi the second he smells something.”

Shaye began pacing slowly. “Create a paper trail. Something boring. Fellowship international residuals. Accounting nightmare. Tell him the numbers out of Wellington don’t match the Weta invoices.” Emmerich nodded, already thinking through the logistics. “Send him down there to audit the mess,” Shaye continued. “I want him buried in spreadsheets so deep he doesn’t see the Big Dipper until 2005.” He stopped pacing. “And Toby… have legal review the force majeure language in the New Zealand contracts. If Jackson hears even a whisper about this, I want his ‘creative autonomy’ to be the only thing he has left when we’re done.”

Across the room, Mark was still stuffing books into his bag. Shaye snapped his fingers. “Sterling!” Mark froze. “You’re still here?”

Mark straightened.

“Seattle isn’t getting any closer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mark hurried out of the office with his books. The door shut.

For a moment neither man spoke. Finally Emmerich said quietly: “If this works… we just started a war.”

Shaye picked up the Elmore calendar and studied the image of the companions around the fire. A slow smile crept across his face. “Good.”