October 16.
Michael Ovitz found himself caught between various corporate figures, trapped between an idea shared with Michael Eisner, the entertainment directors, and the animators, who had a tangible concept of creating frame-by-frame drawings on a single acetate sheet. That is, to produce one second of movement, they needed 25 frames. And even if they needed to arrange a good frame… they required order, not just for the character but for the entire composition of images.
It's a real problem when people get involved in making decisions they don't want to make, yet others push them into doing so. As Disney's president, the board expected him to orchestrate a shift in ideology, aligning different individuals to compete against the young Lux Animation, which had been investing in animation technology for seven years.
The trick was this: Lux Animation used an image on acetate, scanned it frame by frame, and uploaded it into a CAP (Caption Motion) system. This software rendered the images with connection and refresh functions, allowing them to be painted and reused through artificial reproductions and touch-ups. With a single acetate sheet, they could generate two seconds of animation, but those frames could be refined and repurposed.
By minimizing production risks, an animator could complete a minute of work in three hours. Ten animators could produce ten minutes; forty animators, forty minutes. For mega-productions, however, the timeline tripled. With 3D-rendered frames, everything was modeled digitally, making it practical with the right software. It created the illusion that a well-crafted frame could simulate movement, textures, and effects, though these elements were a headache for animators.
The three-hour benchmark was crucial because it ensured a flawless frame, free of errors or repetition.
To create a high-quality animated film within eight months to a year, at least 50 people were required. Yet Disney remained steadfast in its theatrical approach, insisting on a traditional system they held dear. However, after suffering losses in both 2D and 3D animation, the impact was severe. In 1993, some had predicted it would take 15 to 20 years to see visible progress, yet in just seven years, the industry had evolved at a staggering pace.
This transformation was driven by a collaborative effort involving Autodesk, a company of 1,000 employees; Pixar, a specialist in animation software; and id Software, which contributed Real Engine to refine forms, rendering, design, environments, and AI-driven character processes—enabling autonomous movement and special effects like explosions.
Through intermediary contracts with various companies, they improved their workflows. These partnerships alone had generated millions of dollars for different firms. Additionally, Autodesk and others had successfully commercialized their software, with each advancement becoming a marketable product. Every improvement and every detail was acquired with a single goal: to power animation.
And beyond all that, the visionary mind of a young creator pioneered different animation styles from every possible angle. He had designed a business model capable of producing new titles year after year, distributing interests, and establishing a system of approval dictated by competition among talented workers, people who admired and revered Billy. Not as a businessman, but as an artist. They respected his passion and his relentless spirit. They respected someone who played the game on his own terms—and won.
-This is my resignation letter. – Michael Ovitz asked.
-It seems the board has already fired me. – Ovitz commented, reflecting on the difficulty of it all. How complicated and treacherous it was that his friend Eisner had betrayed him. As he sat down, he held the resignation letter in his hands. Ah, how tough and bitter it was to take the stage under these circumstances.
-Do you know what this entails? – he asked the legal counsel, a young man, perhaps twenty-four years old—a boy, really, with nothing to say except to twist in his own discomfort.
-Well, I'm not entirely sure about the matter, but it's signed by the board members, positioned, and marked at the bottom of the page. – The young man replied nervously, struggling to articulate what was happening.
Ovitz merely watched him. It seemed he would be leaving through the back door, a man walking away in failure—his downfall stamped with the seal of miscalculation. A deep discomfort coursed through him like a river of schemes, flowing against the current. Perhaps now was the time to call a ceasefire, to stop completely. Maybe a long legal battle, stretching three years, while he worked on securing a new job or establishing his own representation firm.
-I suppose I have to vacate the house by five today.– he replied, fully aware of how humiliating it was to be fired, to walk out carrying a cardboard box while others watched from the sidelines, whispering about the company's slow death—watching, as life as he knew it came to an end.
The hallway awaiting him was empty. And at the end of his path lay a tide of murmurs, which he met with his head held high. All that remained now were his unexpected "vacations" and the task of networking and rebuilding connections that might have been lost. But that's just how life goes.
***
October 25
Billy skimmed through the news of Michael's dismissal in the papers, ten days after reports of Ovitz's departure had first surfaced. It seemed the matter was only finalized yesterday when Ovitz received his severance and officially cleared the way for a new administrator.
The headlines detailed the hefty sum Michael was owed—$130 million—a so-called "golden parachute," a corporate agreement that might soon become a legal battleground. Perhaps it would bear fruit. Meanwhile, with rumors of certain Miramax assets being siphoned off by Jim Gianopulos, commercial stability was within reach. Lux Films was emerging as a promising investment project, poised to finance multiple productions.
-Buying that score would be difficult. – Billy mused, thinking about ESPN, the sports television network. It was a powerhouse, with many factors in its favor. If leveraged correctly, it could facilitate a strategic stock acquisition. But convincing stakeholders wouldn't be easy—it would create discomfort. What to do, what not to do to gain the upper hand? Right now, his focus was on closing a deal that had been on his mind for some time.
-Anne, did you hear? This is the opportunity we've been waiting for. With Disney out of the picture and our films gaining traction, we can throw a few jabs—see how the market reacts, now that the problems are being handled one by one. – Billy remarked, carefully laying out the facts, maneuvering each step with precision. He was destabilizing Eisner's standing, reminding the next in line of what was at stake—success, failure… perhaps Eisner was just a step away from collapse.
-Then we'll conduct a market study for the ESPN acquisition, just as you've decided. I don't think we'll have to wait long before we own a sports network. But I believe the right moment will be around 1998 or 1999. – Anne replied. With Lucasfilm and Marvel already in their portfolio, adding ESPN would be a logistical challenge—quantifying shares, managing assets, and navigating a new level of corporate complexity.
-Let's take it step by step. We can apply for a mortgage if we decide to purchase ESPN. Raimon has already started working on plans to build a coliseum. – Billy added.
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