The Second Coming of Steve Jobs - Alan Deutschman [63]
Kobin shook a stick with streamers and sashes. Incense burned. A gong sounded.
Bill Fernandez thought the ceremony was “simple and wonderful.” He recalls: “It was not ostentatious. There were no great orations. It was understated and beautiful. Steve’s style is very Spartan, and this had the spare elegance that’s characteristic of him.”
Afterward, Steve told the guests that they were all going to take a walk together through the valley. He provided backpacks and pullovers from the North Face, a popular store for outdoor sports gear. Then they traipsed through the snow for about a half mile. Walking together was how Steve bonded with people. Throughout his teens he would take long walks with Bill Fernandez and talk about philosophy and life. In his twenties, he loved walking the Stanford hills with John Sculley. When he wanted to hire someone, or talk about a deal, or prevent an executive from leaving, he would always suggest a walk. And a wedding walk was so unique, so unconventional, so unexpected that it was positively Jobsian.
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AS IF HE WERE A CHARACTER in a moral fable, whom fate rewarded for his noble actions, Steve’s decision to marry Laurene and raise their child together was soon followed by a crucial turnaround in his career.
Disney wanted to pursue the deal.
It was a corporate marriage instigated partly by fear and jealousy. When the Disney talks had stalled, the Pixar guys took meetings at Paramount and Warner Bros. They tried to make their Hollywood excursions as conspicuous as possible, so Disney would find out.
The strategy succeeded, and now the Disney talks were back on.
Steve flew to L.A. and returned to the Team Disney building, where Jeffrey Katzenberg had so effectively intimidated him in their previous meeting. He was wearing his bohemian-artist’s uniform of a black turtleneck and blue jeans. He sat at one end of the very long table in the conference room adjacent to Jeffrey’s private office. Jeffrey was far away at the other end. A trio of Pixar executives—Ed Catmull, Bill Reeves, and Ralph Guggenheim—sat along the length of the table. They watched the confrontation as the two moguls parried and tested each other. “It was like being spectators at Wimbledon,” Ralph recalls. “It was prince of the San Fernando Valley meets the prince of Silicon Valley.”
Jeffrey began by asserting a sense of authority.
I want to make something clear, he said. If you’re talking to us, you talk only to us.
Before the summit Jeffrey’s people had been arrogant and condescending to Steve’s people. Their attitude implied that Pixar was nothing and Disney was going to run the show. Now, as the two princes finally met face-to-face, Steve tried to act tough. His bravado masked even the slightest indication of how desperately he needed the contract. He was in a position of weakness but postured as though he were negotiating from strength.
I’ve put $50 million into this company, he said, and I’m not giving this away cheaply. You’re not going to get any of our technology. And I want a three-picture deal.
Jeffrey countered by showing his own formidable resolve.
Pixar isn’t going to get a percentage of the video sales, Jeffrey said. That’s nonnegotiable. If you don’t like those terms, we can shake hands right now and leave.
Steve stayed.
For all of Steve’s chutzpah and posturing, he was at an extreme disadvantage. Jeffrey had great knowledge about Hollywood and animation, while Steve had very little. The discussion turned to the issue of the movie’s budget. Disney would finance the production and keep 87.5 percent of the profits, so its interest was to keep the costs down. Pixar had a 12.5 percent share of the net, but its greater interest was to secure an ample budget so it could afford to make the film without taking a loss itself or compromising on the quality.
Steve put out a number: