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Chapter 169: Planning Ahead for the IP Industry
🕑 Added 2025-05-12 17:03:34 +0000 UTCDunn had a grand game plan in his head. Back when cash was tight, he’d been stuck with no room to maneuver. But after striking it big in the stock market, he’d kicked off a flurry of strategic moves—spanning movies, TV, networks, animation, and, most crucially, intellectual property (IP) rights. IPs were the future goldmine, the root of the Matthew Effect that let big companies snowball their dominance.
Post-’90s, the old-school toy sales model couldn’t keep up. Hasbro’s numbers had been slipping year after year, so they pivoted hard—snapping up acquisitions and going public just last year. Then, bam, the dot-com bubble burst hit right after New Year’s. Sure, Hasbro listed on the NYSE, not NASDAQ, but they’d already started morphing into a gaming company through those buyouts. To dodge the crisis fallout, they cut their losses, ditched the interactive gaming division, and doubled back to toys—ready to dig deep into their toy IPs.
That vision synced perfectly with Dunn’s—and with Andrew Mooney, Disney’s new consumer products chief. Hasbro’s lineup, like My Little Pony and Pokémon, had already wormed into Disney World, Disneyland, and Disney City, even popping up in Disney’s gaming division. In return, Hasbro scored derivative toy rights for a slew of Disney films—a win-win deal. And now, they’d gotten a strategic partnership invite from Dunn Pictures too.
Compared to Disney’s traditional, cautious IP playbook, Dunn Pictures was swinging bigger, broader, and bolder—with way more sincerity. Comics, animation, films, TV, toys, games—six pillars, one seamless IP ecosystem. Dunn even coined a shiny new term for it: the “Pan-Entertainment Mega-IP Model.” Hollywood was the entertainment mecca, and movies were its crown jewel. An offer like that? Unless Hasbro’s board was brain-dead, they weren’t saying no.
After 20-plus days of haggling, Dunn Pictures and Hasbro sealed the deal on June 3rd—a sprawling pact covering 12 major categories and over 70 sub-items. Like their Disney tie-up, no cash changed hands—just mutual benefits and future profit splits. For example, Marvel Entertainment got free comic rights to seven Hasbro toys—Transformers, G.I. Joe, Masked Rider, Microman, Magic Knights, Cosmo Knights, and New Age Warriors—and could whip up original stories. Hasbro, meanwhile, could repackage and launch toys using Marvel’s comic characters and plots. Dunn Pictures’ rights lasted 10 years; if no big film got off the ground, Hasbro could yank everything back, no questions asked. If a movie bombed, same deal—they’d pull the plug and shop elsewhere.
It echoed Marvel’s old superhero rights sales, but with a twist. Comic book movies had proven hits like Spider-Man and X-Men, so buyers were lining up. Toy-based films? Total wild card. Who else but Dunn would take that gamble?
Hasbro, eager to see their toys hit the big screen and juice sales, bent on the rights. They’d even cover at least 10% of a film’s budget as a sponsorship fee. If global box office topped $500 million, they’d toss in an extra 1% of the budget for every additional $100 million earned. In trade, Hasbro scored bigger cuts of derivative rights—especially toys, where Dunn Pictures capped out at 20%. That was the most lopsided deal Hollywood had ever signed with a toy company. Compare that to Disney, who took 80% of the profits from Hasbro’s Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck toy licenses—a deal Hasbro had begged for, with dozens of toy firms groveling at Disney’s feet.
To lock in this multi-channel alliance, Dunn showed real heart, and Hasbro gave him their full trust—even greenlighting minor tweaks to toy designs for film purposes. In short, Dunn Pictures and Hasbro forged the most ambitious IP partnership ever between a film studio and a toy giant.
Alan Hassenfeld—Hasbro’s chairman, CEO, and president—came from legacy stock. His dad founded the company, his brother ran it before him. Comics, cartoons, and TV didn’t move him much; movies did—Dunn’s movies, specifically. “Dunn, the contract’s signed. When’s this film actually happening?” Alan asked, knowing full well that negotiation promises were often hot air. Sometimes, a guy’s reputation—like Dunn’s fame and fortune—carried more weight.
Dunn grinned. “Alan, like I said, today’s special effects tech isn’t there yet. No film’s getting greenlit within five years.”
Alan frowned, unimpressed. “That’s too long!”
“No rush,” Dunn said breezily. “Our strategy’s comics as scouts, animation as the vanguard. Movies cost too much—we’ve gotta play it smart.”
His cheery optimism didn’t sway Alan. “Dunn, back in the ‘80s, we teamed up with Marvel for comics and cartoons. It wasn’t exactly a picnic.”
Dunn laughed. “Didn’t G.I. Joe still sell worldwide? Besides, Marvel’s mine now, Alan. You can see I’m all in.”
“I’m sick of those cheap, sloppy cartoons!” Alan snapped, irritation creeping in. Hasbro’s global toy sales had leaned hard on animation early on—mostly Japanese stuff. It worked in the ‘80s, but now? Pure trash. That was part of why their sales kept tanking. Those junk cartoons couldn’t hold a candle to half-century-old classics like Tom and Jerry or Looney Tunes. Heartbreaking.
That hit Dunn right where it hurt. After failing to snag Chris Meledandri, Dunn Pictures had scrapped plans to build its own animation wing. No soul, no department. His current play was to churn out a few quick cartoons, hand them to Nickelodeon to settle a favor, and call it even. Done and dusted. This whole Hasbro hoopla? It was really about laying groundwork for future films.
“Alan, we’ve got seven toy IPs locked in, but not all of them fit the big screen,” Dunn said, poker face on. “Some turn into cartoons, some into TV shows, some into movies—that’s the plan.”
Truth was, he’d originally dreamed of aping the Avengers with a “Hasbro Alliance” franchise, hoping to sweep Hollywood like the MCU. But Marvel Entertainment and Marvel Studios shot that down fast. Too many cooks, not enough broth. With over 5,000 Marvel heroes—beyond the Avengers, there were a dozen other teams and groups ripe for stories—cramming Hasbro’s seven toys into films would choke out Marvel’s own slate. The movie market wasn’t infinite; more films didn’t mean more money—it was a downward curve. Marvel wasn’t starving its heroes for someone else’s kids.
So Dunn settled on a leaner plan, like the old timeline: Transformers on the big screen, maybe G.I. Joe too. If the comics sold well and the “Hasbro Alliance” story clicked, TV could be next. The small screen had way more room than theaters.
Dunn wasn’t an actor—his mask slipped under Alan Hassenfeld’s shrewd gaze. After a long, thoughtful pause, Alan dropped a bombshell: “Dunn, how’d you like a seat on Hasbro’s board?”
“Huh?” Dunn froze, then got it. Alan was pulling out the big guns to fast-track those films. A board seat meant shares—Hasbro was a Hassenfeld family affair, with over 70% of the stock. Alan’s word was basically the board’s.
“I’ll carve out 5% of my personal stake at current prices. How’s that sound?” Hasbro’s market cap was about $1.6 billion; 5% was $80 million—pocket change for Dunn.
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Last year, Disney poached brand marketing guru Andrew Mooney from Nike to head their consumer products division, tasked with wrangling and redistributing Disney’s character IPs. Mooney didn’t disappoint. Beyond the Hasbro deal, he’d just made a gutsy, creative move: bundling princesses from decades of Disney animated films into a single “Disney Princess” trademark. Next up? A full-on marketing and promotion blitz. And just like that, Hollywood’s top-grossing peripheral IP was born.
