Insomnia premiered on a brisk Friday, with notices that made studios exhale—"taut," "competently assured," "precise." Harry poured over the early notices with coffee in hand and experienced a clean, uncomplicated pride for Chris. This was not his victory to claim, but it was fuel for the kind of work Harry wanted to keep away from the work he does.
By noon, Gregory had gotten Daniel Heyes the completed draft of the blind-pianist script. They met tucked away in a quiet corner of a café on Fairfax, the script's pages fanned out between two cappuccinos.
"I thought Harry might bring this personally," Daniel said, with half-tease and half-seriousness.
Gregory smiled. "He wanted to. He's buried in pre-production. And, frankly, he didn't want to hover at your side while you read."
Daniel's agent sat beside him, methodically underlining page numbers.
As he shut the script, he allowed the silence to linger.
"It's strong," he said finally. "Scary and sad at the same time. I'll just need to check in with Harry about it. There are choices in here… I want to see how far he thinks I need to go."
"He'll make time," Greg said. "But meanwhile, we can start talking terms."
Daniel stood and shook Greg's hand, the old courtesy of an honest yes. "I'm in—pending my talk with him. Let him know I'm ready."
On Monday, a black town car dropped Harry off in front of DC Comics' headquarters just before noon. The lobby in Midtown had its own distinct bookish gravity—posters framed like museum pieces, a glass case of prize statues.
He was expecting a little room. Instead, Maria at reception led him into a long conference room that was already half full. Paul Levitz—President and Publisher, calm, owlish, and unsentimental—stood up and waved. Next to Levitz sat Dan DiDio, recently elevated and sharp at the edges; Gregory Noveck from Creative Affairs; and Richard Bruning, designer and intermediary between art and business. A few legal and finance sorts were mingling around the barriers.
"Mr. Jackson," Levitz said, shaking his hand with genuine warmth. "We really appreciate you coming in person."
"Thank you for having this meeting," Harry said while taking in the faces, pacing the temperature of the room.
They settled into their seats. The water glasses found their coasters. A speakerphone blinked softly center table—someone on from Burbank somewhere.
Levitz folded his hands. "Before we get into the numbers, I'd like to ask the question that means more to us than it might to others: why are you interested in DC?"
Harry kept his hand out of the water. "Because I grew up in these worlds," he said simply. "And because I think you have a cathedral here that people have forgotten how to enter."
Levitz's mouth pulled into a slight smile. DiDio leaned in a little. "A cathedral sounds expensive to heat," he said. "What's your plan to keep the lights on?"
Harry nodded as if he had been waiting for that line. "Start where you always start if you want to build a generation - animation. Half hour shows, and event specials that make adults think back to when they were kids." He looked to Noveck. "Fox has time I can get you. Saturday mornings, early evenings. I have done it. I know that hallway."
"Are you talking about licensing, or are you talking ownership," Noveck asked.
"Co-financed, co-owned," Harry said. "With carve outs that make your library more valuable, not less. I do not want to strip-mine IP for one quarter's revenue. I don't want the money, that is secondary. I want to see my childhood dream come true."
DiDio narrowed his eyes, intrigued regardless of himself. "And thus you think Fox gives you that much rope?"
"They like me," said Harry. "They want ad dollars. They want sponsors and I saved their TV department. We will reintroduce these characters where kids actually are - linear blocks, yes, but also VHS sell-through and then DVD. You build repeatable hours. You build habits."
Levitz steepled his fingers. "And the grown-ups?"
"You aim up," said Harry. "Prime-time animated specials, two times a year - holiday tentpoles, not churn. Use that to prime the pump for live action. When we go live action, we are not starting with the mountain. We build a foundation with character pieces that scale. Two handers with a cape, not a cape with two people under it. Lower budgets, controlled schedules, a director with a point of view. Then, when the audience trusts you, you earn spectacle."
Levitz said, "You've been thinking about this."
Harry allowed himself a narrow smile. "Yes, it's my job to think about this."
DiDio rapped his fingers twice against the table. "You are younger," he said. Not dismissively—but also not, it would seem, unapologetically or without curiosity.
"Do you think you can bear the weight that accompanies these capes? The active expectations? And the implications for when you put a foot wrong?"
Harry's reply came with no heat. "I don't think anyone does this, or tries to, without screwing it up. I think what matters is whether you learned fast enough, and whether you managed to build a team that tells you when you're being stupid." He pause, glanced around the table.
"I'm not here to bulldoze you. I want to do this with you. With your editors. With your designers. Because you know these worlds. I know distribution and how to get a room to lean in. And those aren't the same skill. They shouldn't be the same skill. But they should be adjacent."
Finally, Levitz leaned back. "So, again," he said, "thank you. The reason we asked you in here was to hear your head and your heart on this matter. You've done that. Now we need to have a conversation."
Harry stood up, shook hands again, and made eye contact about the things that mattered most. "Thank you for your time. If you do want me back with a deck and a calendar, I'll come back with a deck and calendar."
"We know where to find you, believe me," Levitz said - there was a hint of warmth, but only a suggestion.
Once in the hallway, he felt the air thinner. He exhaled, then fought the urge to replay the room in his head. He had said what he wanted and needed to say.
----
The table was silent for a moment when they closed the door behind him, finally DiDio broke the silence.
"That guy is either the smartest twenty-something we've had in here, or he is out of his mind."
Noveck shrugged, "Could be both. The Fox access is real. The animation push makes sense. If he really protects tone property by property... we've been saying that in here for years."
"Everything's a headline when it all goes sideways," DiDio had said. "The question is can this guy make kids care in twelve months. If he can, we have the leverage we don't have right now."
Paul Levitz remained still. He was staring at the door as if he could still see the young man who had walked through it. "He was talking like someone who reads the letters column," he finally said. "You do not fake that. I'm not voting on charm. I'm voting on curiosity. And a plan."
The speakerphone lit up, the Burbank voice was back. "From the studio side, we're not opposed to a pilot program on animation with performance gates. Film we hold until we see proof."
Levitz nodded once, as if that had been his thought until it was spoken out loud. "Okay," he said, "let's take the afternoon, let's look paper price risks, and come back with a recommendation."