Chapter 454: CH : 443 Problems With Lord of The Rings

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But nobody could sing for you. Nobody could give you your voice.

That part belonged to you. The voice was the instrument.

Everything else came after it.

Michael’s eyes remained on Marvin.

And this boy had both.

The songs were already extraordinary, but then Marvin opened his mouth and gave them something nobody else could have given them.

Michael smiled to himself.

That wasn’t something you could simply teach.

This specific talent was unparalleled—it was a gift from God!

A very-very rare one.

And watching Marvin move from song to song with that kind of control, Michael found himself more envious of his voice than his songwriting.

The songs could be written again. The arrangements could be changed.

But that voice? That was Marvin. And there was only one of him.

When Marvin finally stepped out through the heavy studio doors, the change was immediate.

He needed some air.

More importantly, Max and the engineering team needed a break.

Keeping up with Marvin was work even when they weren’t the ones singing. They had to listen to every take, watch the levels, follow the arrangements, catch the occasional mistake and be ready to move the session forward the moment Marvin was ready.

There weren’t many mistakes to catch.

That almost made it worse.

It meant they had to stay completely focused because the one moment they let their attention drift could be the moment Marvin did something worth keeping.

Marvin headed out to get some fresh air.

Behind him, Max finally leaned back from the console.

Michael rose from the couch.

He stood there for a moment, watching Marvin. "Marvin."

Marvin looked over.

Michael laughed under his breath. "I’m jealous of you."

Marvin raised an eyebrow. "You’re jealous of me?"

"Yes." Michael nodded, completely serious. "You’re thirteen and you can do all of this."

He pointed toward the console, then the recording booth. "Your voice. The music. The Songs. The way you hear things..." He shook his head, smiling. "It’s not fair."

Marvin laughed. "Michael, I think you’re the last person who gets to complain about talent."

Michael grinned. "I’m serious. God gave you too much talent. It’s not fair."

The words were blunt, but there was no bitterness in them.

Marvin could hear the sincerity in Michael’s voice. He really was jealous.

Yet there was so much admiration behind it that Marvin couldn’t possibly take offense.

He smiled and shrugged.

"I know." Marvin walked over to the refreshment table and picked up two glasses. "Michael, please. I’m sure people have been saying the same thing to you for decades. You know what?" he said, filling one. "I’m jealous of you too."

Michael accepted the glass. "Me?"

"Of course." Marvin filled his own. "Your career. Your records. Your blinding global fame. Your philanthropic influence. Everything you’ve done. You’ve been around the world more times than most people could dream of."

Michael’s smile settled into something warmer.

Marvin lifted his glass. "There’s only one Michael Jackson."

Michael looked down at his drink, then back at him.

"The one and only King of Pop."

Michael smiled brightly at the high praise. He liked hearing compliments, but he especially loved the kind that seemed grounded and genuine, coming from a peer rather than a sycophant.

Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, Marvin..."

"What?"

"You’re making me blush."

"You’ll survive."

Michael laughed again. He took a sip, then glanced toward the studio. "You really are something."

Marvin leaned against the table. "Coming from you, I’ll take that."

Michael nodded slowly.

He had spent his life surrounded by people who wanted something from him. A song. A favor. A photograph. A piece of his time.

Marvin wasn’t asking for anything.

He was just standing there, talking music with him like they were two musicians who happened to meet in the same room.

’Interesting kid. Very interesting.’ Michael thought, looking at Marvin over the rim of the glass. I’ve got to formally invite him to visit Neverland Ranch soon. He would appreciate the quiet.

Michael looked through the glass again.

"You know," he said, "I think you’d like Neverland."

Marvin looked at him. "Neverland?"

"Yeah." Michael’s eyes brightened. "It’s quiet. Lots of room. Animals everywhere."

He smiled. "You could just relax."

Marvin took a drink. "That sounds nice."

"It is." Michael nodded to himself. "Maybe you should come sometime."

Marvin smiled. "I’d like that."

Michael’s smile widened. "Good."

....

...

..

---

On a clear, sunny Tuesday morning in Burbank, a black armored SUV arrived at the security gates of Warner Brothers’ extensive studio headquarters.

Marvin stepped out of the vehicle dressed in a pair of sharply cut blue jeans and a fitted shirt, the kind of outfit that looked effortless only because he had taken the time to get every detail right. The jeans sat cleanly on his frame without being overly tight, while the shirt was tailored enough to give him a polished silhouette without turning the whole thing into another red-carpet uniform. His sneakers, watch, and a few understated accessories finished the look without competing for attention.

He rarely wore suits unless the occasion demanded one—an official event, an awards ceremony, or somewhere he knew appearances carried their own weight. Otherwise, he preferred clothes that felt like him. With photographers seemingly never too far away, Marvin had no intention of allowing every picture of him to become another variation of the same stiff Hollywood archetype: dark suit, white shirt, expensive tie, repeat.

He wanted his clothes to have a personality of their own.

There was something he admired about artists such as Aaliyah and Rihanna, the way fashion seemed to follow them rather than the other way around. They could walk into a room wearing something simple and somehow make people remember it. Marvin wanted that same quality from the male side of the equation—not to chase every passing trend, but to establish a look that people could recognize as his before they even saw his face. The cuts, the denim, the way he layered pieces, the occasional unexpected accessory; none of it needed to scream for attention. It simply had to feel unmistakably Marvin.

So years later, people could dissect photographs of him and point to individual outfits as if they had been carefully designed to become fashion moments. Future TikTokers could freeze old footage, recreate his looks, argue over which era was best, and give names to styles he had never bothered naming himself.

That didn’t mean Marvin wanted to follow the direction modern celebrity fashion sometimes took. He had no interest in treating clothing as an excuse to walk around half-naked, nor did he understand the appeal of turning a red carpet into a competition over who could wear the strangest thing imaginable. He wasn’t interested in looking as though he’d stepped out wearing a curtain, a garbage bag, or whatever bizarre object happened to be considered fashionable that week.

He preferred just a little further from the middle ground.

Stylish without being desperate for attention. Expensive-looking without needing a logo plastered across his chest. Masculine without being trapped in the same conservative uniform every Hollywood man seemed expected to wear.

If people were going to photograph him anyway, Marvin figured he might as well give them something worth looking at.

And with it, his mana pool gets a nice little boost!

Peter Jackson followed Marvin through the parking lot of the executive building.

He looked almost uncomfortable in his blazer. It was too loose in some places, too tight in others, and already creased from being worn through a morning that had been far hotter than he would have liked.

He barely seemed to notice.

His attention was on the leather portfolio clutched against his chest.

Inside were the drawings, designs and other pieces of artwork he’d spent years obsessing over.

*Lord of the Rings*.

After today, it wouldn’t just be a project sitting in development hell anymore.

It would finally be moving.

Peter could hardly contain himself.

He wanted to make the films he’d been imagining for years. He wanted to prove that the books could be treated seriously, that fantasy didn’t have to mean cheap sets, rubber monsters and disposable B-movie filmmaking.

And, perhaps more than anything, he wanted to prove it to Hollywood.

The thought made his stomach tighten.

Then he noticed who was waiting for them.

Alan Horn, chairman and CEO of Castle Rock Entertainment, soon to be COO of Warner Bros. Pictures, stood in the lobby.

He greeted Marvin first, extending his hand with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to important people walking through his doors.

"Marvin."

"Alan."

They shook hands.

There was no hesitation in Horn’s manner, no trace of the condescension Peter had grown used to seeing directed at younger people in the industry. Marvin might have been a teenager, but Horn treated him like someone whose decisions mattered.

Peter noticed that. He noticed everything.

The three of them started toward the executive conference room.

Horn and Marvin talked easily as they walked, their conversation drifting between business and the miserable summer heat outside. A joke here, a quick comment there.

Peter stayed a few steps behind.

He listened. Watched.

Marvin seemed completely at ease.

Peter couldn’t understand how.

This was the kind of building where careers could be made or buried with a few phone calls. Men like Alan Horn had the power to decide which projects received money, which filmmakers got meetings and which ones spent another year trying to convince somebody to take them seriously.

Yet Marvin walked beside him as though they were old colleagues.

Peter looked down at the portfolio in his hands.

One day.

He wanted that.

Not the building. Not the expensive suits or the executive offices.

The respect.

He wanted to walk into a room like this after having delivered something extraordinary and know that the people sitting across the table weren’t wondering whether he could handle it.

He wanted them to know.

For years, his career had been anything but predictable. There had been little films, strange projects, disappointments and more than enough moments when Hollywood had seemed perfectly happy to leave him where it found him.

Now he had something different.

He had the money.

He had Marvin’s backing.

And, more importantly, someone willing to bet on the films Peter actually wanted to make.

Peter tightened his grip on the portfolio.

Maybe this really could work.

Maybe, after everything, his career wasn’t going to end up as one of those sad Hollywood stories he’d spent years watching happen to other filmmakers.

Maybe he was finally about to get his chance.

Peter was beginning to understand that this wasn’t a courtesy visit.

Marvin hadn’t brought him to Warner Bros. simply to meet executives, shake a few hands and talk about the future.

There was a reason they were here.

And whatever happened inside that conference room could decide whether *Lord of the Rings* remained an ambitious collection of drawings and scripts sitting in a portfolio—or became one of the largest film productions Hollywood had ever attempted.

Marvin already knew what he wanted.

He was going to finance the project himself. He was going to build it the way he wanted it built. And as far as the actual creative decisions went, he had no intention of handing the property over to a studio and hoping they didn’t tear it apart.

But money wasn’t the problem.

Logistics were.

Meyers Studios had plenty of capital behind it, it was still just a fledgling, newly incorporated studio that had only just begun to take its first operational steps. It was far from being able to soar the sky independently; forget trying to carry a colossal, logistical nightmare of a project this big on its infant shoulders.

*Lord of the Rings* was something else entirely.

Three interconnected films.

Three films that Marvin wanted shot back-to-back, with production overlapping wherever possible.

Roughly three hundred million dollars in production costs.

In 1999. That alone would have been enough to make most studios nervous.

Then came everything else.

Hundreds of speaking roles. Thousands upon thousands of extras. Months of location work across New Zealand’s mountains, forests and open country. Massive practical sets. Miniatures. The enormous forced-perspective constructions they were already calling bigatures.

And the people. An army of them.

Prosthetics teams would have to transform ordinary actors into entirely different races. Makeup departments would work for hours before some performers could even step onto a set. Weapons had to be designed and built. Armor had to be made. Costumes had to be produced in huge numbers.

Horses had to be trained and managed. Stunt performers had to be hired. Then there was the technology.

Marvin wanted large-scale digital effects years before they would become routine. He wanted MASSIVE handling of enormous digital armies. He wanted motion capture eventually used to bring Gollum to life.

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