It arose in early 1998, as Pixar approached the release of A Bug’s Life, and it involved the issue of film credits. I waded into this topic naively, and I am not sure I would have pursued it so fiercely had I not already felt some injustice over an earlier incident about sharing credit.
That injustice had its origins in a magazine article about Pixar that appeared in September 1995, the groundwork for which Steve had been laying for some time. Earlier that summer, Steve began to covet the media outlets that might let him tell the Pixar story, cleverly intermingled with his own. In this domain Steve was a master, displaying a level of strategy and patience akin to a leopard stalking its prey. He would settle for no less than a big kill, a feature story in a major magazine. He would even pass on lesser stories in order to hold out for the big one. Steve tested his relationships with reporters at Time, Newsweek, and other outlets to see who might be interested. Ultimately, it was Brent Schlender at Fortune’s Silicon Valley office who showed the most interest.
Steve invited Schlender to Pixar, where he took the grand tour and spent time with each of the key players. He also spent a good amount of time with Steve. In its September 18, 1995, issue, Fortune delivered exactly what Steve had wanted—a huge feature story, the first to usher in Steve’s comeback and Pixar’s new strategy. The cover of the magazine said “Steve Jobs’ Disney Deal.” The first two-page spread of the story was, on the left side, a full-page, giant-size close-up of Steve’s face, and on the right side a giant headline that read:
STEVE JOBS’ AMAZING MOVIE ADVENTURE
The heading on the first page of the story said:
DISNEY IS BETTING ON COMPUTERDOM’S EX–BOY WONDER TO DELIVER THIS YEAR’S ANIMATED CHRISTMAS BLOCKBUSTER. CAN HE DO FOR HOLLYWOOD WHAT HE DID FOR SILICON VALLEY?
The piece set up Steve’s comeback and positioned Pixar with pitch-perfect precision. In describing what Toy Story meant for Steve, Brent Schlender wrote:
The release of Toy Story marks the beginning of a new chapter in the storied career of Steve Jobs. If the movie’s a hit, he’ll rub shoulders with the kingpins of the brave new world of digital entertainment—moguls like Eisner and Steven Spielberg and megastars like Hanks and Allen. Jobs may in fact have found, at last, his natural element—a business in which fantasy and technology actually enhance each other. With Pixar and Toy Story, the “reality” Jobs creates just might, for once, exceed his own rhapsodic rhetoric.9
It was a fantastic story for Steve, and for Pixar, well reported by Schlender. Around Pixar, though, the reaction was muted. Certainly it was the most exciting piece written on Pixar in years, the first to describe Pixar’s new image as an entertainment company and to introduce the world to its filmmaking prowess. But something felt off. I had been around companies when they received great press. The usual measure of high fives and celebration was curiously absent here. The reactions at Pixar were more like polite, politically correct gestures of approval than a joyous celebration over a media coup.
Given Pixar’s historic anxiety about Steve, it was easy to see why the article had been received with mixed reactions within the company. The story focused too much on him. It sounded like he had architected Pixar’s film strategy and direction almost on his own. It is not until the fifth paragraph of the article that Pixar is mentioned, and then it refers to Toy Story as “Jobs’ new movie.” Certainly Steve deserved a lot of credit for sticking with Pixar through all the lean years, but even though the article went on to describe Pixar in some detail, including several great photos taken within Pixar, it still made Steve front and center stage in a story in which he had spent much of the time on the sidelines.
Although I found Steve to be quite a private person, when it came to the public eye, he didn’t like to share the spotlight. His ability to weave stories around big ideas was legendary, and he applied them with equal force to his own story. Working for Steve meant working in the shadows; he wasn’t terribly generous when it came to publicly sharing credit. I was okay with that. I minded more, however, when I thought the entire company had been overshadowed somewhat. This is perhaps why, when I did have a chance to shine a small spotlight on the work of others, I became more than a little passionate about it.
My opportunity arose over the seemingly innocuous issue of film credits for A Bug’s Life. These are the names of the production crew that scroll quickly across the screen at the end of a movie, the part where the audience is grabbing their jackets and leaving the theater. Those at Pixar who were assigned to a particular film would automatically be included in the film credits. But what about those individuals at Pixar who were not assigned to a particular film but worked across all Pixar films?
Most of those people worked for me, in finance, human resources, facilities, purchasing, and other administrative and support functions. These dedicated contributors worked night and day on Pixar’s films—they certainly were not working on anything else—but because they were not assigned to a particular film, their names would never be included in the closing credits on screen. Everyone else at Pixar, for those few brief moments while the credits scrolled down the screen, would see their names in the spotlight. Even if no one but their own families sat there and watched the credits, at least for them it would be a shining moment, a source of personal and family pride with a lasting glow. I felt my team was entitled to that same experience.
That team included Sarah Staff, my right-hand person who managed Pixar’s financial and accounting systems and played a central role in our IPO; Greg Brandeau, the brilliant information technology manager in charge of Pixar’s exceedingly complicated computing needs; Tom Carlisle, our tireless facilities manager who took care of our growing workspace needs with boundless enthusiasm and skill; Rachel Hannah, who built from scratch the hiring processes we needed to grow the company; Milan Parikh, manager of Pixar’s budgets who had followed me from my last company and worked with tireless poise as we developed Pixar’s business plan; Lisa Ellis, who had been at Pixar long before I joined and managed our health benefits; Mary DeCola and Kathi Cozzetta in accounting; Bryn Richardson in investor relations; Katherine Singson, Katherine Sarafian, and Jonas Rivera in marketing and creative resources; Robert Taylor in film accounting; Marty Eshoff in budgeting; DJ Jennings in purchasing, who would do anything to make sure Pixar’s vendors delivered on time and on budget; and my amazing assistant, Diane Phillips. All told there were forty-two individuals on the list.10
In the celebrity world, these individuals, like me, may have had little notoriety, but in my world they were stars. They went to incredible lengths to help Pixar succeed. Many worried not just about their own area of responsibility but about the company in general. For them, Pixar was personal. They were Pixar’s unsung heroes, the supporting army whose names would never appear in the spotlight but whose efforts were every bit as important as anyone else’s.
“They should all get a credit,” I said to Steve one day. “It costs us nothing to add the names of all those in Pixar’s administration at the end of the film credits. It will mean an extra few seconds of screen time, that’s all. How about it?”
“Maybe Darla is the person to talk to about it?” Steve suggested.
That wasn’t a yes or a no, but it was an opening. I took it.
Darla Anderson was the co-producer of A Bug’s Life, along with Kevin Reher. She had run Pixar’s commercials group and this was her first feature film. I had pushed hard for her to get the position. She was happy to check with Disney on the credit question.
Darla got back to me a couple of weeks later.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s a no-go on the credit idea. Disney is very particular about film credits. They’ve never done this on their own films. They won’t do it on ours.”
The request had been blown off in one brief instant by Disney. That didn’t seem fair. I had to figure out why they were being so difficult about this.
I learned that film credits had evolved to become somewhat of a resumé for those who had
them. They were not handed out lightly. Moreover, Disney had evolved an in-house style where it did not give its administrative employees film credits, so they did not want to break that tradition for Pixar. I remained unmoved, though. These were our films. We had just negotiated a contract that made that clear. Pixar had creative control. This should be our decision. I went back to Steve about it.
“I don’t want to take no for an answer on this one,” I said. “It’s an opportunity for us to do something really meaningful for Pixar’s employees, at no cost to anyone.”
“If you can get the support of John and Ed,” Steve replied, “we’ll press Disney on it.”
John and Ed were both members of the Academy of Motion Pictures and understood the politics of film credits very well. I arranged a meeting with them to discuss it.
“The problem,” John explained, “is that Hollywood takes film credits very seriously. They don’t want to dilute what credits stand for by adding names that are not strictly speaking on the film crew. For them, it’s a matter of precedent.”
“But animation is different,” I asserted. “We don’t have film crews that disperse when production ends. Our staff is working day and night, the same as the production crews. We’re all in the same building, working alongside each other for the same purpose.”
We discussed it some more, but we didn’t resolve the issue. Ed suggested we take some more time to think about it.
A couple of days later, Ed and I revisited the topic. I reiterated that this was just about fairness. It was arbitrary to cut out so many people who were all working toward the same goal. We brainstormed ways we could address it without upsetting the status quo.
“How about if we come up with a different kind of credit,” Ed mused. “Something at the end that is distinct from the regular credits.”
“That would be fantastic.” I said. “That’s all we’re trying to do. I don’t mind if it’s not the same as the other credits. I just want to see the names up there on the screen.”
Finally, a breakthrough.
Following that meeting, Ed, John, and I, working with the producers of A Bug’s Life, developed the idea of a “thanks to” credit that would be below and distinct from the normal credits. Steve went along with it and took the idea to Disney.
A couple of weeks later the answer came back.
“They’re okay with it,” Steve said, “with one exception.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“No credits for Pixar’s executives. They won’t break that precedent.”
I understood immediately what that meant. Steve and Ed had already received a more than well-deserved executive producer credit on Toy Story. As executives, none of us would be included in this new credit for A Bug’s Life, however. This would leave me as the only member of Pixar’s senior executive team who would never see his name on screen. Everyone who worked for me would.
I had to admit this stung a little. It would have been nice to see my name up there, even once, if only for my family. It wasn’t to be, though. But no matter. I had accomplished what I wanted. My next move was now crystal-clear.
“That’s great,” I said to Steve. “We got it done. Thank you for taking this up with Disney.”
The new credits were added to A Bug’s Life for the first time. At the end of all the normal credits, just when it seemed they were all over, emerging from the bottom of the screen came these words:
THANKS TO EVERYONE AT PIXAR WHO SUPPORTED THIS PRODUCTION
and then the names of all of Pixar’s finance, marketing, and administrative personnel appeared. Of all my moments at Pixar, seeing this for the first time stood out as among the most gratifying. It meant even more when it became an ongoing tradition for all of Pixar’s films.
To this day my family knows that when we watch a Pixar film, they have to sit all the way to the very end of the credits when I will excitedly watch for the list of supporting personnel to hit the screen. I choke up every time I see it. I don’t know many of those individuals personally anymore, but I do know how hard they work, how important they were to the film, and how deserving they are, for one fleeting moment, to see their names in lights.
23
Flickers
The signing of the new agreement with Disney was not the only event of import to occur in February 1997. Apple Computer bought NeXT, an enormous coup for Steve. It was hard not to miss the irony of Apple purchasing the company Steve had started in defiant rebellion against Apple. I could not see the whole picture at that moment, but the signing of the Disney deal and the sale of NeXT to Apple triggered a chain of events that would mark a change in my journey with Steve. An ever-so-gentle pull was now beginning to take us in different directions. It would take time to see where that direction would bring me. For Steve, the change came sooner.
Steve was thrilled about selling NeXT to Apple. NeXT had launched its first computer in 1988 but had failed to compete in the burgeoning market for workstation computers. In 1993 it had shut down its hardware business to focus on selling its operating system and development software. In selling the company to Apple, Steve had found a face-saving parking place for NeXT, and a chance to keep its advanced software technologies alive. It was no wonder he was excited about it.
“NeXT’s software will be the core of a new-generation operating system for Apple,” he told me after the sale. “They really need it.”
As Steve’s responsibilities at NeXT began to wind down, I wondered if his day-to-day involvement at Pixar might increase from the weekly visits that were now his custom. But nothing changed. Pixar was steadily working on A Bug’s Life and Toy Story 2 and putting the expansion plan into place. Steve seemed happy with the way things were working at Pixar and he showed no inclination to change it.
During this time, my own relationship with Steve evolved. It was freer from the pressures of the past two years. We had accomplished in two and a half years what we thought might take ten. With the IPO and the Disney deal behind us, Steve was more relaxed. He would often stroll over to my home on the weekend and we’d go for a walk or sit in the backyard and talk. Our conversations meandered from Pixar to world affairs to our children and personal lives.
One time I was in the midst of a medical emergency. Someone in our immediate family had developed a potentially very serious medical problem. Steve called one evening when we were deciding what to do. Hillary answered, and when Steve asked how she was, she just broke down and cried. After she explained the problem, Steve immediately said, “I’ll find you the best doctor in the world and bring them here if you need it.”
It turned out that the best doctor was in San Francisco, an hour away by car. We were very fortunate that the issue was ultimately resolved. Hillary never forgot Steve’s offer, however, and always appreciated him for it.
In several of our talks around this time, especially after the sale of NeXT, Steve mused about Apple. He felt Apple had long ago lost its way, that it was more adrift than ever, rapidly becoming a shadow of its former self. He blamed a string of CEOs who he thought had no idea how to restore Apple’s greatness. Steve felt that buying NeXT would help Apple but wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Slowly I began to realize that Steve’s musings were in fact the visible flickers of an internal raging fire. Steve’s designs on Apple’s future were far more than theoretical. I confirmed this one Saturday in early summer 1997 when we met in Palo Alto.
“I’m thinking about going back to Apple,” Steve said. “Apple’s board is asking if I’m interested.”
“Wow!” I said. “That’s huge. How do you feel about it? They’ve been adrift for a long time and need a ton of help. Are you sure you want to take that on?”
“I’m not certain,” said Steve, “but I could try. I wouldn’t even take a salary. I’d have a chance to share my ideas and to assess what needs to be done.”
As soon as Steve said this I realized he had made his decision. Steve wasn’t sure Apple could be saved. And the last thi
ng he wanted was to return to Apple and then be held responsible if he failed to rescue the faltering company. Not taking a salary was a way of saying, “You’re not paying me so don’t blame me if the company sinks.” If he did turn it around, there would be ample opportunity for reward later. It was a no-lose scenario.
But he was looking for something else from me.
“Look, if you decide to do it, don’t worry about Pixar,” I said. “It’s under control. Now that the Disney deal is behind us, we know what to do. And it’s not like you’re going away. We’ll be in touch like we always have, even if you can’t come up to Point Richmond as much as before.”
What I surmised Steve had wanted in this conversation was to make certain we wouldn’t think he was abandoning Pixar. In a way, he wanted Pixar’s tacit permission and blessing to go back to Apple. I knew he would have the same conversation with Ed and John. I also knew they would support him completely. This was because, among all the changes that had occurred during the past few years, there was one more that gave him a level of confidence that I was certain mattered a lot. After a rocky relationship with Pixar that had lasted the better part of ten years, Steve had gained something that was sorely missing when I joined the company: respect.
This became abundantly clear to me one day at Pixar when the executives were invited to a screening of one of the films under development. As was our habit, we all gathered in the screening room where we watched the most current reels of the film. At the end of the screening, John turned to Steve and said, “Steve, what did you think?”
To Pixar and Beyond Page 21