The Star Chamber: Executive Pay in Hollywood A Tale of Talent, Tantrums, and Ten-Figure Turnarounds

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May 14, 2025

Written by Frank Glassner:
CEO, Veritas Executive Compensation Consultants

INTRODUCTION: HOLLYWOOD HIGHWAY ROBBERY

Hollywood doesn’t do subtle. Neither does its executive compensation.

In a town where the phrase “a little over budget” means “we doubled it and blamed the CGI”, no one is more handsomely rewarded for mediocrity than the men and women in the boardroom. Forget the Oscars, the Emmys, or the Golden Globes—the true top prize in Hollywood is the Form 4 filing.

As a veteran of this beat for decades—consulting, advising, and occasionally restraining the worst instincts of studio boards—I can say without hesitation that Hollywood executive pay is a cinematic genre of its own. The storylines are wild, the characters are outsized, and the plot twists defy accounting logic. It’s Succession meets Entourage, directed by Michael Bay and underwritten by Morgan Stanley.

What’s new in 2025? The salaries, the scale, and the shamelessness.

Consider the new numbers: Warner Bros. Discovery CEO David Zaslav pulling in a quarter-billion. Netflix’s Sarandos and Peters treating executive pay like a buddy film franchise—one gets a bonus, the other a back-end deal. Bob Iger, brought back from retirement with all the drama of a Star Wars reboot, collecting pay worth more than Disney’s entire creative development budget for 2023.

The writers may be starving. The actors may be sidelined. The content may be crumbling under the weight of sequel fatigue. But the CEOs? They're thriving. Thriving in a system where risk is someone else’s problem, and reward is a signed check from a distracted comp committee that believes “streaming metrics” means “someone’s watching somewhere, probably.”

As someone who has sat with these boards, heard the pitches, read the bonus triggers, and been told—more than once—“but he’s visionary,” I’m here to pull back the curtain. Not just on the paychecks, but on the process. Because behind every ludicrous pay package is a story—a story of status, ego, and occasionally outright panic disguised as leadership.

PART I: THE POWER LUNCH PARADOX

Let's start with lunch.

There’s no such thing as an ordinary meal in Hollywood. A club sandwich at the Polo Lounge can greenlight a franchise. A grain bowl at Soho House can be the birthplace of a streaming startup or the funeral of an entire content slate. But if you want to see the real action, don’t look at who’s eating. Look at who’s negotiating.

The Power Lunch, in Hollywood, is the crucible of comp. It’s where the deals happen—the ones that rarely make headlines, but always make SEC filings. I’ve been there. Not as talent, not as press—but as the guy brought in to “keep things reasonable” by board members who then proceed to approve the most unhinged pay structures since Cleopatra built her pyramid-shaped yacht.

There’s an unspoken rule at these lunches: the CEO must never ask for what they actually want. They must ask for much more—and then reluctantly accept the inflated version they were always going to get. “I don’t need $100 million,” I once heard a studio boss say, “but I won’t insult myself with less than $85.” The table nodded. The PR rep took notes. The GC silently began redlining the contract.

The paradox is this: the more absurd the ask, the more likely it is to be granted. Because in Hollywood, restraint is interpreted as weakness, and modesty is an admission of defeat.

Here’s how the machine works:

1. The Studio CEO claims vision. “We’re not just a content company. We’re a global ecosystem of immersive storytelling.” That’s code for: we’re going to license Barbie pajamas in China and call it synergy.
2. The Comp Committee Chair nods. He or she is often a retired titan of another industry—someone who ran a widget empire in Ohio and now can’t tell Netflix from NetJets.
3. The Compensation Consultant presents a peer group. Usually a Frankenstein’s monster of tech giants, media conglomerates, and one European telecom firm no one’s ever heard of—except that its CEO once made $42 million for restructuring HR.
4. The HR Chief says, “We need to retain him.” Always him. Even if he’s only been there 18 months.
5. The Board approves. Usually unanimously, sometimes without reading.

And thus, the paradox: Hollywood is a place where no one believes in sequels anymore—except when it comes to CEO compensation packages. Those always come with a sequel. And a trilogy.

Insider note: I once witnessed a boardroom where the CFO presented a slide showing negative free cash flow for five quarters straight, followed immediately by the CHRO proposing a 40% increase in long-term equity for “exceptional leadership under pressure.” The pressure, I noted, was entirely self-generated.

Power lunches, it turns out, have less to do with food than with theater. They are rehearsals for pay decisions. And like all good rehearsals, they rely on actors knowing their parts—and never breaking character, no matter how absurd the lines.

PART II: HELLYWOOD MATH – THE FORMULA FOR INFINITE PAY

Welcome to the part of the story that most board members pretend to understand and most shareholders quietly fear.

“Hellywood math” isn’t a real accounting method—yet. But it should be. It’s the only way to explain how a studio can post declining revenue, declining viewership, declining morale, and still award its CEO a “performance-based” pay package that could fund a moon landing.

This is the dark arts portion of executive compensation, where standard corporate logic goes to die and is reborn as a fully vested, non-recoupable RSU grant with custom acceleration clauses and market-based modifiers.

Let’s dissect a few Hellywood hallmarks:

1. The Back-End Mirage: “If It Bombs, It Pays”

In traditional media, “back-end” pay used to mean the talent got a piece of profits. In modern media, the CEO gets the back-end up front—in the form of projected value based on hypothetical syndication scenarios and streaming valuation multipliers.

I once reviewed a comp plan where the CEO of a major streamer was awarded $40 million in options tied to a “hypothetical upside scenario if international subs hit 450 million.” At the time, they were hovering around 170 million. The board rationale? “It’s important to incentivize the impossible.”

Another studio CEO got a bonus for projected advertising revenue from a FAST (free ad-supported television) channel that hadn’t launched yet. It was shelved eight weeks later. The bonus? Paid in full.

2. The Relative TSR Shell Game

Media companies love relative total shareholder return (TSR) metrics. But the peer groups are chosen like Oscar voters pick Best Original Song—randomly, politically, and with deep suspicion of anything truly competitive.

Consider a CEO who underperforms S&P 500, NASDAQ, and all traditional media stocks—but still beats a self-selected peer group that includes two bankrupt European telecoms, a Canadian streaming startup, and a pre-IPO gaming company with three employees.

“I beat my peers,” he says in the earnings call.

“Who are your peers?” the analyst asks.

“People who believe I beat my peers,” he replies.

3. The Equity Waterfall from Hell

Now let’s get into equity. There’s equity. Then there’s Hellywood equity.

I once saw a structure so convoluted that it took four of us—myself, an attorney, a partner at an audit firm, and a compensation analyst—a full hour to realize that all of it vested whether or not targets were met, provided the CEO stayed on payroll for 24 months. “It’s retention-based,” we were told.

“But the grant is called ‘performance equity.’”

“Right. And the performance is staying employed.”

Another favorite: stock options priced to “recent troughs,” not fair market value—meaning the CEO gets credit for “creating shareholder value” when the stock returns to mediocrity after a plunge they caused.

4. The One-Time, Recurring Bonus

This is an old Hellywood trick. The “one-time transformational leadership bonus” that gets awarded every 18 months.

Bob Chapek received a $15 million retention bonus in 2021 to stay through 2024. He was fired in 2022. He kept the bonus.

David Zaslav received a $202 million stock option mega-grant when Discovery merged with WarnerMedia, described as “non-recurring.” Then in 2023, the board gave him another “special performance award” worth tens of millions—for navigating the chaos he created.

As I often say in boardrooms: “If you’re giving someone a medal for surviving a fire they started, it’s time to check the arson report.”

5. “Strategic Milestones” Without a Map

Strategic milestone bonuses are Hellywood’s version of a choose-your-own-adventure book. Except in this version, every ending leads to the same outcome: cash.

Consider this excerpt from a real-life award plan I reviewed (names changed for obvious reasons):

“CEO shall be eligible for a $5 million bonus upon achieving key strategic initiatives, including but not limited to: platform growth, user engagement optimization, cross-vertical alignment, and brand differentiation across core IP verticals.”

Translation: “If anything happens, pay him.”

When I asked what “user engagement optimization” meant, the GC replied: “More clicks, or fewer, depending on how we frame it.” Legal creativity is alive and well in Hellywood.

6. EBITDAlchemy

There’s regular EBITDA—earnings before interest, taxes, depreciation, and amortization.

Then there’s Hellywood EBITDA—earnings before interest, taxes, depreciation, amortization, content write-downs, restructuring charges, contract terminations, asset impairments, stock comp expenses, legal settlements, and parking validation.

It’s EBITDA as interpreted by Cirque du Soleil: flexible, contortionist, and designed to distract.

The End Result: Absurd, Absorbed, and Approved

In any other industry, these tactics might raise red flags. In Hollywood, they raise base salary.

I once witnessed a board approve a bonus based on “internal audience momentum,” a metric created during a quarterly off-site in Maui. The CEO hit 105% of target. He also missed his earnings forecast by $800 million. “That’s a separate narrative,” the board chair said.

To be clear: I’m not against paying great leaders great money. But Hellywood math isn’t about rewarding performance. It’s about protecting egos, enabling delusion, and ensuring that the executives never have to live in the world they’ve built for everyone else.

The shareholders pay. The employees guess. The actors wait. And the CEOs?

They vest.

PART III: THE DIVAS IN SUITS

If talent agents are the sharks of Hollywood, then media CEOs are the orcas—intelligent, territorial, and known to throw seals (or division heads) in the air just for sport.

I’ve been in rooms where executives quoted Shakespeare while justifying layoffs, insisted on private security for a virtual offsite, and once—true story—demanded that a Tesla Cybertruck be delivered to the lot for “symbolism.” They said it represented “disruption.” It never started.

These are not your typical Fortune 500 CEOs. These are divas in Tom Ford suits, with charisma honed on investor roadshows and tantrum potential rivaling the most over-caffeinated showrunner.

Let’s take a stroll through some of the industry’s most memorable boardroom performances.

David Zaslav – The Studio Wrecker with a Smile

Zaslav is the kind of executive who walks into a $43 billion merger and walks out with a $246 million pay package—even while canceling finished films (Batgirl, Scoob!, and nearly CNN+ on launch day). His justification? “We’re resetting for the future.” Translation: “We bought a boat full of leaks, and I brought a flamethrower.”

Behind the scenes, Zaslav is known for his hyperfocus on cost-cutting and his absolute refusal to indulge “legacy behaviors” like… making movies. His famous boardroom line: “We’re not in the business of entertainment. We’re in the business of free cash flow.”

This, of course, is the corporate equivalent of a chef saying, “We’re not here to serve food. We’re here to clean pans.”

The irony? His strategy hasn’t worked. Stock price: down. Culture: fractured. Talent relationships: radioactive. Bonus structure? Still maxed out.

Bob Iger – The Reluctant King Returns

Ah yes—Hollywood’s silver-haired savior. When Disney brought Bob Iger back from retirement to clean up Bob Chapek’s mess, the media called it “a triumphant return.” Those of us in the comp world knew better: this was Return of the Jedi with more spreadsheets and less lightsaber choreography.

Iger came back with the promise of stability. What he brought was more layoffs, a battered ESPN strategy, and a streaming division that hemorrhages cash faster than a Burbank Starbucks gives out screeners.

But here’s the twist—he negotiated a new deal with almost identical economics to the one he had before. He got paid like a turnaround artist while presiding over a company stuck in a creative and financial tailspin.

I once said, in a room of board members: “Bob Iger’s greatest achievement is that you believe he’s your best option… because you can’t remember the last six quarters.”

Reed Hastings & Ted Sarandos – The Odd Couple of Siliconwood

Netflix is where showbiz met spreadsheets and fell in love… awkwardly.

Hastings, the founder and first high priest of algorithmic entertainment, built a platform that changed the game. Sarandos, the programming mind behind House of Cards, brought Hollywood cachet to a tech shop.

Together, they formed an unusual executive duo—part Steve Jobs and Jon Stewart, part Frick and Frack.

But their pay packages? Pure Hellywood gold.

In 2021, Netflix paid Hastings over $40 million and Sarandos $39 million—with zero performance metrics tied to subscriber growth, profitability, or content success. Their logic: “We’re different.” And in fairness—they are. Netflix basically invented a business model where burning billions in content spend is considered strategy, not insolvency.

I once described Netflix comp math like this: “They’re being paid to tell better stories, not deliver better outcomes. The irony is, they can’t tell the story of why they’re being paid.”

Jeff Shell, Ron Meyer, and the NBCUniversal Soap Opera

NBCUniversal execs have proven one thing: you can absolutely fail upward in this business—sometimes even after being fired.

Jeff Shell exited the company after admitting to an inappropriate relationship with a CNBC journalist. The board? “Deeply disappointed.” The exit package? Heavily redacted. Industry rumor? Eight figures.

Ron Meyer—longtime studio consigliere—resigned in disgrace after a hush money scandal involving an actress. Within months, he was consulting for other studios.

One exec told me, “Ron may be radioactive, but his Rolodex glows in the dark.”

The Real Stars: The Assistants Who Know Everything

Let me pause to give credit where it’s due. You want the truth about how a studio runs? Talk to the executive assistants. They’re the first to know when a merger’s brewing, when a meltdown’s imminent, and when the CEO’s wife is going to call to ask, “What do you mean he’s in New York?”

Years ago, an assistant slipped me a Post-It during a comp committee pre-meeting. It read: “He’s already planning to quit next year—ask about acceleration language.” It saved the company millions.

That assistant now works in VC. She’s worth more than half the board.

Frank’s Law of Executive Ego

“In Hollywood, the amount of money a CEO asks for is directly proportional to how recently they were on the cover of Variety.”

Theatrics are part of the package. I’ve been told, deadpan, by a studio chair that a bonus had to be increased because “we were at Nobu, and Ted was talking numbers.”

That was the whole rationale.

No model. No benchmarking. No performance matrix.

Just sushi.

PART IV: WRITERS ON STRIKE, BOSSES ON JETS

It was the summer of 2023, and Los Angeles had two types of heat: 100° sidewalks... and white-hot labor fury.

On one side, you had the writers—many of whom had to drive for Uber between staffing jobs, whose residuals from billion-dollar streaming series were barely enough to cover parking at the WGA meeting.

On the other side, the executives—lounging in Idaho at the Sun Valley conference, sipping cold-pressed optimism, jetting between Aspen, Cannes, and corporate retreats where “labor dynamics” were PowerPointed over truffle risotto.

Let’s just say the optics weren’t great.

And as someone who has advised both sides for decades, I can confirm: this wasn’t just bad PR. It was a masterclass in executive tone-deafness. In my line of work, we call that “bonus risk.” Unless, of course, you’re in Hollywood—where it’s just Tuesday.

The Infamous Iger Quote

At the height of the strike, Bob Iger stood at a press event in Sun Valley (seriously, Sun Valley) and told the world:

“What the writers and actors are asking for is not realistic.”

That statement will go down in history—alongside “Mission accomplished” and “It’s just a flesh wound”—as one of the most wildly miscalculated public remarks in labor history.

Let’s unpack that.

That same quarter, Disney reported over $1.1 billion in free cash flow. Iger’s personal compensation that year? Roughly $31.5 million. The annual median salary of a staff writer on a Disney+ show that won an Emmy? $68,000—with no residuals.

Even a late-night host joked: “The only thing more unrealistic than our demands… is the last three seasons of The Mandalorian.”

Residuals vs. Revenues: A Tale of Two Ledgers

The heart of the strike was about residuals—the once-reliable lifeline for writers and actors that, in the streaming age, had vanished into algorithmic fog.

Writers used to be able to pay mortgages off reruns. Now, they get a check for $17.83 when Wednesday trends for six weeks in 140 countries.

Meanwhile, Netflix’s leadership was still triggering stock options based on “content viewership velocity” and “engagement depth.” These are metrics so vague, I once joked that “if your mom thinks about rewatching Bridgerton, Ted Sarandos gets a restricted stock unit.”

True story: One writer received a residual check for $0.03 for a show still streaming globally. It cost more to print and mail the check than the amount it delivered.

The Gulfstream Class

Let’s talk jets.

The most poignant moment of the WGA strike may have been this: a protest sign held by a TV staffer that read:

“You get private planes. I get public transit. Let’s talk.”

Executive comp plans at the top five studios include generous travel reimbursements, housing allowances, and what one proxy statement delicately called “executive transportation safety infrastructure.”

That means: jets:

• One CEO billed $684,000 in jet usage over 18 months.
• Another received a personal air travel allowance, plus “preferred crew scheduling.”
• One even had a jet hanger lease as a reimbursable perk.

The WGA’s response? “We just want fair pay. You can keep your hanger.”

As I advised a media board in 2023: “You might not feel turbulence in your Gulfstream, but down here on the picket line, it’s a hurricane.”

The Streaming CEO Who Asked for Strike Credit

Here’s an insider gem I can finally share.

In Q3 2023, a major streaming company’s CEO came to the comp committee and asked whether he could receive “crisis leadership” bonus consideration—for managing morale and investor confidence during the strike.

Let that sink in.

He wanted bonus credit… for surviving the backlash he helped create.

I asked, delicately: “Should we also award hazard pay to the arsonist for reporting the fire?”

He laughed. The board chair laughed. The bonus was approved.

When Writers Return, the Executives Celebrate

You’d think, after the strikes ended, that executives would greet the creative community with humility, grace, and gratitude.

You’d be wrong.

The post-strike earnings calls included such poetic lines as:

• “We’re excited to return to content scaling.”
• “We remain committed to storytelling excellence.”
• “We’re focused on franchise expansion and synergy harvesting.”

What they meant was: “We can reboot Frozen again. You’re welcome.”

Meanwhile, the same companies quietly filed 10-Ks showing massive executive payouts tied to “resolution of external labor challenges.”

In my business, that’s called spiking the football after moving the goalposts.

Frank’s Forecast: This Will Happen Again

Why? Because compensation plans still incentivize volume over value, cost-cutting over culture, and visibility over vision. The labor force remains disposable. The executive remains ascendant.

Until comp plans evolve to prioritize long-term creative partnerships, human capital alignment, and responsible resource allocation, we’ll be back here in five years—with picket signs, press tours, and another exec at Sun Valley wondering why the peasants are revolting.

PART V: THE REBOOT ECONOMY & IP FETISHISM

If executive compensation plans were mood boards, they’d be covered in old movie posters, tired taglines, and a lot of sticky notes that say, “Now on Hulu.”

There’s a dirty little secret in Hollywood’s C-suites: originality doesn’t pay—not in the current comp game. But nostalgia? Nostalgia prints money. And more importantly for Hellywood’s elite, nostalgia triggers the bonus clauses.

IP fetishism—also known as “reboot fever”—is not just a creative failure. It’s a strategic compensation design. Why take a chance on a new show, when your annual performance shares vest if you “successfully activate legacy IP verticals across multi-platform frameworks”?

Translation: remake Alf and cash in.

Let’s Count the Reboots (So You Don’t Have To)

Here’s just a taste of what has been rebooted, reimagined, resurrected, or otherwise given an unnecessary second life in the past few years:

• Walker, Texas Ranger (now just Walker)
• Walker, Texas Ranger (now just Walker)
• Quantum Leap
• Fresh Prince of Bel-Air (now Bel-Air, but gritty)
• The Wonder Years
• Night Court
• Saved by the Bell
• Doogie Howser (now a Hawaiian teenage girl… but still called Doogie)
• Gremlins: Secrets of the Mogwai (animated. because why not?)
• Scooby-Doo cinematic universe (yes, that’s real)

And on the horizon: reboots ofThe Office, Twilight, Harry Potter, and a Barney the Dinosaur film described as “surrealist horror.” (We’ll believe that last one when David Lynch signs on.)

Executives defend this flood of reboots as “audience-driven content curation.” Internally, we know what it really is: low-risk, high-reward comp strategy.

One studio chief once told me, proudly:
“If it already has a theme song, it already has a built-in P&L.”

I replied:
“Then give the profits to the guy who wrote the song, not yourself.”

He didn’t laugh. But he did get a 12% equity refresh.

The IP Incentive Problem

Here’s how it works behind the velvet curtain:

Modern executive comp plans in Hollywood are stuffed with Strategic IP Activation Metrics, often coded as:

• “Franchise Revitalization ROI”
• “Cross-platform Brand Extension”
• “Legacy Content Monetization”
• “Universe Scalability Index” (yes, that’s a real phrase)

In one board meeting I attended; a CFO told us the CEO’s bonus would double if he launched three new “content ecosystems” based on existing IP.

What did that mean in practice?

• Turning a 1990s cartoon into a musical prequel
• Launching a podcast network around Law & Order
• Creating Punky Brewster: The VR Experience

I wish I were kidding.

Originality Is for Interns

The saddest part? Truly original work is often sidelined in favor of known quantities. A brilliant, socially relevant pilot may sit in development hell, while “Riverdale: Origins” gets greenlit with a budget bigger than half of CNN’s election coverage.

Why? Because the comp plan says: “Deliver value to shareholders through IP leverage.” It does not say: “Find the next Breaking Bad.”

Originality is unpredictable. And in a world where bonus thresholds are defined by “accelerated timelines for franchise engagement,” unpredictability is the enemy.

I once told a room full of executives, “You’re not running a studio, you’re running a nostalgia museum with a soda machine.” One exec nodded. Another asked if that line could be optioned.

Case Study: The Scooby-Doo Industrial Complex

Warner Bros. Discovery, desperate for synergy and short on hits, leaned hard into the Scooby-verse. We got:

• Velma (animated and controversial)
• Scoob! (straight to streaming)
• Rumors of Scooby-Doo: Noir (in development hell)

The CEO received stock performance units tied to animation franchise growth. That includes Scooby-Doo. So yes, there’s a scenario in which The Mystery Machine directly triggered a seven-figure payday.

Someone please explain that to Shaggy.

The Crossover Clown Car

Marvel started it. Now everyone wants a “cinematic universe.”

I’ve seen executive decks proposing:

• The Looney Tunes Expanded Universe
• A Willy Wonka origin trilogy (because nothing says magic like a multi-year corporate synergy plan)
• The Mattel-Verse (yes, Hot Wheels is next)
• And a live-action Pokémon meets Power Rangers crossover for “global Gen Z mindshare penetration”

My response?
“You’re not building a universe. You’re building an exit package.”

Frank’s IP Rule of Thumb

“If a studio CEO can name three old shows they want to reboot before naming one new idea they’ve greenlit, their bonus should go to the mailroom.”

Hollywood isn’t bankrupt on creativity. It’s bankrupt on incentive structure.

Because if the only ideas that make it to screen are ones the CEO recognizes from Saturday mornings in 1978, then we don’t need creative executives—we need therapists specializing in midlife crises.

PART VI: THE GOLDEN PARACHUTE PAGEANT

In Hollywood, even exits need a script. And when it comes to executive exits, the genre is always fantasy.

Nowhere else—nowhere—does failure pay so handsomely. Nowhere else do you get fired for tanking a $60 billion merger and walk away with a check that could rebuild the public school system of Los Angeles.

This is not just a bug in the system. It is the system.

Hellywood’s executive comp game doesn’t just reward success. It memorializes failure with bespoke compensation structures, custom stock acceleration language, and full health coverage for your ego.

As I often say in closed-door comp reviews:

“Only in Hollywood does ‘you’re fired’ come with a standing ovation, a G550, and $42 million in equity vesting.”

Let’s get to the contestants.

Bob Chapek – Mr. Exit Strategy 2023

Bob Chapek was supposed to be Disney’s new era. Instead, he became a cautionary tale on how not to follow Bob Iger.

He alienated Pixar. He battled Scarlett Johansson in public. He confused Wall Street with a dozen pivots in streaming strategy. The final straw? He told investors everything was fine, right before an earnings disaster.

Disney’s solution?
Fire him. Quietly. Swiftly.
Then… pay him $24 million in severance, vested equity, and benefits.

That’s right—$24 million to leave.

In Chapek’s case, it paid more to be not Bob Iger than it did to be Bob Chapek.

Jeff Shell – The Award for “Worst HR File Ever”

Shell, NBCUniversal’s CEO, exited in scandal in 2023 after admitting to an inappropriate relationship with a CNBC journalist. His termination was reportedly for cause—the HR equivalent of capital punishment.

But here’s the fun part: he still received deferred comp, vested equity, and a tidy NDA clause that prevented anyone from saying exactly how much.

Industry insiders estimate the payout was north of $30 million.

I was asked at the time, “Should we claw this back?”
I replied, “Only if you have a claw sharp enough to cut through 17 contracts and four indemnity clauses.”

They did not.

Ron Meyer – Lifetime Achievement in Severance Drama

Meyer, the famously well-connected vice chairman of NBCUniversal, “resigned” in 2020 after admitting to paying hush money to an actress he’d had a relationship with.

He claimed it was personal. The board agreed. So personal, in fact, that he reportedly received a mid-eight-figure exit deal, plus the kind of industry silence that money alone can’t buy.

A media consultant joked: “Meyer’s hush money had hush money.” I couldn’t have said it better.

Jason Kilar – “The Hybrid Release Guy”

Jason Kilar will forever be known as the man who blew up WarnerMedia’s theatrical strategy by releasing all 2021 films simultaneously on HBO Max—without telling directors or talent.

The backlash was nuclear. Denis Villeneuve called it “a hijack.” Christopher Nolan said HBO Max was “the worst streaming service.” Agents revolted.

And what did Kilar get when Discovery took over?
$17 million in exit pay.
He also left with his vesting schedule accelerated and a glowing LinkedIn update.

If that’s failure, sign me up.

Table of Shame: 2020–2025 Executive Exit Package Highlights

PART VII: WHEN THE SPOTLIGHT TURNS UGLY

There’s an unspoken rule in Hollywood: the show must go on—even if it’s awful.

But every so often, someone pulls the curtain. And when that someone is a shareholder with voting power, a reputation for vengeance, or a subscription to ISS, things start to get real.

Say-on-pay may be non-binding. But in Hellywood, a failed vote is the equivalent of slapping the CEO across the face with a golden script and shouting, “I’m recasting you.”

In this part of the saga, we explore what happens when the lights flicker, the cameras stop, and the comp committee realizes… the shareholders have actually read the proxy.

The Zaslav Revolt

Let’s start with the fireworks.

In 2023, David Zaslav’s compensation caused a minor shareholder mutiny. Discovery’s merger with Warner Bros. was still a chaotic mess. The stock had cratered. Morale was in free fall. Talent was fuming. Layoffs hit thousands.

So naturally… Zaslav was awarded over $39 million in pay. This, after pulling in $246 million in 2021.

The result? A stunning 17% drop in shareholder support for his pay plan.

But here's the kicker: it passed anyway. Because the board defended it with phrases like “unprecedented leadership” and “transformational vision.”

Translation: “He’s the only one who knows where the bodies are buried.”

Shareholder Backlash, Hollywood-Style

Shareholder revolts in the entertainment industry look a little different than in tech or finance.

There’s less math. More rage.

• A Disney investor once wrote: “This board is more loyal to Bob Iger than to fiduciary law.”
• CBS investors tried to block Les Moonves’ golden parachute using a rarely invoked “morals clause”—too little, too late.
• At Netflix, investors repeatedly question why Reed Hastings receives equity grants without any performance metrics.

When I’ve been called in to consult on a failing say-on-pay, I usually hear this first:

“Frank, we didn’t think anyone actually read the CD&A.”

News flash: they do now.

Proxy Advisors Enter the Chat

ISS and Glass Lewis used to whisper. Now they shout.

When ISS issued a scathing report on a media CEO’s bonus structure in 2022, the board chair shrugged. “They’ve said worse.”

Then the stock dropped 8% the next day. Suddenly, ISS wasn’t just a nuisance—it was a headline.

I’ve seen more than one chairperson call an emergency meeting because Glass Lewis included a bolded sentence questioning performance alignment. Not because it was wrong—because it was public.

One iconic quote:
“If this gets picked up by Deadline, we’re going to be trending on X.”

Yes, they still call it Twitter in the room. For optics.

Compensation Committee Crisis Mode

Once the vote tanks, the real theater begins.

• The General Counsel starts talking in three-syllable legalese.
• The HR chief insists, “This was benchmarked!”
• The outside comp consultant (sometimes me) is asked to find a new peer group (or a new job).
• And the CEO sends a 1am email saying, “Don’t worry, I get it. Let’s be strategic.” (He doesn’t. And he’s not.)

One chair told me, “Can we just rename the bonus and try again next year?”
Another said, “Let’s add a clawback. No one will invoke it, but it looks good in the filing.”

To which I replied, “It’s not a clawback if it’s decorative. That’s called jewelry.”

Investor Q&A: A Blood Sport

Earnings calls become brutal. Shareholders get brave.

A few real questions I’ve heard:

• “Can you explain why the board rewarded failure with a bonus?”
• “What exactly did ‘market-leading creativity acceleration’ mean in the bonus matrix?”
• “How do we justify a retention grant for someone actively looking for their next gig?”

The answers? Usually buzzwords, deflection, and long pauses followed by a quick handoff to the CFO.

The Exit That Wasn’t

In 2024, a certain studio CEO was nearly shown the door after a disastrous streaming pivot. Say-on-pay support dropped below 70%. ISS hammered the plan. Media outlets speculated about replacements.

Then the board quietly… extended his contract.

Why? Because the severance clause would’ve cost more than the streaming flop he approved.

As I said in that board meeting:

“You’ve structured a contract where failure is cheaper than firing. That’s not retention. That’s ransom.”

The Talent Doesn’t Forget

Actors and writers aren’t blind. They see the bonuses. They read the filings. And during negotiations, they bring receipts.

A WGA negotiator once told me, “If you say there’s no money, I’m showing your comp report to every guild member on the line.”

They did.

Frank’s Final Word on Shareholder Revolt:

“The most dangerous line in Hollywood isn’t in a script—it’s in a proxy statement. And once shareholders read it, no amount of spin can save you.”

PART VIII: FROM OSCARS TO OFFSHORING

Once upon a time, Hollywood studios were sprawling backlots, echoing with the sound of clapperboards and craft services trays being wheeled past glitzy trailers.

Now? They’re spreadsheets. And tax maps. And shell companies in Dublin with names like “Golden Reel Holdings Ltd.”

Today’s media CEO is less studio boss and more tax-optimized logistics coordinator. Their awards shelf may feature an Emmy or two—but their real pride? A Cayman Islands mailbox and a 20-slide deck titled “Territorialization Strategy for IP Deployment.”

Because when executive bonuses are tied to margin expansion and “global cost rationalization,” you don’t greenlight Citizen Kane. You greenlight Sharknado 9: Bangkok Drift… and shoot it in a parking garage in Eastern Europe.

The New Studio Map: Anywhere But Burbank

Let’s take a quick tour:

• Vancouver: The “Hollywood of the North.” Known for tax credits, pine trees, and acting like New York in 50% of Hallmark movies.
• Georgia: Low cost, high production volume, and more on-screen murders than any other state.
• Serbia, Romania, Hungary: Budget blockbusters, crumbling castles, and more CGI dragons than union protections.
• Malaysia & Thailand: Beautiful locations, cheap labor, and conveniently distant from your HR department.
• Delaware: Not for filming—just for structuring.

What’s the incentive? Simple: executive comp plans now include adjusted EBITA margins, free cash flow conversion ratios, and territorial cost optimization KPIs. None of which reward hiring locally or paying above minimums.

I once read a comp plan that explicitly linked a CEO’s annual equity modifier to “percentage of aggregate content spend conducted in preferred tax jurisdictions.”

Translation: if you film in Iceland instead of Culver City, you get a Porsche.

The Rebate Chase

This is the Hellywood scavenger hunt—rebates, incentives, and loopholes so elaborate they deserve their own series:

• Hungary: 30% rebate on qualified spend.
• Georgia: Up to 20% transferable tax credit.
• UK: Cultural test? No problem—just make your talking dog vaguely British.
• Australia: Subsidies, location grants, and bonus points if Nicole Kidman walks by during production.

One studio CFO told me proudly, “We wrapped three thrillers and a rom-com in Kraków last year. None of the scripts were set there.”

I asked, “Did it impact storytelling?”

He replied, “Only for the audience.”

The Shell Game: Where’s Your Studio Again?

Modern media companies love subsidiaries. One studio now has 143 separate legal entities across 19 countries. This isn’t world-building. It’s tax-building.

Some of my personal favorites:

• Whispering Lagoon IP Holdings, LLC (Not a spa. Holds the rights to a zombie franchise.)
• EagleNest Distribution Ltd. (Based in Malta. Technically owns the entire Latin American release of one horror film and all “educational licensing” rights.)
• Big Tent Pictures (BVI) (Controls international inflight versions of a sitcom canceled in 2018.)

Every one of these entities justifies a portion of executive comp—because “complex international operations” require “strategic oversight,” which gets translated into an annual global complexity premium in the CEO’s pay mix.

Yes, that’s real.

When Art Meets Arbitrage

Let’s not pretend this is accidental. The offshoring isn’t about culture—it’s about compensation structure.

I’ve reviewed plan after plan that contains language like:

• “Incentivize international spend optimization.”
• “Reward for successful completion of cross-border production agreements.”
• “Tiered multipliers for margin expansion in subsidized jurisdictions.”

One CEO received a 150% bonus multiplier for hitting his international margin target—after canceling 80% of the U.S. animation slate and moving production to Bangalore.

His explanation? “We’re globalizing creativity.”

My response? “You’re commodifying it—and calling it innovation.”

Frank’s Global Pay Truth Bomb

“If your comp plan rewards filming abroad more than creating at home, you’re not a studio—you’re a suitcase with an LLC.”

The Fallout: Local Talent, Global Shrinkage

The shift has real casualties:

• American writers locked out of showrunners’ rooms now staffed in Prague.
• Union crews replaced by freelancers under NDAs in Kuala Lumpur.
• Post-production moved offshore for “efficiency” while U.S. editors are laid off.

But the executive gets to say on CNBC: “We’ve achieved cost harmony across geographies.”

What don’t they say? The harmony is between their bonus and a tax shelter.

The Ironic Part? Quality Suffers

When you chase rebates, you compromise timelines, locations, and consistency. And yet… these same CEOs still receive bonuses tied to “content excellence.”

So, when Fast & Furious 11 features palm trees in a supposed Detroit scene and the physics of a flying Dodge Charger are explained by a Romanian teenager over Zoom, just remember:

That wasn’t a production decision.

That was an incentive plan doing its job.

PART IX: THE TALENT WARS – BUT FOR EXECUTIVES

We’ve heard the buzz for years: “Hollywood’s in a talent war.”

What they don’t tell you is that the real war isn’t for creators. It’s not about landing the next Shonda Rhimes or Ryan Coogler or even whoever figured out how to reboot MacGyver without getting sued.

No, the real bloodbath is happening in mahogany-paneled boardrooms, boutique talent firms, and overpriced restaurants where the appetizers have truffle foam and the job offers come with nine-figure pay packages and a wellness coach named Skye.

This is the battle for the executive suite—and it’s more dramatic, ruthless, and nonsensical than anything on screen.

“Poaching” in Hellywood

In the traditional talent world, poaching means stealing an actor mid-negotiation.

In Hellywood poaching means offering someone a $50 million signing bonus, half of Idaho in stock options, and a contractual guarantee that no one will ever criticize them in public filings.

A few real examples (names anonymized to protect the ridiculously overpaid):

• One exec was hired away from a tech firm with a $25M signing bonus and a clause guaranteeing no press release would mention her previous job. (She was fired from it.)
• Another jumped studios and demanded—and received—a clause that he could work remotely from Saint-Tropez. For a job that involved running physical production.

I once reviewed a contract where the relocation clause included a $4,500-a-month furniture stipend and four “emotional support relocation check-ins”. That’s not satire. That’s real.

Why the Madness?

Because boardrooms buy narratives. And in Hellywood, the best narrative wins—even if it’s complete fiction.

• “She’s a visionary.” Translation: She has an Instagram account and once suggested a wellness docuseries.
• “He’s a turnaround expert.” Translation: He laid off 400 people and blamed macroeconomics.
• “They’re the next Reed Hastings.” Translation: They use Slack and once said “content flywheel” on a panel.

And because these execs have high-profile agents—yes, CEOs now have agents—they’re marketed like celebrities.

I’ve seen pitch decks from Hollywood executive search firms that read like Variety profiles:

“She’s a brand whisperer with cross-platform monetization instincts and deep Gen Z traction.”

She ran email marketing at a failing music app.

The Revolving Door: A Career in U-Turns

The same execs keep cycling through studios like it’s a dysfunctional Thanksgiving dinner.

• Fail at Warner? Welcome to Paramount.
• Botch a streaming rollout at Hulu? Congratulations, you now run global at Netflix.
• Cancel three hit shows at Amazon? Time to advise Apple’s original content slate.

Why? Because comp plans reward tenure, not impact. They vest fast, reset often, and contain “make-whole” grants so rich they could make Spielberg blink.

One exec left a studio mid-scandal and showed up two weeks later at another—with a new deal worth more than his last exit package.

The board’s defense? “He learned a lot from the experience.”

I replied, “Yes, like how to get paid twice.” (I wish I could do that with professional fees..)

The “Executive Experience Multiplier” Scam

Many media comp plans apply an internal “multiplier” to new hires if they’ve previously served as CEO or senior executive at a Fortune 500 company. These usually translate to:

• +20% base
• +50% equity
• Immediate bonus eligibility
• And my favorite: “brand-level executive parity acceleration”

That last one means “We didn’t want to insult him by offering less than what he made screwing up somewhere else.”

The Satirical Resume of a Hollywood Executive

Let’s break it down:

Name: Brandon T. Maxwell III
Previous Title: EVP of Strategic Content Operations and Experiential Monetization (Hulu)
Actual Duties: Oversaw branded merch from The Bear and vetoed three female showrunners
Notable Achievements: Coined the term “Snackable Narrative Engine,” which means nothing
New Title: Chief Content Commander (Peacock Global)

Compensation:

• $3.2M base
• $17M sign-on equity
• $5M performance units tied to “franchise lift potential”
• Free parking, even in New York

Catchphrase: “This isn’t TV, it’s an immersive ecosystem.”

Frank’s Final Theory on the Talent War

“In Hellywood, they call it ‘the war for talent’ because no one wants to admit it’s just ‘the war for whoever still wants the job after reading the press.’”

PART X: WHAT WOULD FRANK DO?

(Or: How to Save Hellywood from Its Own Damn Self)

Let me tell you a secret. Behind every bloated CEO pay plan, behind every “retention award” for a leader who couldn’t retain an umbrella in a drizzle, behind every golden parachute lined with irony and Italian leather—there’s a room.

I’ve been in that room. Many, many times.

And in that room, there’s usually a mahogany table, a boardroom lunch catered by someone’s nephew, a jittery HR lead holding a 40-page deck, and a general counsel pretending not to see the train wreck coming.

And then… there’s me.

And I sometimes say those famous words no one wants to hear.

“Help me to understand.”

Four words. Simple. Devastating. Deadly.

Because they mean: You’re about to explain to me, on the record, why this executive who just vaporized $7 billion in shareholder value is getting a bonus for “resilience.”

So, what would Frank do?:

1. Nuke the Nonsense

Performance metrics should be measurable, meaningful, and harder to hit than a Marvel movie’s second act.

Gone: “Strategic milestones” like “platform engagement”
In: “Actual profitability and audience growth minus content cancellations and brand burn rate”.

No more “synergy targets,” “culture transformation points,” or “media impact multipliers.” If you can’t explain it to a summer intern in under 30 seconds, you’re laundering failure through vocabulary.

2. Replace Retention with Reputation

Stop throwing retention bonuses at executives who are only being retained because they wouldn’t survive outside your boardroom terrarium.

You want to keep someone? Pay them after they do something extraordinary. Not because you’re afraid they’ll walk. If you’re that scared, lock the door and give them a fidget spinner.

3. No Pay Without Pain

If the stock drops, the pay drops. If the company misses, the comp committee gets on stage and says so out loud.

Executives should share downside. If the actors are picketing, the CEO shouldn’t be piloting a Dassault Falcon to a speaking gig in Davos called “The Future of Empathy.”

Here’s your new rule:

No jet until net. If you’re underwater, you fly commercial. Middle seat. Next to a guy named Carl who eats tuna salad at 35,000 feet.

4. Make Executive Pay Comedy-Proof

If your CEO’s pay package can be used as a punchline by John Oliver, it’s too complicated. If the CD&A reads like the third act of Tenet, simplify it.

I’ve written executive pay plans that fit on one page.
No wiggle language. No footnotes that need an FBI pathologist.
Just: “Here’s what we pay. Here’s why. And here’s what happens if they blow it.”

If that scares you, good - It should.

5. Let Boards Be Boards Again

This is going to sting: Stop letting the CEO’s tennis partner run the compensation committee.

Board independence isn’t a checkbox—it’s a firewall.

If your compensation committee chair is also on the CEO’s yacht club roster, you don’t have a committee. You have a cover band.

6. Teach HR How to Just Say No

The HR chief isn’t there to carry water. They’re there to define value, push back, and keep you out of the headlines.

I’ve trained HR leaders who were terrified to challenge a bonus request because the CEO might “get upset.”

Newsflash: If your comp plan can’t survive a “help me to understand” conversation, it certainly won’t survive a shareholder revolt.

7. Add a Pinch of Fear and a Dash of Humor

Every good comp strategy needs a little spice:

• Fear: Because shareholders vote.
• Humor: Because most of this stuff is hilarious - until it bankrupts you.

I once told a board, “You’re paying him like he’s the messiah, but your stock looks like it was hit by a meteor made of debt and reboots.”

They laughed. Then they made me their permanent consultant.

PART XI: THE VERITAS WAY

(How You Actually Fix It—Seriously, This Time)

We end where we should: with truth. That’s what Veritas means.

This isn’t just satire. It’s a blueprint. It’s a hard reboot. It’s how you build a culture where executive compensation doesn’t make headlines—it makes sense.

Here's how:

1. Align Pay with Strategy (The Real One)

Your strategy isn’t “be popular.” It’s to grow value over time.

So, pay for:

• Sustainable growth
• Brand longevity
• Creative excellence
• Talent retention (real talent—not the guy who trademarked “snackable binge units”)
• And yes… audience satisfaction.

2. Five-Year Vesting Minimums

You want long-term alignment? Make executives wait.

They should earn stock after the shows are out, the numbers are in, and the fans either love it or torch it on Reddit.

3. Clawbacks That Actually Claw

If an executive tanks the company or buries a scandal, you don’t send them to Sun Valley—you send them a bill.

4. Ban the Following Phrases from All Bonus Plans:

• “Leadership Journey”
• “Transformative Culture Champion”
• “Strategic Storytelling Catalyst”
• “Platform Evangelist”
• “Bonus eligible based on vibes and LinkedIn impressions”

Frank’s Final Test: The Three-Mirror Rule

Before approving any pay package, ask:

1. Can you defend it in the mirror?
2. Can you defend it in a shareholder letter?
3. Can you defend it on live TV, in front of your grandmother?

If the answer to any of these is no, you’re not doing compensation—you’re doing comedy.

THE CLOSING SCENE

And so, sports fans we fade to black….

The camera pans across Sunset Boulevard. The billboards show streaming wars. The studio gates creak open. Somewhere, a new CEO is rewriting their bio to include “visionary.” Somewhere else, a screenwriter’s residual check bounces.

And you, my dear reader, sit at the boardroom table holding a pen.

You can choose the sequel—or you can rewrite the story.

If you want sanity. If you want integrity. If you want alignment that actually aligns—then come to the one firm with the courage to speak truth to tenure, to bonuses, and to every exec who thinks “value creation” means hitting refresh on their stock portfolio.

That’s The Veritas Way.

And that’s how we roll the credits—with a little truth, a lot of courage, and just enough satire to keep the lawyers awake.

Fade out. Applause. Cue standing ovation.

FBG

P.S.: If this piece made you laugh, nod in agreement, or mutter “he’s talking about our board, isn’t he?”—I’d love to hear from you. Drop me a line at fglassner@veritasecc.com. I personally read and reply to every message—no assistants, no AI, just me (usually with a strong espresso in hand). Whether you’re a studio head, burned-out showrunner, screenwriter, producer, client, board member, creative head, actor, or just a fellow traveler in the great corporate circus, I welcome the conversation.

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Frank Glassner is the CEO of Veritas Executive Compensation Consultants and a widely respected authority on executive pay and strategic compensation design. Known for his discerning judgment, consummate diplomacy, incisive insights, and unwavering discretion, he is a trusted advisor and confidant to boards, CEOs, and institutional investors worldwide.