Not Dead Yet

like a video on permanent fast-forward.
    To the occupants of other vehicles crawling alongside him, he looked every inch an archetypal successful LA entertainment industry mover and shaker. But inside the plush leather cocoon of the Porsche’s cockpit it was very different. He was squirming in his ripped jeans. The sun might be shining on Ventura Boulevard, and on his exposed dome, but it sure as hell was shady in his heart right now, and sweat was trickling down his neck, sticking his black John Varvatos shirt to the seat-back. Not yet 9 a.m. and he was already perspiring. It was going to be a clammy day – in more ways than one.
    Folks called this city Tinseltown because so much here was a glittery illusion where, like the facelifts of fading stars, nothing was permanent. And sure as hell there wasn’t anything permanent in Larry Brooker’s life right now.
    He remained in deep conversation on the phone all the way along Universal Boulevard, and continued talking as he reached the security gate at the studios. Even though the guard had seen him athousand times before, the surly old stalwart still stared at him like he was some dog turd that had floated downstream on the morning tide – which was about how he felt today. The guard went through the ritual of asking his name then checking down his list, before giving him a more respectful nod, and opening the barrier.
    Larry pulled up into one of the allotted spaces marked Reserved for Brooker Brody Productions .
    As any producer who had free offices on a studio lot knew, you were as good as your last few productions, and unless you had the stature of Spielberg, you had zero assurance of permanent tenure.
    He hung up and mouthed the words, Oh fuck! The call had been from a Californian internet billionaire, Aaron Zvotnik – who had funded his last three productions – giving him the reasons why he was not going to continue beyond the current one. That was some start to a day, to have lost a revolving fund of $100 million.
    But he could hardly blame Zvotnik. They’d delivered three movies in a row that had tanked. Blood Kiss at a time when vampire movies had peaked. Genesis Factor when the world had become bored with Da Vinci Code follow-ups. And more recently their massively over-budget sci-fi flop, Omega-3-2-1 .
    Three previous expensive divorces had taken their toll on his finances. The bank owned most of his house. His vehicle finance company was closing in on his Porsche. His fourth wife’s divorce lawyer was closing in on the kids.
    Twenty years back, after his first mega hit, Beach Baby , every door in this city swung open before he’d even reached it. Now, in Hollywood parlance, he’d struggle to get arrested. This was an unforgiving place. There was the old adage, be nice to people when you’re on your way up…because you never know who you’re going to need on the way down .
    But there was no need to bother with that here. When you were on your way down in Tinseltown it didn’t matter how nice you once were. You became Dick Shit. You became an unreturned phone call. A scrawled name on a Post-it note that got flicked into the trash can. You became air .
    Movie producers like himself were gamblers. And every gambler believed their luck was going to change on the next throw of thedice or spin of the wheel. Larry Brooker didn’t just believe it right now – he knew. The King’s Speech had been a global phenomenon. The King’s Lover would be, too. The very title sent shivers of excitement down him. Let alone the script, which was awesome!
    The damned thing had to work.
    King George IV. Gorgeous Brighton, England, locations. Sex, intrigue, scandal. This was a no-brainer. They’d negotiated with Bill Nicholson, who wrote Gladiators , to do a polish on the screenplay. Nicholson’s dialogue was smart. Everything about this project was smart. George IV lived life high on the hog, was a friend of dandy socialite Beau Brummell. He was a king who was vain but also very human. He enjoyed going to prize fights and cock fights, and was comfortable mingling with low-lifes – he was a true man of the people – at least in the script, he was.
    Suckered into an arranged marriage, George IV’s first words to his best friend, when he saw his betrothed, were, ‘For God’s sake, man, give me a glass of brandy!’
    They were already in pre-production, but the entire project was in danger of falling over for the same reason so many productions never got the