Kingdom Come

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Title: Kingdom Come

Author: West Straits

ISBN: 096678832X

Description:

This mystery begins when a Hollywood producer decides it's time to hold a three-day seminar at UCLA about the making of one of the present generation's favorite movies, the black-and-white "Kingdom Come." The producer convinces the movie's living participants to come to Los Angeles, their first gathering since the film was made on location in Washington State in 1954. The movie since has become a cult favorite. Most of the participants, however, are reluctant to attend the seminar because it's a reminder of the unexplained death of the film's writer on location. This novel combines our contemporary fascination with entertainment nostalgia with the realization that no one can spot a classic before time proves it one.
    Kingdom Come explores the mystery surrounding the making of a movie in the early 1950's that no one knew would become the touchstone of an age and a cult classic for a generation. Writer West Straits brings a knowing eye to the making of a movie from the point of view of the people who did the work - the average work-a-day studio hands - who saw the movie industry as a place to earn a living - not make history.  This book features Hal Lee, the workmanlike director who was a man's man and authority of his set - a master at getting the most out of actors while getting a film in the can on time and under budget. In Kingdom Come, using a lean writing style reminiscent of James M. Cain, Straits has the reader watch the filmmaker Lee make his most famous film step by step, not knowing that the movie would not only make history, but also introduce him to the love of his life.
    Some on the movie set were happy for the work, others saw the film posting as an excuse to cavort. The set for Kingdom Come was plagued however as the writer of the book and the producer of the film clashed, leading to a confrontation whose consequences remain unresolved. The mystery is only solved after a present-day retrospective as the cast and crew gather at a Los Angeles college at a film festival held to honor Kingdom Come.

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Except from Chapter 1:

About all you have left at the end are the memories and the fragments of dreams. The old man thought of that often. He shifted his weight from his painful hip. He was sitting in the elegant wingback chair he liked. It faced the window. The warm sunlight was comfortable. He could smell floor wax. The sun and the smell were pleasant. He liked the sunny days. He disliked the nights. The others, well, they had their flickering televisions.
    He didn't have a television. He disliked television. That was understandable, as he had worked for more than l5 years as a television producer and director. He had stopped when he realized that the work would eventually kill him. He had more than enough money for his small needs. It wasn't financial security that he needed as much as mental peace. He didn't differ from about 90 percent of those his age. Most people found no refuge from their problems in age--they just found more problems.        Television, he knew, gave no one security, just a temporary disconnect from reality. He had quit what they called "the industry" and few of his colleagues were surprised. The industry, of course, flowed like a wide river, uncaring who or what was floating in it. It was like any polluted river in the country, only more so.
    "You have a phone call," Mrs. Sudmeyer called from the hallway. The old man was startled by her voice. He was listening to the voice in his head. His phone calls usually came on his own phone in his room, and very infrequently at that. Usually it was some salesman trying to sell him something, a cold call.
    Mrs. Sudmeyer went back into her office in the front of the modern brick building. He shuffled along behind her, angry with himself over his unresponsive legs. They always go first, he had heard all his life.
    "Hal?" the voice asked. The old man recognized Lou Wattstein's voice. The old man grunted. Wattstein had been the young Wharton grad he had hired back in the 70s, the kid who wanted to plunge into Hollywood, the dream of millions of like-minded accountants. Now Wattstein was a producer, but of what the old man could not say immediately. The old man wondered if he should just hang up, silently. But hang up all the same.
    "Lissen," Wattstein said, "I had a hell of a time finding you. I had to pull some strings at the bank. I said it was a matter of life or death." Wattstein laughed. "They gave me your address." The old man was silent.   
    "Hal, you gotta come out here next month. Lissen, UCLA is givin' us a festival, a fucking festival. Just for the movie. Whatdja say?"   
    The old man thought quickly, hard to do these days. He knew that if he backed down that it would lead to an endless argument, and more phone calls.
    "Sure, Lou," he said. "Next month."
    "Great!" Wattstein said. "Lissen, I'll get you a suite at the Century, huh? The studio isn't puttin' bubkis into this. I gotta be straight with you. The putzes are too busy with real estate in Mexico, and cocaine from who-rode-the horse. Bastids!"
The old man held the phone away from his ear as the tirade continued.
    He knew that it was hopeless to stop Wattstein in the middle of one of his complaints. He knew that the producer would soon fade into an excoriation of the former agents, lawyers and real-estate dealers who had taken over the film and television production industry in Los Angeles. The old man didn't have anything against them all, particularly, other than the fact that he didn't want to be among them.
    "I told the guy at the school that you'd need a limo, too, Wattstein said.
    "Yeah, Lou," the old man said. He thought about how he had groomed Wattstein years before as a junior half-ass producer of one of the comedy westerns then in vogue. Wattstein had come to the company about l970, he guessed. Wattstein had stuck it out, actually making a name for himself in the industry--for his ability to pressure cook the fat out of a production and shooting budget. Wattstein was not a favorite of the below-the-line guilds, the craftsmen who really made movies. Wattstein had a nose for padding and he cut ruthlessly.
    After what seemed like an hour the old man hung up and shuffled out of the office. He returned to the chair and the sun. This was just another complication, he thought, one that he would have to handle. It wasn't only that Wattstein had found him, but the old man was sure that Wattstein would now put the word out on the coast, and God knew what would follow. He could see the headline in "The Reporter": Hal Lee found living in geriatric home in the east. Then it would begin, he felt sure. He felt very tired.
From what little the old man had seen of local news television programs, he knew that the two stations were desperate for anything that boosted the region, or anything that smacked of the big time. The region was definitely small time, but like most of the United States it consciously worked to correct that in the minds of residents. The old man wondered sometimes if people really cared that they lived in the Golden Triangle, or The Twin Cities, or any of the other made-up names. Even New York was the Apple. LA was LA. It didn't used to be that way, he remembered. People came from Pittsburgh, or Montana, and that was that.
    As he slipped toward the edge of sleep, the old man decided that his peace and security would be shattered as soon as the first camera crew climbed out of their truck. He would be discovered, a one-day sensation, ninety seconds on the evening news.
    As Wattstein put down his phone he had a smug, satisfied feeling. He had found the old bastard. He had run him to ground. It had taken the efforts of his son-in-law, a lawyer with the state attorney general's office. It was the lawyer who had applied the pressure on the bank to give up Hal Lee's whereabouts. And he was successful, Wattstein knew, because he had known that Hal Lee was Harold Lauer.
    Got 'im! Wattstein said to himself. With Hal Lee, he knew, he could make a real splash at UCLA. A real festival. Without Hal Lee, Wattstein knew, he was left with a couple of shaggy ass holes on the faculty, and 6,000 angry fans, all under 30. With Hal Lee, Wattstein felt he could turn the thing into a deal, something to trade.
    Wattstein grabbed the phone and punched the buttons. He swung back in his oversize executive chair. This one ought to be good, he thought. He would be very interested to hear about Hal Lee. He thought about the reaction that he was sure to get. The guy had been looking for Hal Lee for years. Every time Wattstein brought the name up the guy turned red. Wattstein knew that it had something to do with the guy's former wife and money. Didn't it always, he thought.
    Hal Lee's chin was nearly on his breastbone when the housekeeper tried to wake him. He felt depressed, as depressed as he had been in Palm Springs.   
    That goddam Wattstein, Lee thought. The bastard wants to get me killed.