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that he had written several years earlier and had actually produced and directed for ABC television under a different title,
L.A. Takedown
. No writer likes to throw anything away. So with a fresh rewrite, we had hoped to attract De Niro and Pacino and expand the story into a much larger movie. Since Michael had already told the same story once before, his only option was to try to make this one bigger, and hopefully better.
    I was entering my final year at Warners, and the likelihood of them renewing my contract after
This Boy’s Life
was extremely remote. Since it would be at least eighteen months before
Heat
could be released, assuming that it would even get made—something you can never count on in Hollywood—my contract would have long since expired. On the lot, I was viewed as a man slowly dying of a disease that might be contagious. If you were listening, there were always clues.
    â€˜So, what’s goin’ on for you next year?’ Bruce Berman, then head of film production under Semel and a man not well known for sticking his neck out, would subtly ask.
    â€˜Gee whiz, Bruce, I’m thinking of taking up fishing, how ’bout you?’
    â€˜You know what I mean. What’s the five-year plan?’
    Since I had only ten months left, I knew where this conversation was going. Bruce was a crafty insider. He could take the temperature of the town. I think he was trying to help.
    â€˜Ya know, you producers have the toughest jobs in town,’ he continued.
    â€˜I’ll say.’
    â€˜Boy, I can’t tell you what utter respect I have for it.’
    â€˜Really.’
    â€˜Requires real fortitude to be a self-starter.’
    â€˜Bruce, you’re making me cry.’
    â€˜Always flying sans parachute. No safety net.’
    â€˜I thought a contract was a safety net.’
    â€˜Those deals are getting passé, too costly. Might as well read it in the trades – they’re dryin’ up.’
    â€˜Is this a trend or a phase?’ I queried.
    â€˜Let’s just say it’s a good time to be an
executive
.’
    I asked Bruce about the other producing deals on the lot. I couldn’t help myself.
    â€˜What about Jerry Weintraub? He’s still here.’
    â€˜Oh, he’s very close with the Bush family.’
    â€˜George Bush!’
    â€˜Get a grip, pal.’
    â€˜And Joel Silver?’ I asked, but I knew he was a long-time permanent fixture.
    â€˜Oh, c’mon, my man, he’s off buying furniture with Jane [Semel].’
    I was going to need a job.
    My first meeting with Bill was at the Fox commissary. Since I hadn’t been to Fox since Dick Zanuck was running the place years ago, I was looking forward to driving through ‘the front gate’ and getting that little buzz one gets when first entering a movie lot. After a cumbersome ten-minute hassle waiting for the guard to find the ‘drive-on pass’ (the days of ‘How nice to see you Mr. L., pleasedrive right through’ were long gone), I was allowed to park in a new parking structure about one quarter mile from the commissary. Call it a buildup of years and layers of cynicism, but there was no buzz. As I was rushing through the parking structure and down the walkway to the commissary, not wanting to be late for the initial meet, something felt off. The place, for me, had lost its allure. The vibe was gone. The new corporate headquarters being built across from the
NYPD Blue
set was jutting skyward with foreboding glass and steel sides and a witless entry sculpture – some giant black ball spinning in water. It had an architectural intention that said the past is dead, California is dead, the foreign takeover is almost complete.
    I guess the obvious target in all this is Rupert Murdoch, who, after all, had bought the place and if he wished had the right to turn Fox into a used-car lot. Blaming Murdoch alone, however, would be too easy. The lot’s new look