**The Carter Gambit**
The Gulfstream GIII's tires screeched against the rain-slicked tarmac as it taxied to a private hangar at LAX. The digital clock in the cabin blinked 00:47 in blood-red numerals. Outside, the perpetual Los Angeles haze diffused the runway lights into smeary halos.
Ethan Carter unbuckled his seatbelt with a quiet snap, his tailored Armani jacket pulling taut across shoulders that had spent the transatlantic flight hunched over financial reports. At twenty years old, his six-foot-two frame carried the unconscious elegance of old money and tennis lessons at Saint-Tropez. The Cartier aviators—his father's 1978 vintage—hid eyes that had seen thirty-six years these people hadn't lived yet.
A stewardess hovered with his cashmere overcoat. "Welcome home, Mr. Carter." Her practiced smile didn't reach her eyes. The Carters tipped in stock options, not cash.
The muggy July air hit him like a wet towel. Somewhere beyond the sulfur-yellow glow of sodium vapor lights, the Hollywood Hills twinkled. His Hollywood now.
He wasn't just another trust fund brat with a production company vanity project. He was a temporal anomaly in a $3,000 suit.
The memories came in 70mm clarity: falling asleep to a Turner Classic Movies marathon in his Tribeca loft, waking up in his childhood bedroom in Bel-Air. His iPhone replaced by a Sony Watchman. The Wall Street Journal on his nightstand dated June 28, 1988.
Three hundred and forty-seven days until Who Framed Roger Rabbit proved live-action/animation hybrids could gross $300M. Four years, two months until Jurassic Park's T-Rex changed cinema forever. His mental ledger tracked every inflection point—the scripts in development hell that would become cultural touchstones, the struggling tech startups that would birth CGI.
The Carter fortune—$287,400,000 according to yesterday's Morgan Stanley statement—wasn't just wealth. It was ammunition.
His advantages stacked like casino chips:
1. **Market Intel**: He knew Orion Pictures would hemorrhage $34M this year before producing back-to-back Best Picture winners. Their creditors would panic right on schedule, waiting for bankruptcy.
2. **IP Land Grab**: Marvel's offices smelled of mildew and desperation. Their Spider-Man film rights could be had for less than a Malibu beach house.
3. **Tech Arbitrage**: A Palo Alto startup called Pixar was three years away from Toy Story. Their renderer could be licensed today for peanuts.
4. **Talent Scouting**: A video store clerk named Quentin was scribbling scripts between shifts at Video Archives. A playwright named Aaron Sorkin was about to get evicted from his Broadway sublet.
The town car's phone buzzed. His broker at Bear Stearns. "Mr. Carter, your Apple short position just hit—"
"Sell half. Hold the rest until December." He remembered the exact week Jobs would unveil the NeXT Computer.
The real play wasn't just making movies. It was building the machine that would make them. His fingers drummed a staccato rhythm against the calfskin briefcase containing:
- A handwritten list of every Best Picture winner through 2024
The car passed the old MGM lot. Through the wrought-iron gates, he could see the water tower—the same one that would appear in a thousand Warner Bros. logos.
At the Beverly Wilshire, the night manager greeted him by name. The penthouse smelled of lemon polish and fresh-cut gardenias. From the terrace, the city glittered like a spilled jewelry box.
Ethan poured two fingers of Macallan '52—his father's affectation—and toasted the skyline. Somewhere out there, a dozen future Oscar winners were waiting tables. Dozens more slept on friends' couches, their breakthrough scripts still half-formed in their minds.
He pulled a leather-bound notebook from his jacket. The first page read:
The ice cracked in his glass like bones breaking. Hollywood's golden age was ending. His age was just beginning.
_____________________________________
Ethan Carter didn't waste any time getting to work. By the end of his first week back in Los Angeles, he'd already put together a small but experienced team. He hired Michael Resnick, a tough-as-nails entertainment lawyer who had spent twelve years at Warner Bros. handling studio acquisitions. "Why pay Warner prices when I can hire their best negotiator?" Ethan had quipped when making the offer. Resnick had a reputation for squeezing every last concession out of a deal, and that's exactly what Ethan needed.
Along with Resnick came Linda Park, a sharp-eyed accountant who had helped Francis Ford Coppola navigate the financial disaster of "One From the Heart." Park could spot creative accounting from a mile away. Rounding out the team was Frank Petrovich, a grizzled former VP from Paramount who knew every player in town. "Kid's either crazy or brilliant," Petrovich muttered when Ethan laid out his plan over steak dinners at Musso & Frank.
Their target was New Century Entertainment, a struggling independent studio that had been limping along since 1979. On paper, it wasn't much—a dozen forgotten films gathering dust, a small distribution office in Westwood, and a soundstage in Burbank that was mostly rented out for commercials. But Ethan saw potential where others saw a money pit. The $11 million in debt didn't faze him. "That's less than my father lost at baccarat last year," he told Resnick with a shrug.
The negotiations moved quickly but carefully. Resnick set up a shell corporation called Sunset Holdings to keep Ethan's name out of the paperwork. "We don't want every producer in town jacking up their prices because they think the Carter fortune is buying," Resnick explained as he drafted the offer. They structured the deal to include all the existing staff, especially Marty Rosen, New Century's crusty head of distribution. "That old bastard knows every theater owner between here and Omaha," Petrovich said approvingly.
A week later, the deal was done—$49 million, including assumption of debt. The New Century board didn't hesitate. Cash was king in 1988, and Ethan had plenty of it.
On May 1st, the Hollywood Reporter ran a brief announcement about the sale. No fanfare, no press conference. The next morning, workers were already painting over the New Century sign at the Westwood offices. Ethan stood watching as they unveiled the new name: Dragon Pictures. The logo—a sleek dragon coiled around a film reel—had been designed by the same artist who did Orion Pictures' iconic look.
Inside, the changes were practical rather than flashy. Ethan had the screening room upgraded with proper Christie projectors—the same ones used at Mann's Chinese Theatre. He brought in a young creative executive named Sarah Gunderson, poaching her from Universal where she'd been stuck developing sitcoms. "I want you to find me every interesting script that's getting passed on by the majors," he told her on her first day. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "And start looking into who owns the rights to these Marvel comic books..."
Across town, a few industry veterans took notice. "Who the hell is behind Dragon Pictures?" one studio head asked over lunch at the Grill. But most were too focused on their own deals to care about another indie startup.
Ethan preferred it that way. Let them underestimate him. He had plans—big ones—and the first piece was now in place.