1968. Christmas. The jolly season of gifts and family, and yet Elvis sits in his lowest point in his career. His movies bomb in theaters, his manipulative manager, Colonel Parker, selecting scripts in poor taste. Elvis needs a comeback.

Parker and Presley have different ideas of what this comeback really will be; Parker wants something comfortable, and Elvis wants something controversial that will provoke emotions. The tension in the studio is high, sitting heavily on everyone’s chests.

Parker arranges for Elvis to sing Christmas songs in a family special, broadcast to the world. Elvis hates the idea. He doesn’t wear Christmas sweaters and sing to dogs; that’s never been his branding.

Elvis is nearing forty, coming closer to it every year and he feels the apprehension of officially entering the stage of being ‘middle aged.’ His voice had become deeper, more rich; like a thick wine, intoxicating and delicious. He had matured with his years, growing his hair longer and not leaving it as strictly gelled-back. Sideburns now adorned his cheeks and he found himself working harder to stay fit, often in his personal gym. He still wore makeup: mascara and eyeliner, which made his blue eyes pop.

Elvis sits in his chair in his dressing room, wrapped in a purple silk robe, pen and paper in his hand as he writes a song, inspired from tragic recent events. His cologne wafts throughout the room, akin to comfort and the feeling of him. He stops writing for a moment and his eyes find the leather jumpsuit he’d been thinking of wearing. He decides he’ll wear it to perform instead of the Christmas sweater.