The editing bay at Columbia Pictures had an air with a strong smell tobacco, the chemical tang of film cement which smelled like acetone and the heat radiating off the projector lamp.
There were no windows, so the only sense of time passing came from the stale coffee left in discarded cups and the unnerving click-clack of the Moviola.
Duke sat in the back of the small screening room, his legs stretched out stiffly, trying to ignore the dull ache in his lower back.
The relentless pace of the hostile takeover and the subsequent legal maneuvers had taken a physical toll, leaving him perpetually wired yet exhausted.
Next to him, Mark Jensen was a man full of silent, nervous energy, clutching a notepad so tightly his knuckles were white.
At the console sat Donn Cambern, the editor Duke had hired to salvage the wreckage of the Easy Rider shoot.
Cambern's bloodshot eyes and hollow cheeks spoke volumes.
He looked like a man who had spent three weeks trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle where half the pieces were missing, the other half were shaped like hallucinations, and the only instructions were yelled at him by two people on acid.
"Okay," Cambern said, his voice a dry rasp, barely louder than the hum of the machine.
He didn't dare turn around, his focus fixed on the reels. "This is the assembly. I'm warning you, Hauser. It's heavy."
"We're sitting at nearly four hours. Dennis is obsessed with the commune sequence. He thinks it's the 'heart of the Youth of America.'"
"Just run it," Duke said, rubbing his temples.
He felt the cold pressure of the balance sheet settling on his shoulders.
This film was currently a seven-figure line item of cost, bleeding the money they had invested on it.
It had to be a hit.
The lights dimmed. The Moviola whirred to life, the projector beam cutting through the smoke-filled air.
For the first hour and a half, Duke watched in strained silence.
Visually, the film was a triumph.
Lazlo Kovacs, the cinematographer, had captured the American West in a way that felt Great, bleeding sunsets, infinite highways, the raw texture of asphalt and dust.
Of course, the narrative still was a complete disaster.
The dialogue was a series of improvised conversations that circled the drain of profundity without ever falling in.
The central message freedom was drowned out by static.
The commune scene, as Cambern had warned, was endless a documentary of people staring at the sun and mumbling about society.
Jensen shifted uncomfortably, the leather of his chair creaking.
"Duke," he whispered, the word thin with panic. "This is unusable. We can't even sell this I should have beat up Hooper on set to avoid his bad decisions."
Duke remained silent.
He knew Jensen was right.
This was the primary asset that was supposed to be the tent pole film of their distribution arm for next year.
Right now, it looked like a million-dollar bonfire that would incinerate their remaining contingency funds.
The screen cut to black, then opened on the open road. The two bikers, Fonda and Hopper, were tearing down the highway. And suddenly, a sound kicked in.
It wasn't a traditional score. It was the raw, grinding, distorted opening riff of Steppenwolf's "Born to Be Wild."
Duke felt a massive jolt of recognition.
That song.
Get your motor runnin'. Head out on the highway.
He knew, that this single decision to anchor the film to this song was the key.
It was the cheapest insurance policy against failure he could possibly buy.
The film continued.
The music carried the chaotic visuals.
Then another montage.
This time, "The Weight" by The Band played.
The weariness and resignation in Levon Helm's voice did more heavy lifting for the film's theme of spiritual exhaustion than three hours of Hopper's dialogue.
Duke leaned forward, snapping out of his internal trance.
"Stop," he said.
Cambern hit the brake on the Moviola. The image froze on Hopper making a rude gesture at a passing truck. The silence in the room was deafening, the sudden void where the rock music had been feeling like a physical punch.
"The music," Duke said, his voice flat, demanding immediate answers. "Where did it come from? Specifically, the Steppenwolf track."
"It's just a temporary track," Cambern explained, rubbing his face with both hands, smearing ink near his temple. "Peter brought in his record collection."
"We just threw some stuff in there to get the rhythm right for the cutting. We were going to hire a traditional composer next week to get something more orchestral."
"No," Duke said instantly.
Jensen looked at him, genuine terror flaring in his eyes. "No?"
"No composer," Duke stated.
He stood up and walked toward the screen, staring at the frozen frame. "The movie is messy. It's dirty. It's improvised. We should keep the Rock tracks on it."
He pointed at the screen, conviction hardening in his gaze. "The rock music stays. Especially 'Born to Be Wild.'"
Jensen inhaled sharply, gripping his notepad so hard the paper crumpled.
"Duke, be realistic, please. We are operating on a razor's edge right now. Our liquidity is gone."
"We need every penny right now. Licensing existing tracks like that is a financial madness."
Jensen's voice cracked slightly. "It's crazy! The rights are scattered across multiple labels, multiple publishers."
"Steppenwolf alone will want a massive premium. The Band? Hendrix? We can't afford it. We have maybe thirty thousand left in the contingency fund before we have to go back to the Bank begging for an emergency bridge loan."
"It'll cost us more if the movie flops," Duke countered, turning to face his financial producer.
Duke was calm, but the command was absolute.
"That song isn't a cost, Mark. It's the best part of the film."
He knew he couldn't explain the future.
He couldn't explain that the cultural resonance of that track was worth ten times the entire licensing fee. But he could force the issue.
"Find the money," Duke ordered. "Create the contract and convince them, we will pay when the film is about to be released. Pay whatever you have to for the clearance."
Cambern spun his chair around, looking utterly defeated but ready to deliver the final blow. "There's one last problem, Duke. A bigger, non-financial one."
"What is it?"
"Dennis and Peter," Cambern said, looking directly at Duke. His exhaustion was palpable.
"They're in here every single day."
"Dennis screams about 'his vision' every time I make a cut that drops a scene longer than four minutes. Peter just sits there and sighs, which is somehow worse than the screaming"
"If I'm going to chop this thing down to something watchable which it needs to be I cannot have them in the room."
Duke looked at the editor.
"How long is the current cut?" Duke asked, returning to the numbers.
"Three hours and forty-one minutes," Cambern recited.
"Cut the commune scene by eighty percent," Duke ordered. "Cut the campfire ramblings in half. If a scene doesn't move them closer to New Orleans, or if it doesn't have a great song over it, it goes."
"I want this under ninety-five minutes."
"And Dennis?" Cambern asked, waiting for the capitulation.
"Change the locks," Duke said. "I'm serious. Mark, call studio security immediately."
"Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda are barred from the editing bay until I say otherwise."
"They are not allowed on this floor. Tell them they're on a creative sabbatical. Tell them the mixing room has a serious, highly infectious fungus."
"Tell them whatever lie you need to, but they do not step foot in this room until we have the initial cut."
"Duke, they're the stars," Jensen stammered, his pen shaking over the notepad.
"Hopper will go to the trades, he'll call us Philistines. He'll make our lives hell."
"Our lives will be hell if this movie is four hours long," Duke said, unmoved.
"I don't care if he calls me a Phillistine. And if he wants to duke it out, I'm down." he looked at the editor, "it's your movie now."
Duke didn't wait for a response. He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and walked out of the screening room.
He left the darkness and the chemical smell behind, stepping into the relatively brighter hallway.
---
I rewatched Easy Rider and man it's so good.