February 1970 arrive in Los Angeles as Duke, standing on the sidewalk outside the Allied Artists building on Sunset Boulevard.
Duke adjusted his jacket. He felt the weight of the Montblanc pen in his pocket.
Today, it would sign the acquisition of "Allied Artists" and mark the beginning of Ithaca Distribution.
He pushed through the heavy doors.
Emanuel Wolf was waiting in the boardroom. The room was vast, lined with posters of movies that had been hits when Truman was president.
The long mahogany table was empty except for a large stack of legal documents.
"Mr. Duke," Wolf said, rising from his chair. He looked tired. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. "The board has ratified the agreement. The preferred stockholders have been... placated."
"Paid off, you mean," Duke said, walking to the table. He didn't sit.
"It amounts to the same thing," Wolf sighed. "We're yours, Duke. The library, the physical exchanges, the leases... everything."
Duke picked up the pen. He uncapped it, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
He wasn't just buying a company. He was buying independence.
In the future, filmmakers were always at the mercy of the "Big Studios". They controlled most of the distribution. If they didn't like your movie, they simply didn't release it to theaters.
He even remembered a friend who sold his low budget film to a studio and it never got released.
By acquiring Allied Artists, Duke was building his own distribution. He could ship Jaws or Cujo without asking permission from anyone now.
He signed the final page.
"Done," Duke said.
Wolf looked at the signature, a mix of relief and melancholy washing over his face. "So, what happens now? Do we clear out our desks?"
"No," Duke said, capping the pen. "As i said before you stay. You keep the title. But starting next week, the logo changes. No more Allied logo. It's the Ithaca axes now."
Duke walked out, leaving the stunned CEO alone with the paperwork.
He stepped back out into the fog, feeling a surge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with money. He had the infrastructure. Now he needed to get to his meeting.
The drive to the Columbia Pictures lot took thirty minutes. Duke drove his Corvette with the radio off, as he amateurly sung Naive by The Kooks.
The meeting was supposed to be a formality, a handshake and champagne affair to finalize the co-production of Klute.
Columbia was desperate for Ithaca's capital and creative heat. After all, they needed Duke more than he needed them.
But as he walked into the executive conference room, the atmosphere shifted.
The room was crowded. The usual suits were there the head of production, the legal counsel, the VP of marketing.
But sitting at the far end of the table, looking comfortably sprawled in a chair, was Donald Sutherland.
Sutherland was having a moment. MASH had just been released this month and was tearing through the box office like a hurricane. He was the face of the "New Hollywood" a tall, lanky, with a mustache.
He stood up as Duke entered. Sutherland was a tall man, easily six-four, used to looking down on producers.
But Duke was six-five. And Duke was wider.
(Imagine the greatest Tight End, Rob Gronkowski as Duke)
"Mr. Duke," Sutherland said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, his smile charming. "I've heard a lot about you. The man of the hour."
"Donald," Duke said, shaking the hand briefly before taking his seat at the head of the table. "I enjoyed MASH. You have a very specific energy, I'm glad someone like Altman is getting some recognizition."
"We try," Sutherland grinned, sitting back down. "So... look, Duke, can I call you Duke? we're all excited about Klute. It's a hell of a script. But we need to talk about the casting for the female lead."
The Columbia executives shifted in their seats, looking nervously between the two men.
"The girl?" Duke asked, his voice neutral.
"Bree Daniels," Sutherland said. "The character is raw. She's messy. Now, I know there's been talk about Julie Christie. And don't get me wrong, Julie is a fantastic actress. But she's... well, she's a bit polished, isn't she?"
Sutherland leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly.
"I've been talking to Jane. Jane Fonda. She's out there on the protests. She understands the paranoia of the government. And also we have great chemistry... If we put Jane in this, the movie would be even better. Or at least have her make an audition."
Duke stared at him. He didn't blink.
In the back of his mind, Duke calculated the variables. He actually liked Fonda for the role. In the original timeline, she won the Oscar for it. She was brilliant.
But this wasn't about casting. This was about power.
And more importantly, it was about Hacksaw Ridge.
Duke was currently positioning himself as a "Veteran who was also Producer." He had just screened Hacksaw for the Medal of Honor Society and The American Legion.
Meanwhile, Donald Sutherland and Jane Fonda were some of the faces of the Anti-War movement.
They were about to launch the FTA ("Free The Army" or "F*** The Army") tour.
They were radioactive to the demographic Duke was courting for his war movie. If he let Sutherland and Fonda takeover and make Klute a vehicle for the anti-war clique, he would run a high risk.
Duke leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. He let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
"Donald," Duke said softly. "Do you know who owns the rights to Klute?"
"Well, Columbia does," Sutherland said, glancing at the executives. "Technically."
"And do you know who is financing the production so that Columbia doesn't have to mortgage the backlot?" Duke pointed a finger at his own chest. "I am."
"I understand that," Sutherland said, his smile tightening. "But i mean, as the lead actor, I feel I have a right to be comfortable with my co-star. It's about the production, Duke."
"Let me tell you something," Duke said. His voice didn't rise, but it hardened. "The truth is that I don't cast movies based on who you're marching with on the weekends. And I certainly don't cast them based on who you want to sleep with."
Sutherland flushed, his jaw clenching. "That's out of line."
"Is it?" Duke stood up.
"You're a talented actor, Donald. You're funny. You're tall. You're the flavor of the month. But you are at the end of the day an employee."
Duke looked at the Columbia executives. They were frozen, most staring at their notepads or at the empty space.
"I have a slate of films to produce and no time to deal with things like this," Duke continued, his voice echoing in the room. "I have Hacksaw Ridge coming out. I don't care if Jane Fonda is the best actress on the planet. She isn't doing this movie."
"You can't just dictate that," Sutherland snapped, standing up to meet Duke's height. "I'm attached to this picture. If Jane isn't in it, maybe I'll walk then."
Duke smiled.
"Donald," Duke said, leaning in. "Walk. Run. Fly. I don't care. I have control over the cast. I have control over the cut. If you walk, I'll just recast the lead."
Duke turned his back on Sutherland and looked at the head of production.
"We stick with the original plan. Julie Christie is Bree Daniels. If Donald here wants to be a professional, he's welcome to stay. If he wants to be a casting director, he can go find another job. Do we have a deal?"
The Columbia executive swallowed hard. He looked at Sutherland, who was red-faced, and then at Duke, who looked like an immovable object.
"We have a deal, Duke," the executive said. "Julie is the lead."
Sutherland stood there for a moment, his fists clenched. He was used to producers bowing down to the talent.
"You're making a mistake right now," Sutherland spat.
Duke didn't bother turning around. "Close the door on your way out."
Sutherland grabbed his jacket and stormed out. The heavy door slammed shut, leaving a ringing silence in the room.
Duke sat back down. He checked his watch. "Now. Let's talk about the marketing budget."
He didn't care if Julie Christie was perfect for the role. He didn't care if Sutherland hated him. He needed to protect his brand.
Duke returned to the Ithaca offices just after lunch.
Gary Kurtz was waiting for him in the lobby. He was holding a bottle of champagne.
"You look like you just went twelve rounds on the ring," Kurtz said, noting the tension in Duke's shoulders.
"I just had an aslight issue with an actor," Duke muttered. "What's with the bottle?"
"The nominations came in," Kurtz beamed. "Paramount, Evan's specifically just called."
Duke stopped. For a moment, he had forgotten. It was Oscar morning.
"And?"
"It's a sweep, Duke. A total sweep."
Kurtz held up a piece of paper.
"Midnight Cowboy. Seven nominations. Best Picture, Best Director, Actor for both Dustin and Jon. Screenplay."
"Butch Cassidy. Seven nominations. Picture, Director, Screenplay, Cinematography. Sound, Score. Song"
"We have two films in the Best Picture race," Kurtz said, his voice shaking with excitement. "Duke, do you realize how rare that is? For an independent producer to have a stake in two of the five nominees?"
Duke took the paper. He scanned the list.
"It's good," Duke said, handing the paper back. "It's very good."
"Good?" Kurtz laughed, popping the cork. The sound was sharp enough that it echoed in the high ceiling. "It's historic!"
Duke took the glass Kurtz offered him. He looked at the bubbles rising to the surface.
"Enjoy it, Gary," Duke said, clinking his glass against Kurtz's. "You earned it. This is your victory lap."
"And yours," Kurtz insisted. "Without you, Cowboy never gets made. Paramount wouldn't touch the X-rating."
"I just do my job," Duke said. "But next year... next year is the real fight."
"This is great for the resume," Duke said, looking at the nomination list. "It tells the banks we know what we're doing."
He turned to Kurtz.
"Did you talk with the editor about the sound mix?"
"Duke, take a break," Kurtz pleaded, though he was smiling. "Drink the champagne. We just owned Hollywood."
Duke corrected. "We don't own it until we win with our movie. Cowboy, Butch and Hacksaw are co-productions. When we reach the size of a Mini Major i will be celebrating."
He took a sip of the champagne. It was cold and dry.
"But you're right," Duke softened, seeing the disappointment in Kurtz's eyes. "It's a hell of a day. Two Best Picture noms. Not bad for a couple of guys who started by stealing shoots in Harvard."
"Not bad at all," Kurtz agreed.