Duke quickly stopped writtin the conference room at Ithaca after leaving his office.
Duke was sitting at the head of the table, flanked by Walsh.
Across from him was Joe Jackson, a man whose intensity fills the room more than his physical presence. Beside him, looking both excited and impossibly young, were his two oldest sons, Jackie and Tito.
Jermaine and Michael were deemed too young for this part of the negotiation, waiting outside with a friend of the family.
Walsh had already run through the initial pleasantries. Now, Joe Jackson was talking.
"…and you know Mr. Gordy, he understands what we have," Joe says, leaning forward, his voice a low, persuasive rumble. "He sees it."
"He knows the Jacksons are the future of Motown. We are in the final stages of negotiation. A handshake away. And then you've got Jerry Wexler over at Atlantic, he's been on the phone with me personally. He's talking about a deal that would make a lot of men weak in the knees."
He leans back, letting the weight of the names Motown and Atlantic hang in the air. Walsh shifts nervously in his seat.
Duke takes a slow sip of water, place the glass down precisely, and let a moment of silence stretch just a beat too long.
"Joe," Duke begins, his voice calm and even, a stark contrast to Joe's performative energy. "I appreciate you sharing that. Berry Gordy is a smart man and Jerry Wexler is a legend, everyone here knows that."
Duke pauses, his eyes locking with Joe. "But you're not in Detroit, and you're not in New York. You're in my office, and this label doesn't rely on chasing rumors or being intimidated by competition. We are recognizing genuine talent and making smart, fair deals."
Duke's see a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He's used to this tactic working.
"So," Duke continues, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "Let's stop talking about what Motown might do, and let's talk about what Ithaca will do. Why not let me speak and take my offer seriously."
The boys turned to their father, to check his reactions.
Joe Jackson's posture stiffens slightly. The friendly negotiator facade drops a little, revealing the shrewd businessman beneath. "Alright, Hauser. Let's talk seriously."
"I need an advance. A really big advance. Twenty-five thousand. Non-recoupable. That's what it will take to get my family settled, to get the boys what they need."
It's a massive, audacious ask for an unproven act. Walsh almost choked in his saliva.
Duke leans forward, folding his hands on the table. "Twenty-five thousand is a lot of money, Joe. And you're right, your boys are stars."
"But that money isn't a gift. It's an investment. And if I'm going to make that kind of investment, the structure of our partnership needs to reflect my risk."
Duke could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He thought Ithaca would balk at the number.
"Here's what I'll do," He said, his tone leaving no room for interruption. "I'll give you your twenty-five thousand dollar advance."
"But in exchange for shouldering that much risk upfront, the royalty rate on the back end will be structured differently. We'll have a very high percentage of the publishing. A longer term on the master recordings. I'm betting on the Jackson 5 for the long term, Joe."
Duke basecally flipped the script.
He asked for a king's ransom upfront, but in doing so, Duke secured a vastly more valuable long-term position.
Joe Jackson is silent for a long moment, studying him.
He glances at his sons, then back at Duke. A slow, calculating smile spreads across his face. It's not a smile of friendship, but one of business.
"Alright, Hauser," he says, his voice quieter now, all bluster gone. "Let's talk numbers."
He steepled his fingers. "Here is how we do it."
"Phase One: We don't go national, instead we release a single to R&B and pop radios in key Midwestern markets. Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland. We make you the biggest thing in Indiana and Ohio before New York or L.A. has even heard your name."
Joe opened his mouth to interrupt, but Duke pressed on, his voice a relentless, calm force.
"Phase Two as that single peaks, we drop the debut album. Not a rushed job. A polished, hit-packed record that feels like an event. We capitalize on the demand we just created."
"And Phase Three," Duke said, his gaze sweeping over the boys, speaking to the dream he knew burned inside them.
"The Campaign. A national tour. Not clubs. Instead theaters and arenas."
He laid it out like a blueprint, and the sheer, cold logic of it was more compelling than any promise of cash. Joe Jackson, was silent, thinking about his words.
Duke slid a contract across the desk. "The terms are fair. Better than what Berry Gordon would offer you. But it's ironclad. Rehearsal schedules, professional conduct, artistic approval. This isn't a suggestion box."
Joe picked it up, his eyes scanning the pages.
He saw the fairness, but he also saw the unyielding structure, the absolute control it ceded to the man across the desk.
He looked at his sons, seeing the eager hope in their faces, and then back at Duke.
He gave a slow, calculating nod. "Alright, Hauser. We have a deal." The handshake that followed was not warm, but it was a pact of mutual, wary respect. Ithaca Records had its first pop phenomenon
---
Later, in his own office, Duke reviewed a different kind of report.
Larry Goldberg stood before the map, a single sheet of paper in his hand.
"We're in the black," Goldberg grunted, the words sounding almost foreign, unpracticed on his tongue.
He tapped the paper. "Targets has officially recouped its production budget. Every dime you put into Bogdanovich's little sniper picture is back in the coffers."
It was a pivotal milestone, but the context was everything. Duke knew the numbers cold.
The initial "four-walling" strategy—where Ithaca rented the theaters outright and assumed all the risk—had been a necessary brute-force tactic, allowing them to keep 100% of the box office.
But the costs for prints and theater rentals were immense, a constant hemorrhage of cash.
This new phase was different. Legitimate theater chains, atracted from the coastal buzz, were now agreeing to book the film. The trade-off was stark: they will now only be seeing 50% of the gross after the house split.
The profit margin was thinner, a leaner cut of meat, but the financial risk was catastrophically lower. They were no longer high-stakes gamblers; they were becoming businessmen building a repeatable process.
"We're not just burning capital anymore," Goldberg said, a faint glint of triumph in his weary eyes. "We're building a model. A shitty, low-margin model, but a model."
"I've got bookers from twenty markets, Seattle, Denver, Atlanta. They'll book us for a week, see how it plays. I don't think Targets will make us rich, but it won't lose its shirt either."
He almost smiled. "And so is your director. Bogdanovich has stopped looking like a corpse waiting for an exorcism. He's actually giving notes on the marketing materials for the new cities. Success is a hell of a tranquilizer. That NDA of yours helps, too."
The brief moment of satisfaction was punctured as Goldberg's expression shifted back to its default state of gruff concern. "Speaking of directors breathing down our necks, I got another call from Mel Brooks."
"He's asking, again, about the progress on distribution for The Producers. Wants to know when his 'masterpiece' is going to see the light of day. He also wants to talk to you, his 'mensch'."
Duke leaned back, steepling his fingers. The success with Targets was a template, but it was a template for a very specific kind of film.
The Producers was a different beast entirely.
"And what did you tell him?" Duke asked.
"I told him we were building the platform brick by brick, that Targets was the proof of concept. He didn't seem thrilled. He's a man who wants an audience."
"The problem," Duke said, his gaze drifting to the window, "is that I have no clear idea how to sell it. Targets is difficult, but its difficulty is its selling point. It's serious, prescient. The Producers…"
He let out a short, quiet breath. "It's a farce. A brilliant one, but a farce about two Jews trying to cheat old ladies by producing a musical that glorifies Hitler. How do we put that on a marquee? 'Come laugh at the Fuhrer' or 'Come watch the Springtime of Hitler'."
He turned back to Goldberg, his strategic mind fully engaged on the new problem. "The critics will either love its audacity or eviscerate it for poor taste. There's no middle ground.
"It's not an art film and it's not a mainstream comedy. It's a grenade. And I'm not sure we have the right distribution network to throw it yet. Releasing it wrong could kill it, and poison Ithaca's brand in the process."
The report on Targets lay between them, a testament to a battle won. But Goldberg's news had just laid a much more complex and volatile new challenge at Duke's feet. They had built a road, but The Producers needed a different kind of vehicle altogether.
___
Hal B. Wallis entered his office like it was nothing.
He lowered himself into the chair with a soft grunt, his aging frame acknowledging the toll of the walk.
"Hauser, I've reconsidered," Wallis began, dispensing with any greeting. "You're stubborn, I can respect that. So, let's talk plainly."
"Fifty-fifty on True Grit. A true partnership. We both put in half the budget, we both keep half the profits. No more, no less."
"And creative control?" Duke asked, his voice a flat, knowing calm.
Wallis spread his hands, a gesture of apparent logic. "Stays with the studio, with me but i'll consider your opinion."
"Paramount has been making Westerns since before you were born, you have the property, I have the machinery and the know-how. You need to learn to trust the system, son. It exists for a reason."
"The system is the reason I'm building my own," Duke replied. "The answer is still no."
A muscle in Wallis's jaw twitched, but he didn't explode.
Instead, he leaned forward, his voice dropping into a confidential, almost weary tone. "What if this partnership extended beyond one film? What if I offered you a helping hand to the very company you're trying to build?"
He paused, letting the hook set. "You agree to the True Grit co-production under my terms, and I will personally go to the board and convince them to buy the national distribution rights for The Producers from you. Two and a half million dollars. Cash."
"You keep California for your own… distribution operations. We put a Mel Brooks film into a hundred theaters nationwide at least with several critics support."
Duke went very still, his entire focus narrowing onto the old producer.
"I'm doing you a favor, Hauser," Wallis continued, his eyes sharp. "I'm on my way out to retirement in a few years. But I've seen the future, and it's a bunch of business executives New York who think a focus group is the same as a story instinct."
"The idea of them controlling everything… it sickens me. You, for all your arrogance, you have some fight in you. You bought The Producers because you saw what Mel was doing something insane, but a good movie nevertheless."
He leaned in further, his voice intensifying. "That movie is a hand grenade. It's the funniest damn thing I've seen in a decade, but it's a risk. A huge one. My strategy? You don't hide from it. You sell the controversy.
"I'll get it in front of the right critics in New York who will champion its audacity, then use that to fuel a limited, strategic release in major urban markets. You don't try to sell 'Springtime for Hitler' to people right out of the gate. You let the buzz build. It's a high-risk, low-reward play, and your little distribution arm isn't built for it. But Paramount is."
He was laying his cards on the table with a startling honesty. "Think about it, Hauser," he said, his final, devastating point.
"Every theater owner in America, from Maine to Florida, would be cutting a check to Paramount and we give you the $2.5 million."
"Of course, the real prize is that piece of paper with your company's name on it, that will be sitting on the desk of every booker in the country. It would put you on the map overnight. It's the credibility you can't buy. But you can earn it by making this deal."
"I'm offering to use the Paramount resources to launch this film, if it's a success then bookers will be more likely to trust your distribution arm, but if it is a box office bomb then you dont really lose anything."
Wallis was offering him a Trojan Horse, wrapped in a lecture on legacy and a shared love for the craft.
For the price of surrendering one battle creative control on a Western he could build a national footprint for Ithaca in months instead of years.
For the first time in his several conversation with Hal Wallis, Duke did not give an immediate no.
The sheer scale of the opportunity, paired with Wallis's unexpected candor, demanded consideration. He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing through the implications.
"That's an interesting proposal, Hal," he said, his voice a low, measured murmur. "I'll need some time to think about it."
----
Late chapter cause I was watching Succession-