The scent in the Ithaca Production office had a new, tangible air of optimism to it.
Larry Goldberg stood before Duke's desk, a man transformed. The perpetual grimace of a besieged general had softened into the focused expression of a commander who has just secured his first, crucial beachhead.
"It's happening," Goldberg said, his gravelly voice laced with a satisfaction he made no effort to conceal.
He laid a single sheet of paper on the desk. "Champlin just did a review in the Los Angeles Times, It's positive; he called the film 'a watershed moment for the new independent cinema.'"
He pointed to a list of cities on the report. "We're done four-walling."
Duke gave a slight, acknowledging nod.
Four-wallling was a brutal, and expensive tactic he'd authorized out of necessity.
Since no theater chain would take a chance on an unproven distributor with a debut film from an unknown critic turned director.
So they had resorted to renting the theaters outright paying for the "four walls" of the cinema for a week at a time.
It meant Ithaca Distribution assumed all the financial risk, but it also meant they kept one hundred percent of the box office.
It was a gamble designed to prove a film's worth through sheer force of will and capital.(this was somewhat normal in the 60s-70s)
"The Regency in San Francisco, the Exeter in Boston, the Biograph in D.C.," Goldberg continued, tapping the list.
"They've seen the numbers we generated by renting the cinema, and now they want are taking the film themselves. In the best of cases we'll get a standard split."
He looked up at Duke, his meaning clear. "The strategy worked. They see the buzz, they see the reviews, and now they see they can make a dollar without having to do the heavy lifting. It's not a flood, but the dam has a crack in it. We're slowly moving from pure expenditure to partner-driven revenue."
Duke absorbed the information without a flicker of celebration.
The costly four-walling campaign had served its purpose as a proof-of-concept.
"Good. Let's increase Bogdanovich campaing on these markets, I want every our film to be shown in as many theaters in the country."
"Understood," Goldberg nodded. "There's another matter, it's about Bogdanovich."
The director's name hung in the air.
Since the signing of the punitive contract, Peter Bogdanovich had become the invisible man in Duke's life.
He was a model of professional compliance, doing every interview, every Q&A with fervor, but the man himself was inaccessible.
All communication was filtered through Goldberg.
On the two occasions Duke had summoned him, Bogdanovich had arrived with his wife, Polly Platt, a human shield to support his nervousness.
A director who was terrified of his own producer was a unreliable guy, someone who could break under pressure or, worse, talk about his grievances to a sympathetic ear at the wrong party.
"Set up a meeting," Duke commanded. "Just him and me, in this office, by tomorrow morning."
---
The following day, Bogdanovich entered the office like a man walking to the gallows, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the Persian rug.
"Sit down, Peter," Duke said, his tone neutral, neither welcoming nor hostile.
Bogdanovich sat, perching on the very edge of the chair.
"The reports from the new markets are strong," Duke began, leaning back, adopting a conversational tone. "The strategy is working. Your work on the promotional circuit has been… adequate and I have taken notice of it."
The faintest flicker of hope crossed Bogdanovich's face. "Thank you, Duke, I've been doing what i can… I really have."
"I know," Duke said, his voice softening a fraction,. "And your cooperation hasn't gone entirely unrewarded."
"You know i decided that I'm authorizing a three percent bonus from the net profit of Targets, and the same terms will apply to your next picture for us."
The effect was instantaneous and profound. Bogdanovich's jaw went slack. Three points off the net was not just generous; it was a lifeline thrown into the ocean of his terrible contract.
It was real money, a validation of his talent, a chance at the wealth he had assumed was forever lost to him. The fear in his eyes was suddenly mixed with a dizzying, desperate gratitude.
"Duke, I… I don't know what to say. Thank you. That's… that's more than fair."
"It is," Duke agreed, his voice still calm.
He leaned forward, his blue eyes locking onto Bogdanovich's. "But let me be perfectly clear, Peter. This goodwill is conditional on your continued, absolute discretion and cooperation."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The quiet intensity was far more terrifying.
"My lawyers have drafted a comprehensive addendum to your contract. A Non-Disclosure and Non-Disparagement Agreement. You will sign it."
"It legally prohibits you from speaking against me, my methods, Ithaca Productions, its subsidiaries, or any of its future or current projects."
"In public, or in private. To a journalist, or to your wife." He let the last two words hang, ensuring Bogdanovich knew there were no safe harbors.
"Any breach," Duke continued, "any ill-considered comment that crosses a line, and not only is this bonus revoked immediately and permanently for all future projects, and we will pursue damages to the fullest, most punitive extent the law allows."
"Crystal," Bogdanovich responded.
"Good. Eleanor will have the papers for you on your way out." Duke smiled and shook hands with him. "Don't be late for your radio interview this afternoon."
---
Later that day, Robert Aldrich from Doubleday was shown in.
"Connor," Aldrich began, taking a seat. "Congratulations on the film's rollout, it's quite the talk of New York. It seems, you're building something formidable here."
"We're trying, Robert," Duke replied, offering a thin, diplomatic smile.
His bitterness for the Katharine issue already gone, he was trying to act nicer druing negotiations. "What can I do for you?"
"It's time to talk about the next book," Aldrich said, getting to the point. "Jaws has finally been dethroned after its magnificent run. Cujo is holding strong at number six, but the public's always wants the new thing. We need to keep 'C. H. Blackwell' on the shelves. So what do you have for us?"
Duke reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a manuscript, sliding it across the desk. "Carrie."
Aldrich picked it up, his eyes scanning the first page, then the synopsis. Duke watched as the editor's face underwent a subtle but definite transformation.
The professional interest curdled into confusion, then into a poorly concealed distaste.
He read a few more pages, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Connor," he said, placing the manuscript down carefully. "This is… a different kind of story."
"Telekinesis cause of a girl getting her period? A high school massacre? Your readers… they've come to expect a certain type of story from you. The literary thriller, the suspense of Jaws, the brutal realism of Cujo… and well this feels… well, it feels like a pulp fantasy."
In the past, Duke would have met this with a cold, final rebuttal. Today, he chose a different tack.
He leaned back, steepling his fingers, his expression one of thoughtful consideration.
"What did Doubleday expect, Robert?" he asked, his tone almost gentle. "Another Jaws? That was a once-in-a-decade phenomenon, I can't replicate that."
"Carrie is a different type of horror but It's covers things like the terror of being an outsider, the cruelty of institutions, the power that comes from being pushed too far."
He could see Aldrich was not convinced.
The man was a creature of the old literary guard, and the idea of his prestigious author dabbling in what he saw as genre schlock was repugnant.
Seeing the entrenched skepticism, Duke made a show of concession.
He sighed, a faint, weary sound. "I understand your concerns. Perhaps… perhaps this isn't the right project for this moment."
He reached out and retrieved the Carrie manuscript, placing it back in his drawer. "Give me a few days. Let me see if I have another concept that might better align with Doubleday's vision for my career."
Aldrich looked relieved, mistaking Duke's tactical retreat for acquiescence. "I think that's wise, Connor. Very wise. I look forward to hearing from you."
---
That night, long after the building had emptied, Duke sat alone in his office. The only light came from a green-shaded lamp on his desk.
He had dismissed a call from Hal B. Wallis the man's stubborn, repetitive offers for True Grit were becoming a tiresome background noise.
Although he did make some calls to just talk about movies, and the Oscars.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, not to retrieve Carrie, but to pull out a fresh, thick ream of paper.
He took a pen, its weight solid and purposeful in his hand. At the top of the first, pristine page, he wrote two words in bold, clear letters:
STAR WARS
He paused, the significance of the moment settling over him. This was not just another book.
It was the foundational scripture for his next, most audacious campaign. It was a universe.
He remembered one time watching a Pre- Batman Christian Bale movie where he fights dragons and they use Star Wars as stories for the kids.
He was about to begin writing when a soft knock interrupted the silence. Leo Walsh entered, his face animated, the energy of the music world clinging to him like static.
"They're here," Walsh said, his voice low with excitement. "The Jacksons. I've had them in a studio all afternoon. Duke, I wasn't wrong. The boys are… they're phenomenal. That little Michael… it's crazy what he can do."
Duke set his pen down. "And the father?"
Walsh's expression tightened. "Joe Jackson. He's exactly what I told you. A hard man. He says he's impressed with the setup, but he won't sign anything. He says he needs to meet the man in charge. He wants to hear your plans for his boys directly from you."
Duke looked from the blank page of *Star Wars* to Walsh's anxious face.
He closed the cover on the nascent manuscript.
"Alright, Leo," he said, standing up. "Send him in. Let's see what the man has to say."