Mark Jensen entered Duke's office with an excited expression hanging on his face. He carried two files, one thick, and the other thin.
"The Midnight Cowboy project," he began, placing the thick file on the desk and not needing to remind Duke of their prior conversation.
"It's moving, but it's on dangerously shaky ground, The studio is still having cold feet. They think the director, John Schlesinger is too British, for this kind of gritty American story."
"And the script it doesn't pull back from the content..." Jensen shook his head in admiration and concern. "They're convinced the Production Code Administration will butcher it, and even if they don't, they think American audiences will reject it."
Duke's mind instantly went to his memories of Midnight Cowboy.
The only X-rated film to ever win Best Picture.
A landmark of American cinema that would capture the despair of the era, a surprising critical and commercial triumph.
"What does Schlesinger wants?" Duke asked, his voice flat, his focus already absolute.
"Support," Jensen said simply. "A producer who gets it, and who will support him financially and creatively. If we step in with a co-financing offer and a guarantee of creative freedom we could secure the project as a co-production."
Duke didn't hesitate. "Set up the meeting. Tell him we understand what he's trying to build. We'll provide a financial bridge and a portion of the backend." It was a swift, decisive move, a classic maneuver of seeing immense value where others saw only risk.
Jensen nodded, a smile of satisfaction breaking through. "I'll call his agent now."
He then picked up the thinner, disappointing file. "On a less promising note, we got a hard 'no' on The Italian Job. Our offer was rejected outright."
Duke's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Did they mention why?"
"From what I can gather, it wasn't about the money," Jensen explained. "The British production team, specifically the producer Michael Deeley, seems to have a deep-seated preference for the established studio system."
"They view a partnership with a newly established American distribution company as a risk. The word is, they've just inked a distribution deal with Paramount. They want the security of a major behind them, even if it means a less favorable financial split."
Duke absorbed this. It was a small setback.
"Noted," Duke said, his tone dismissing the failure as a minor tactical retreat. "Paramount's gain is their own."
"Focus on Schlesinger. Midnight Cowboy is ten times the film The Italian Job will ever be."
As Jensen left to secure the meeting, Duke looked back at the ledger on his desk. The entry for Midnight Cowboy now had a checkmark next to it.
---
The final click of the door, shutting out Mark Jensen's eager energy, left a profound silence in its aftermaht.
Duke remained motionless, as he stared at the air in front of him while analizing things in his mind.
He was being reactive. He was winning battles presented to him, but he was not the general staff planning the war.
The ghost of Irving Thalberg whispered of creative purity, but a louder, more insistent voice, the one from 2025 spoke of ecosystems, vertical integration, and global american culture.
He was building a media company for the 1970s when he knew the battles of the future would be about streaming rights and the attention economy.
If you think about it, he's the only person on Earth who held the complete plans for the next sixty years of global culture and technology.
It was time to start acting like it.
He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, a reinforced compartment separate from his daily files. From it, he pulled a heavy, leather-bound book, its pages blank and waiting.
He opened it to the first page. At the top, in precise, block letters, he wrote a single, commanding word: Future.
This was not a journal. It was an inventory of his ultimate asset. He began to write, not in sentences, but in cold, hard data points, a systematic dissection of the future.
Ithaca Productions
DIRECTORS:
Steven Spielberg.
George Lucas.
Robert Altman.
Mel Brooks.
Francis Coppola.
FRANCHISE IP (The Crown Jewels):
Star Wars.
Batman
Marvel Comics
Superman
Dune.
The Lord of the Rings
FILM SLATE
1970s: Jaws, Star Wars, Rocky.
1980s: Batman, Indiana Jones, Back to the Future, Terminator.
1990s: Jurassic Park, Titanic, Harry Potter.
2000s: Spiderman, Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean
(I didn't wrote the whole thing but i'm planning on doing this to help visualize the character better)
His pen paused.
Steven Spielberg, the name was a cornerstone in american media. The man who would direct the film that created the very concept of the modern blockbuster.
Duke wondered, 'Was he already in Hollywood?'
"Eleanor, I have a priority task. I need you to find someone. A young man, likely in his late twenties or early twenties. His name is Steven Spielberg. Tell Jensen to also look for him. I don't care how you do it. Find him."
He picked up his pen again and started writing again
Tecnology
VIDEO GAMES: The arcade (1970s), the home console (Atari 2600, 1977), Nintendo (1980s).
Establish Ithaca Interactive.
Create foundational IP: Pac-Man, Space Invaders, Super Mario, The Legend of Zelda.
HOME VIDEO: Betamax is a dead end. Back VHS. Establish Ithaca Home Video as a dominant distributor. The secondary market for films will be larger than the theatrical.
PERSONAL COMPUTING: Investment Targets: Apple (founded 1976), Microsoft (1975). Seed capital for significant equity.
THE INTERNET: Core Companies: Cisco (1984). Future Ventures: Search engines, social media. Note: Data is the ultimate commodity.
He leaned back, he had already decided to burn down this leather book after writing this. Some things are better staying only in memory
On the paper, he wrote his investment guide:
INVESTMENT (1968-1980):
Berkshire Hathaway
Walmart
Microsoft
Apple
Intel
Home Depot
Nike
The plan was clear. The massive, rapid wealth generated by his cinematic blockbusters and publishing hits would be funneled into these bedrock investments.
That capital would, in turn, fund the acquisitions and funding of his media corporation.
He was not an investor in his past life.
He was a guy obsessed with movies and in this life he was happy by being a wealthy man with a lot of movies being made under his company.
He decided to put a small goal of becoming a mini major studio by 1971.
---
The following day, Hal B. Wallis returned to his office, this time Duke invited Mel Brooks at the same time. Brooks was a live wire, all manic energy and sharp intelligence, a stark contrast to Wallis's granite poise.
The contracts for The Producers distribution deal laid on the table.
"Mel," Duke began, deciding on a policy of blunt honesty.
He leaned forward, his hands steepled. "I want to be clear about the content of this deal. I am selling the national distribution rights for The Producers to Paramount. I'll retain the rights here in California for my own operations, but across the rest of the country, it will be their campaign, their marketing, their release."
He expected outrage, he expected the artistic temperament that he had kind of gotten accoustumed by this point.
He was prepared to argue that this was the only way to get the film the wide audience its genius deserved, that his own distribution network wasn't yet ready for a national launch of this scale.
Mel Brooks stared at him for a second, his eyes wide. Then his face split into a huge, incredulous grin.
He slammed his hand on the desk with a crack that made Wallis flinch. "SOLD! You sold it! To PARAMOUNT!"
He let out a whoop of laughter that seemed to bounce off the wood-paneled walls. "Do you know what this means? It's a Paramount release! My mother can go to the theater in Sheboygan and see it! My aunt in Boca! This is fantastic! It's a mitzvah!"
He spun in his chair towards Duke, his expression turning to a look of mock-serious conspiracy. "And you! A smart guy, a shrewd guy. I can see it. So listen, for my next picture a little something I'm calling The Twelve Chairs you'll be my first call. We'll be partners! You can sell that one to MGM!" He winked, a broad, theatrical gesture.
For the first time in recent memory, Duke felt a genuine, uncalculated smile touch his lips. "I'll have my people check my schedule for 1970, Mel. But I'll warn you I dont got too much money."
Brooks roared with laughter again. "We should make a flop instead of putting too much effort our movies and scam some old ladies together."
Wallis allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile, "I told you he'd see it our way, Hauser. He's a showman. He wants an audience."
"The deal is good for everyone," Wallis continued, smoothly pushing the contract forward. "Paramount gets a critically acclaimed, smart comedy for its slate. You get your capital. And Mel gets his masterpiece in theaters nationwide."
He turned to Brooks. "And we're going to make sure they know it's there, Mel. We're going to oversaturate New York. Full-page ads in the Times, the Post. Bus shelters. Radio spots on every station from here to Yonkers. We're going to make 'Springtime for Hitler' the most talked-about title in the five boroughs before we even unspool the first reel."
Brooks was already nodding vigorously, his eyes gleaming at the description. "I love it! Drown them! This is a simcha!"
He grabbed the pen from Wallis's hand. "Where do I sign? Don't tell me, I'll find it. Let's do it before you two geniuses change your minds and decide to bury it in a vault!" He scrawled his signature with a dramatic flourish.
As Brooks signed, Duke felt a strange mix of satisfaction and disorientation. The meeting had been a resounding success, but it had also revealed a blind spot in his own thinking.
He was so conditioned to fight for every ounce of control, to see every negotiation as a potential betrayal, that he'd forgotten a fundamental truth: some artists simply burned to be seen, and some victories could be won with a simple handshake and a sharedG laugh.