February 19, the morning the Oscar nominations were announced, the offices hummed with a suppressed, giddy energy. Eleanor, her usual composure touched by a faint smile, placed the freshly-printed trade papers on Duke's desk.
The newpapers said it all:
"Mike Nichol's The Graduate get 7 Nominations."
Best Picture.
Best Director (Mike Nichols).
Best Actor (Dustin Hoffman).
Best Actress (Anne Bancroft)
Best Supporting Actress (Katharine Ross).
Best Adapted Screenplay.
It was a sweeping validation specially for a film that have had so many detractors and even after a solid streak on the box office, it had not reached the number 1 in the box office even once.
The phone began ringing incessantly congratulations from agents, rivals, and journalists.
Mike Nichols called, his voice ebullient with triumph.
Katharine Ross called, her tone a complex mix of genuine excitement and the lingering, unspoken tension that now lay between them.
Duke accepted the praise with his usual calm demeanor, but internally, he recognized a major strategic victory.
An Oscar-nominated film among his films wasn't just about prestige; it was a tangible asset. It gave Ithaca Productions undeniable credibility, increased the value of his entire library, and would prpobably make every future negotiation easier.
The door to his office burst open and Mark Jensen strode in, his face alight with the news. "Seven! Can you believe it? The phones are going crazy! Sadly Bonnie and Clyde and Guess who's coming to Dinner both got 10 nominations"
"I've noticed," Duke said, a faint, dry smile on his lips.
"Nichols's office just called," Jensen continued, barely containing his energy. "He was insistent. The entire team needs to be there. This is our moment."
"Of course," Duke replied, his mind already shifting from celebration to logistics. "It's the right room to be in. There will be people there we need to see."
The Oscars, to him, were less a ceremony and more the year's most concentrated networking event.
"Absolutely," Jensen agreed. Then, his expression shifted to a more practical, slightly awkward one. "So, uh... who are you planning on taking? For your plus-one I mean."
The question hung in the air. Duke's calm facade didn't flicker, but internally, it was as if a record had scratched.
The whirlwind of business had been so all-consuming he had given no thought to the social pageantry of the event.
He was, for all intents and purposes, unattached.
His mind went immediately to Katharine. It was the obvious, logical choice. She was nominated. They had made the film together. For the public, it would be a perfect picture.
But her phone call, while warm, had been professional. The returned flowers were a silent testament to the distance she had created.
Would asking her be a step backward? An unwelcome invitation?
"I'll give it some thought," Duke said, his voice even, effectively closing the subject.
Jensen, recognizing the dismissal, nodded and retreated, leaving Duke alone with the trade papers and the silent phone.
---
Robert Aldrich, having delivered 'Salem's Lot' to a thrilled Doubleday, made good on his promise.
He set up the meeting to finalize the acquisition of The Paris Review.
The price was a mere $300,000, a pittance for Duke, a fortune for the perpetually struggling literary magazine.
The meeting took place over an expensive, discreet dinner at a private restaurant.
The editor, George Plimpton, was everything Duke was not: patrician, effortlessly charming, a creature of the East Coast.
Seated beside Plimpton was a man introduced as Charles Lockwood, a "consultant" who occasionally advised the magazine on "special projects."
Lockwood was sharp, impeccably dressed, and had calm, observant eyes.
As Plimpton and Duke discussed the Review's future with Duke assuring him of complete editorial independence the conversation flowed from literature to the changing media landscape.
During a lull, Duke, his tone casually inquisitive, turned to Plimpton.
"I've always been an admirer of the Review's history," Duke said. "Some of the cultural exchanges during the Cold War were particularly fascinating."
"I've heard rumors, probably apocryphal, about certain... indirect funding sources in the early days. The Congress for Cultural Freedom, that sort of thing. Did that ever create any complications for the editorial line?"
Plimpton gave a practiced, charmingly vague smile, waving his hand as if shooing a fly. "Oh, one hears all sorts of stories in this business, Connor. May I call you Connor?"
"I think the main thing is that the work itself has always remained pure. The poetry, the interviews... the enduring legacy. The rest is just background noise." It was a perfect non-answer, acknowledging the rumor while neither confirming nor denying it.
It was then that Lockwood smoothly entered the conversation.
"The relationship between art and its patrons is always a delicate dance," he said, his voice a low, reasonable baritone.
"But influence works in many directions. Take the film industry, for instance. The rating system at the MPAA... it's not an exact science."
"A film's commercial success can be greatly affected by whether it gets an 'R' or an 'X.' The board members are reasonable people, especially when a project aligns with broader... societal interests."
He let that hang for a moment, then looked directly at Duke. "I understand your film Targets just navigated that process. A picture about a sniper... such a volatile subject. It would be a shame if it were perceived as overly sensational."
He took a sip of wine. "You're in a unique position, Connor. An Oscar-nominated veteran. There are people, important people, who see that as a powerful combination. They see a potential for stories that can... unify."
"That can shape a healthier public discourse. And they are often willing to invest quite significantly in those who share that goal. It's not about censorship. It's about championing a certain perspective."
The offer was now explicit, though still veiled. Lockwood was not just a consultant; he was steering the conversation and acting as a facilitator for interests that saw Duke as a potential asset.
Plimpton, looking slightly uncomfortable with the bluntness of the pitch, cleared his throat. "Charles does have a way of seeing the bigger picture."
He stood, offering Duke his hand. "Connor, it's been a pleasure. I believe we have an understanding. The Review is in good hands."
Lockwood also stood, extracting a simple, elegant business card from a silver case. He placed it on the table in front of Duke. There was no company name, just Charles Lockwood and a telephone number.
"It was a pleasure, Mr. Hauser," Lockwood said. "I have a feeling our paths will cross again. Think on what we've discussed about the right stories, told the right way."
As the two men left, Duke was alone with the check and the card. He picked it up, feeling a little confused about what that guy was talking about
(IM COOKING OK CHILL)
---
A few days later, Duke met Hal B. Wallis for a working dinner at Musso & Frank.
The old-world grill room, with its red leather banquette, the air smelled of broiled steak.
"The script is polished, the budget is drafted, but none of it matters until we have the one piece of collateral the banks understand," Wallis said, slicing into his prime rib with methodical precision. "John Wayne."
Duke, who had been thinking in terms of asset ownership and profit margins, was momentarily thrown. "I understand his box office appeal, but the bank's loan is contingent on an actor?"
"Not an actor. The actor," Wallis corrected him, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
His tone was that of a professor with a bright but naive student. "This is the machinery, Hauser. You're still thinking like a publisher who sells a finished product. We're in the business of selling promises."
"A film is the riskiest venture in town. To get the several million dollars needed to make it, you don't go to a rich uncle; you go to a bank or a completion bond company. Those men… they don't read scripts for pleasure."
"They read balance sheets and insurance policies. The single most bankable asset, the only thing that truly calms their nerves, is a star with a proven, decades-long record of putting people in theater seats. Wayne is that. His name on the dotted line is a form of insurance, it tells them that the project has legs, a guaranteed level of interest."
"It helps de-risks the entire project."
He took a slow sip of his scotch, letting the lesson sink in. "Without Wayne, the interest rate on the loan is punishing, if you can get one at all."
"With Wayne, the doors swing open, the terms become reasonable, and the greenlight is virtually automatic. He's not just the lead; he's the cornerstone of the financing. It's why I wanted this project so badly the moment I heard he was interested."
Duke absorbed this, filing the knowledge away. It was a system built on personality over property, a concept he found both absurd and frustratingly real.
Wallis leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Which brings me to another piece of business. I heard about your meeting with Paul Newman."
Duke's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "That was a private conversation."
A dry, knowing smile touched Wallis's lips. "There are no private conversations in this town. Only rehearsals for public ones. Word is you showed him the door when he offered to play Butch Cassidy. Personally, i must say that was a mistake."
"I don't give away ownership of my projects," Duke stated, his tone leaving no room for debate.
"It's not giving it away, it's sharing it to get something far more valuable made," Wallis countered, his patience clearly strained by what he saw as youthful intransigence.
"Newman is that same kind of collateral. Maybe not Wayne-level yet, but he's the future. He has the heat. Having him attached to Butch Cassidy would have made financing that picture a breeze."
"You should reconsider. Call him, smooth things over. A picture like that needs a star, and right now, you've got a great script, but you're also earning a reputation for being difficult."
Duke held Wallis's gaze, the clatter of the old grill room fading into the background.
He though about whether it was the correct move to collaborate once with Newman. After all the guy's not a bad actor, he personally loved his acting in 'The Color of Money'.