The next morning, Duke Hauser arrived on the dusty, desolate, True Grit set, which was nestled against the beautiful mountains of Colorado.
Duke found John Wayne or "The Duke," as everyone in the industry called him in a heavily customized trailer, separate from the rest of the crew.(I refuse to refer to him by that nickname, but that really was his nickname)
Wayne was immense, his presence filling the space, Duke estimated that they were both the same size but Wayne seemed even taller cause of his attire.
(Wayne was around 6'4-6'5 and he turned into 6'5-6'6 with cowboy boots)
He wore the iconic eye patch and the heavy, oil-stained coat of Rooster Cogburn, but his expression was deeply dissatisfied.
Both Wayne's manager and Spielberg had already informed him of the meeting's purpose.
Duke, shedding the pretense of Hollywood formality, wore his M65 vietnam war jacket over his chinos, choosing attire that seemed more competent.
(The same jacket as in Rambo 1)
Wayne rose slowly, extending a large hand.
"Hauser! Didn't expect one of the heads to fly out here over a little casting disagreement." His voice was deep, and he formed a small smile on his face.
"It's not a disagreement when it threatens a Six million dollar investment, Mr. Wayne," Duke replied, returning the firm handshake with a smile too.
Wayne sat back down, studying Duke's face and attire, his gaze sharp, and he strechede his hands. "Look, i don't want to make things difficult, just solve my issue and everything will be okay."
Duke decide to ignore his words and bypassed the immediate issue and went straight for the common ground he'd identified.
He knew that the only way to manage Wayne was to appeal to the conservative value system he had, the one rooted in duty, structure, and respect for service.
"I served in the war," Duke stated simply, letting the implication land. "Infantry, from 65 to 66."
Wayne's posture shifted instantly. His eyes softening a little, replaced by a more respectful gaze.
Wayne had always been obsessed with military honor and duty, even though his own service record was complex to say the least.
(Wayne was too "old" to serve during ww2, so he just stayed in america making movies.)
"A booby trap, I hear," Wayne said quietly, his voice losing its theatrical edge. "Bad country over there."
"It was," Duke confirmed. "But you learn a lot about support, Mr. Wayne."
"Look, when i went to speak with you, I told you this role is different than your past roles cause this will be beloved by critics and audiences alike, we cant be changing too much or else the story will be diluted."
In his past life he always prefered the 2010 version of True Grit with Hailey Steinfield rather than the 1969 version of True Grit, a big part of it was cause of landscape but also cause of book acuraccy.
Wayne nodded slowly.
"Rooster Cogburn's objective is to get the job done, regardless of who is next to him," Wayne pointed out, playing Duke's game.
"But he also needs a partner who can sell his performance, that Mattie Ross girl, she's ugly and thin. She was clearly miscasted."
"I think that Wallis guy is trying to damage this movie cause he's going to be let go from Paramount after this. He's not even expending time on set."
Duke knew Wayne's distaste for Hal Wallis and he probably was feeling that the producer was disrespecting him by allowing the recasting demand to be vetoed.
Duke had to subtly cut Wallis out of the equation and focus the conflict back onto the creative objective.
"We all know you and others have different ways of doing business, Wayne," Duke said, nodding slightly, acknowledging the producer's impending departure from Paramount without dwelling on it.
"But this isn't about Hal Wallis, and it's not about what a fourteen-year-old girl looks like. It's about what the story demands."
Duke refused to recast the kid, he didnt have any spare money now.
Duke leaned forward, his voice earnest but firm. "You're playing a drunk, washed-up, one-eyed Marshal."
"The strength of the film comes from the fact that you, a massive figure, are being driven by this tiny, stiff, stubborn little girl."
"If we put a glamour girl in that role, the entire film falls apart, sir," Duke insisted.
(I loved the 2010 version of True Grit)
"It becomes a Western cliché. The audience won't believe that she's the one forcing the action. The film needs gritty realism to make your transformation believable."
"At the same time, thats what the critics want, for you to transform into a more literary guy, but we'll do it while keeping you roughness."
Wayne shifted uncomfortably, considering the creative merit rather than the personal affront. "She's also stiff. Her lines feel bad."
"Her lines are the dialogue of the novel, Wayne, it's the voice of the author," Duke corrected gently.
"And she is exactly the kind of stiff, unyielding presence needed to goad a man like Cogburn. She's not supposed to be beautiful or charming either."
Duke knew he had Wayne doubting.
He had acknowledged the star's power, respected his past, and given him a compelling, honorable reason to cooperate.
Now, he needed to secure the commitment.
"This film is going to be a classic, Wayne."
"And it will be a classic because you play Cogburn as the complex, damaged man the script requires, not as a simple western hero," Duke stated.
"I'm here to ensure the investment is protected, and that means protecting thefilm's vision."
Duke rose to stand, signaling the end of the meeting, but not the end of the partnership.
"I am committed to this project. To the film, to the director's vision, and to your performance," Duke promised.
"I will fly out here every single week. To ensure that the set remains professional, and that you and the young actress have the support needed to get these scenes done."
The weekly commitment was a massive promise, a huge consumption of Duke's time, but it was necessary to soothe the ego of the biggest star of the moment.
Duke paused, then offered one final, personalized compliment one that spoke directly to Wayne's heart.
"When i went to see The Green Berets, I loved it by the way."
"Whatever the critics say, the film spoke to a large, ignored audience in this country."
The unexpected compliment a conservative businessman approving of Wayne's controversial pro-war picture landed perfectly.
Wayne's face cracked into a big genuine smile.
"Damn right it did," Wayne muttered, nodding.
He reached out and tapped Duke's shoulder. "Alright, Duke. You win. For the sake of the picture.I'll cooperate. But that girl better not miss her cues."
Duke extended his hand again. "She won't, Wayne. And if anyone on this set causes problems, speak with Spielberg, i'll also be around."
"I think you and I understand each other," Wayne said.
The crisis was averted at last.
---
The air in the Marvel Comics office, usually thick with cigarette smoke, and the frantic sound of typewriters, felt different now.
It was September 1968, and the energy was less a frantic rush to meet a deadline and more a sustained, rhythmic hum of production.
Duke leaned against the doorframe of the brightly lit, messy studio, watching the scene unfold.
Stan Lee, arms waving dramatically, was talking near a towering stack of freshly printed Iron-Man issues.
"The numbers are in!" Stan boomed, his voice carrying over the din of the artists.
"The racks were empty in less than three days!"
Jack Kirby, the engine of the Marvel machine, merely grunted, but it was a satisfied grunt.
He was hunched over his drawing board, already laying down the heavy inks for the upcoming The Incredible Hulk title.
The character, long relegated to one-off appearances and canceled titles, was now being relaunched as part of the massive new volume expansion Duke had greenlit.
The content win was palpable.
Now, with the distribution bottleneck momentarily cracked, the full, undeniable power of the Marvel characters was unleashed.
They had confirmed what Stan always suspected, the appetite for complex, modern superheroes heroes with flaws, heroes who bled was absolutely insatiable.
Duke felt a rare, deep sense of gratification.
This was the why of the investment, the belief that content, not capital, was the ultimate lever.
Later that morning, back in Duke's pristine office.
David Chen arrived, not with the usual stack of alarming red-penned reports, but with a single, calm blue folder.
"I took a call from Charlton an hour ago," Chen announced, sliding the blue folder across the desk. "It's over, Duke. The threat worked. We won."
The Charlton distribution situation, which had consumed Duke's energy and risked the entire Marvel acquisition, was officially neutralized.
"They signed the amendment to the master distribution contract this morning," Chen confirmed, his voice holding an unusual note of professional awe.
"The 10% reduction is retroactive to the beginning of the quarter, and they are committed to phasing in the infrastructure upgrades immediately."
Duke picked up the document.
The language was stiff, bureaucratic, and clearly signed under duress, but the effect was undeniable.
"The upgrades?" Duke asked, knowing that paper promises meant little without action.
"The upgrade is already beginning in the Chicago hub," Chen affirmed. "They're installing a new routing systems and dedicating an entirely new, smaller fleet for high-volume periodicals only."
Chen paused, letting the weight of the victory settle. "Our cash flow is now stable and predictable. We can rely on the Marvel money to service the Marvel debt going forward."
The Marvel cash flow, once a terrifying variable, was now a fixed, reliable asset.
---
Duke hadn't even finished processing the victory over Charlton, when he was forced to pick up the secure line for a scheduled call with Walsh.
The call came through from Los Angeles, and Walsh's voice, usually laced with the anxiety of a man juggling ten singles and three major tours, was buoyant.
"Duke, it's good news all around. I mean, genuinely good news," Walsh started, dispensing with the usual pleasantries.
"I saw the Marvel reports congratulations on the Charlton affair. That stability gives us breathing room for the real show."
"And the real show is...?" Duke prompted, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear the confirmation.
"The Jackson 5, forget the local radio, we're seeing 'I Want You Back' breaking out nationally faster than we predicted. The call-in numbers are insane. The momentum is just feeding itself," Walsh confirmed.
"How are the boys handling the pressure?" Duke asked, thinking of the intense rehearsal schedules Joe Jackson demanded.
"They're handling it like professionals, especially Michael.
"Joe is still Joe, difficult, demanding, constantly trying to renegotiate hotel suites, but the product he delivers is pure gold," Walsh assured him.
"They're rehearsing intensely, tightening the stage show, and the plan for the album launch in March 1969 is completely on track."
The J5's local success was great, but the legitimacy Joe Jackson had demanded the kind that allowed them to crossover and dominate mainstream pop required star power.
That meant Diana Ross.
"Now, the big one," Duke said, his voice tightening. "The Motown deal. Did Gordy actually sign off on the terms?"
Walsh chuckled, a genuine sound of professional triumph. "He signed, he demanded three new custom leather sofas for his office, but he signed the co-production deal with us this morning."
Walsh proceeded to detail the success of Duke's aggressive, high-stakes negotiation.
"He bit, Duke. Hard," Walsh said.
"We are co-producing the Diana Ross TV special, but Gordy gets a glossy, highly publicized special for his biggest star without spending a dime of Motown's cash."
"And our non-negotiable term?" Duke pressed.
"Confirmed and notarized."
"The contract explicitly mandates Diana Ross's personal introduction of The Jackson 5 framing them as her 'discovery' and guarantees the boys a five-minute performance clause during the special," Walsh confirmed.
"They will perform 'I Want You Back' right into the living rooms of every network-watching American. Joe Jackson will get his A-list star power."
The cost had been high, a serious draw on Ithaca's liquid capital, but the expenditure was justified.
Duke had essentially purchased instantaneous, undeniable legitimacy for The Jackson 5.
They were skipping the years of grinding club tours and regional buildup; they were going straight to the national stage with the blessing of the reigning Queen of Pop.
"The cultural impact of that five minutes is worth more than five million dollars of print advertising," Duke acknowledged, feeling a surge of powerful satisfaction.
Finally, Duke turned his attention to the true big shot of the entire Label Creedence Clearwater Revival.
"Give me the latest on CCR," Duke requested.
"They're printing money," Walsh reported, his voice tinged with awe.
"CCR had another massive week. They're moving units faster than the pressing plants can keep up, and their touring schedule is sold out for the next three months."
Walsh explained the financial reality that underpinned Duke's entire enterprise "They are the opposite of the J5—they are all album sales, all tour money, no drama, just predictable cash flow."
The CCR peace was crucial. If the Jackson 5 were the risky, high-reward investment, CCR was the relentless, low-maintenance annuity.
They asked for little beyond good tour management, and they delivered reliable, massive income streams that dwarfed the returns of Marvel and protected the company from the volatility of the Entertainment industry.
"They haven't complained about the lack of promotion or the demands of the schedule?" Duke checked, ensuring his primary cash cow was contented.
"No, Duke. They just want to play," Walsh confirmed. "They're musicians, not actors. They are content to tour, record, and let the money roll in."
Duke leaned back in his chair, a profound sense of confidence washing over him.
Marvel was stabilized, now funding itself, and set for massive growth.
The Jackson 5 were on an unstoppable trajectory, armed with necessary cash and the cpming legitimacy.
CCR was pouring cash into their system.
Things were going good.