April 1970, Duke was doing his preparation in a hushed wildly expensive Italian tailoring store.
He stood on a small podium in a private fitting room, arms slightly raised, while an elderly tailor named Gio pinned the hem of his trousers.
The fabric was a midnight-blue wool, so dark it looked black until the light hit it.
Sitting on a velvet ottoman nearby was a young man named Mr. Finch. Finch was from Doubleday, a junior representative sent because the senior editor was currently unavailable.
"The preparations are finalized, Mr. Duke," Finch said, balancing a briefcase on his knees. "We're looking at an April 20th rollout for Big Fish. The marketing team is... well, they're ecstatic. It's warm. It's heartfelt. The company has a lot of hope for it."
Duke watched himself in the tri-fold mirror. He was expending more, but he finally looked like a tycoon.
"It's a good book," Duke said, his voice calm.
In his previous life, Big Fish had been one of his favorite movies.
"And," Finch cleared his throat, "Mr. Sterling wanted me to ask... purely for scheduling purposes... if you had any thoughts on a follow-up? We know you're busy with the studio, but..."
"I have thoughts," Duke said. He lowered his arms as Giuseppe stepped back.
"Oh? Is it... similar in tone? Another family drama?"
Duke turned to look at the young man. A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips.
"Not exactly," Duke said. "I've been working on a manuscript at night. It's a chamber piece, about a famous writer who crashes his car in a snowstorm and gets rescued by a former nurse. She's his 'Number One Fan.'"
Finch smiled, relieved. "That sounds lovely. A romance like Love Story?"
Duke chuckled, "No, Mr. Finch. She holds him captive. She breaks his ankles with a sledgehammer to keep him from leaving. It's a story about the relationship between art and consumer. About how the audience thinks they own you."
Finch's smile froze. He blinked rapidly. "I... see. That sounds... intense."
"It's called Misery," Duke said, turning back to the mirror to adjust his cufflinks. "Tell Sterling to clear the schedule for next winter."
"I'll... I'll let him know," Finch squeaked.
"Good," Duke said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go."
The 42nd Academy Awards were held on April 7, 1970, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.
The red carpet was filled with flashbulbs as stars walked.
Duke stepped out of the black limousine, the heavy door snapping shut behind him.
On his arm, Julie Christie wore a simple, flowing gown. She looked effortless, cool, and devastatingly beautiful, her hand resting lightly on Duke's forearm.
"They're screaming for you," Duke murmured, leaning close to her ear.
"They're screaming for everyone," she corrected, her lips barely moving.
They moved toward the entrance. Ahead of them, the crowd parted.
Standing near the oversized Oscar statues was a cluster of people from Columbia Pictures. In the center of the group, towering over everyone else, was Donald Sutherland.
He was wearing a tuxedo with a ruffled shirt that looked aggressively fashionable. He was laughing at something a reporter had said, playing the part of the charming, irreverent star of MASH.
Then he saw Duke.
The laughter stopped.
Sutherland's eyes locked onto Duke's. It had been weeks since the confrontation in the boardroom, since Duke had told him to shut up or get out. There had been no apologies, no phone calls.
Duke didn't slow down. He didn't frown. He simply looked at Sutherland a direct stare that he hoped communicated everything that needed to be said.
'I'm still here. I'm still the money. And I'm still the boss.'
Sutherland hesitated. For a second, it looked like he might look away or make a joke. Instead, he gave a curt, stiff nod.
Duke returned the nod and kept walking.
"That guy seems weird," Julie whispered, tightening her grip on his arm. "Friend of yours?"
"Employee," Duke corrected.
As they neared the grand doors, another figure emerged from the press line. Jane Fonda.
She looked radiant, her hair perfectly arranged. She saw Duke.
She raised a hand, a half-wave to say hello.
Duke's internal radar screamed.
Jane Fonda was Henry Fonda's daughter. Henry was beloved.
He was on The Grapes of Wrath, 12 Angry Men.
To publicly snub Jane could be a disrespect to her dad, and Duke needed the old guard's votes for Hacksaw Ridge.
He also didn't want to befriend Jane cause of her radical left beliefs which could come back to bite him in the ass.
After all, who was the person that benefited the most from Watergate? Jane Fonda, or Hanoi Jane who was almost charged with treason to the United States just before the scandal broke out.
So Duke did the only thing he could do. He looked through her.
He focused his eyes on a point ten feet behind her head, as if he had spotted an old friend in the distance.
He smiled broadly at empty space, turned his head to say something to Julie, and swept past Jane Fonda.
He felt the heat of her glare on his back, but he didn't turn around.
"You're paranoid," Julie said as they entered the cool, air-conditioned lobby.
"I'm careful," Duke said. "There's a difference."
The ceremony itself went by fast.
Duke sat in the front row, his long legs cramped, the smell of expensive perfume and nervous sweat filling the auditorium.
It was a strange year.
The nominees for Best Picture were a strange list.
'Hello, Dolly!' a big-budget musical
Anne of the Thousand Days a historical costume epic.
Z a political thriller and conspiracy drama from France\Algeria.
And finally the two films Duke had backed alongside Paramount. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Midnight Cowboy.
When the moment came, the final envelope, the room held its breath.
"The winner is... Midnight Cowboy."
The gasp in the room was audible. An X-rated film. A film about a male hustler. It had won.
As John Schlesinger and producer Jerome Hellman took the stage, the applause was massive.
Duke didn't clap wildly. He clapped slowly, a satisfied smile on his face.
"You picked a winner," Julie said, leaning over, her voice impressed.
"Paramount should offer me a good international deal now right?," Duke said, watching the producers hold the gold statue. "The world is changing, Julie, the old studios will fall and new studios will rise up."
Duke couldn't help but think that for Paramount, the box office bump would be massive which he also had a cut of.
The Governor's Ball was a swirl of champagne, and smoke. It was a victory lap for the winners and a drowning pool for the losers.
Duke moved through the room. He shook hands. He accepted compliments on his "shrewd eyesight" in Cowboy.
Near the ice sculpture, he spotted Robert Evans.
The head of Paramount looked like he was vibrating. His tan was deep, his glasses were tinted, and he was holding a glass of scotch in his hand.
Paramount had distributed Midnight Cowboy and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and was riding high, this night, it belonged to them.
"Duke!" Evans shouted over the jazz band. "You son of a bitch! You got a golden touch!"
"It's a good night for cinema, Bob," Duke said, stepping into Evans's personal space.
"It's a crazy night!" Evans laughed. "An X-rating! Can you believe it? Valenti is probably in the bathroom throwing up."
"Listen, we need to talk. I've got scripts. I've got ideas. Paramount and Ithaca, we should be married. Exclusive. I already spoke with the board."
Duke guided Evans slightly away from the crowd, toward a quiet alcove near the kitchen service doors.
"I love working with you, Bob," Duke said honestly. And he did. Evans was a hustler, a visionary, a man who loved movies with a desperate intensity. "But we can't be exclusive."
"Why not?" Evans flashed his million-dollar grin. "You want more points? I'll give you points."
"It's not about points," Duke said. He lowered his voice. "It's about distribution."
Evans frowned, confused. "What about it? We handle your distribution."
"Not anymore, or well, not after Hacksaw Ridge." Duke said. "I bought Allied Artists."
Evans froze. The grin vanished, replaced by a look of sudden sobriety. "You... you bought the B-movie house, a poverty row?"
"I bought the distribution, Bob. The leases. The infrastructure. As of last month, Allied is gone. It's Ithaca Distribution now."
Duke watched the realization wash over Evans. Duke hadn't just made a deal, he had built a competitor.
"You're building a studio," Evans whispered. "A real studio. You're going to distribute your own pictures."
"I'm going to distribute my films after Hacksaw Ridge," Duke said.
Evans shook his head, a mix of disbelief and admiration in his eyes. "You're crazy. Do you know the overhead? The unions?"
"I have good lawyers," Duke said. "And I have cash. Lots of it."
Duke paused. He looked at Evans a man who would eventually fall from grace, consumed by cocaine and scandal, but who right now was at the peak of his powers.
"Come work with me, Bob," Duke said impulsively. "Leave the suits at Gulf & Western. Come run Ithaca Distribution. I'll give you autonomy. I'll give you equity. No board of directors. Just us, making movies."
Evans looked at Duke. For a second, he seemed to consider it. The freedom.
Then, he shook his head. He smiled, but it was a sadder smile this time.
"I can't, Duke. Paramount... I brought her back from the dead. I can't leave now. Not when i'm just getting started."
"I understand," Duke said. He extended his hand.
Evans took the hand. "We can still talk about International Distribution."
After a while, Duke watched him walk back into the party, back to the adulation and the noise. Duke felt a pang of sympathy.
Duke left the party twenty minutes later.
He sent Julie home in the limo, she had an early flight to London, and they had said their goodbyes with a lingering kiss in the backseat.
Duke wanted to walk.
He walked down Grand Avenue. The streetlights hummed overhead. The air had cooled, the smog settling into the basin like a blanket.
He loosened his tie. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.
In his head, he ran the numbers.
Midnight Cowboy's win would add another three, maybe four million to his net worth in re-releases and foreign sales.
The Allied acquisition was paid for. Hacksaw Ridge was in the can. The French Connection and Dirty Harry were in pre-production. Klute was casting.
He stopped at a corner, looking out over the city grid.
One hundred million dollars.
It was an abstract number. But he felt like he wasnt living in luxury yet.
He remembered the history of the 70s. The kidnappings. The Patty Hearst saga. The rise of terrorism. The sheer, violent unpredictability of the decade.
He was too rich to be walking alone at 2:00 AM. He was too important to the timeline to risk a mugging or a "random" accident.
"Security," Duke said quietly to the empty street.
He would call Jeffrey in the morning. He would set up a personal protection detail. It would be another barrier between him and the world, another layer of isolation, but it was the cost of doing business.
Duke buttoned his jacket. He straightened his tie.
He looked at his reflection in the darkened window of a bank. The tuxedo fit perfectly.
He turned and kept walking, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The party was over. The work was just beginning.
1970 was his and during the next Studio shuffling he would acquire a big studio, even if under debt.
___
So the decision is acquiring Paramount and folding MGM into it
Now decide:
007
Mission Imposible
Both