The high from United Artists offer lasted exactly forty-eight hours.
It evaporated on a tuesday morning via a phone call from Jeffrey. His voice, usually a bright tenor, sounded flat.
"They loved the script, Duke. Truly. Picker's is even calling it the melodrama of the decade."
"But?" Duke asked, leaning against his kitchen counter.
He stared at a dried coffee smudge on the counter, the receiver warm against his ear.
"But. The 'but' is a mountain. The executives they all talked." Jeffrey sighed, a gust of static.
"They won't let you direct. No chance."
"Not with zero credits and a leg that… well. They were polite, they cited the 'physical demands of the set.'."
Duke closed his eyes. He'd braced for this kind of rejection, but the thud of the 'no' still hit his gut. "What's the offer?"
"An outright buy for fifty thousand. Or, Ithaca Productions can do a co-production for a nominal fee, but they'll still attach an experienced director and hold creative control."
Fifty thousand was real money in 1967. It was a couple of brownstones in New York.
"Tell them no," Duke said quietly.
"Duke, I mean, for God's sake, let's consider things-"
"No. The deal was the book, the movie, and me directing. That's the package, they don't take it, then we walk."
He heard Jeffrey's sharp intake of breath and the rustle of papers.
His agent lived in the realm of the possible. "Don't think United Artist won't walk away. This is a solid offer for a person barely breaking into Hollywood."
"Let them then. What about Paramount? Has Evans made any attemps at contacting us lately?"
"Actually," Jeffrey said, a sliver of hope returning.
"He called and wants another meeting. I think the UA interest spooked him. Nobody wants to pass on the next big thing."
"Set it up," Duke said. "And Jeffrey? No more wavering. We go in like the deal is already done. Confidence is currency."
He was trying to level his writting career into a directing career.
This was the reason he had picked Love Story as the script to write, the story fit into both a book and film medium.
Even in his past life, Seagal the original writer of Love Story wrote the book to convince a studio to trust in his project.
Of course, the situation for Seagal and for Duke were differrent.
Duke had published his book Jaws in the early months of 1967 and his book was right now dominating the Best Seller list without falling for months.
If he published a book right now, he could at least point to his previous success with Jaws to convince people.
Segal wrote and published his book Love Story in 1970 as a debut novel.
They arrived at the Paramount lot after setting up a meeting.
This time, they were ushered into Evans's actual office, an office with dark wood, leather, and golden-age posters.
Evans was perched on the edge of his desk. He wore a navy blazer and an expression of weary concession.
"Hauser, Jeffrey, please both sit."
They sat. Duke hooked his cane over the armchair, a deliberate gesture.
"I heard you gave Picker the hard sell," Evans began, lighting a cigarette. "He's a smart guy. Sentimental, but smart, it make me consider whether I was too hasty."
"It's not about the sentimentality," Duke said, leaning forward.
He kept his voice calm, but let a flicker of impatience show. "It's about creating an event. A targeted, emotional event."
Evans exhaled a plume of smoke, watching him. "Go on."
"Let's look at the board," Duke said, gesturing as if the studio's release slate was in front of them.
"You've got westerns, War pictures, Psychological thrillers, even Alienation comedies like The Graduate."
"They're all chasing the same demographic, young men, or the middle age crowd. It's a crowded market to fight in."
He let that hang for a second, then picked up the Love Story script.
"This captures an audience that walks to the theater right now and finds nothing specifically for them. Women, young women, college girls, secretaries, book club members."
"They are a massive, underserved market. A high-quality melodrama. Sharp dialogue, real stakes, tragic romance. There's no movie like ours right now on the market."
Jeffrey, sensing the shift in angle, smoothly pivoted. "You get the women first. They read the book, they hear their friends are crying in the theater, and they demand to go."
"And when they decide to go, they bring their boyfriends, their husbands, their parents. One ticket sold to a woman could give you at least one more, often two."
Duke nodded, locking eyes with Evans. "You build the project with that guaranteed audience, and the whole structure of your box office rises on top of it."
"This script" He tapped it again "is made for that. And they will thank you for it. They'll come back to feel it again."
Evans stubbed out his cigarette, half-smoked. "The book. That's the hook you're selling, isn't it? Fine. I see the demographic math. It's clever. But the directing…"
He shook his head, "It's not personal, kid. You write a hell of a sales pitch, maybe. But directing is a very different thing to writing." His gaze flicked to the cane.
"I'm not an inexpirienced person," Duke said, and here his voice lost its salesmanship and became flat, cold, certain.
"Look, I know this story.I know where every dialogue goes. I know the exact sound and emotions I want to portray."
He leaned back, projecting confidence. "You're worried I'll mess up? I won't. I'm not walking onto that set to 'figure it out.' I have my plans"
He tapped his temple. "The tone, the pacing, the key shots, it's already a finished film in my mind."
He saw Evans's skepticism warring with a dawning curiosity.
"So hire me some experienced crew and i'll make sure to direct. You want a guarantee? Fine, put the probation clause in."
"And if you freeze? If the dailies are garbage? I'm burning a million dollars of studio money."
"Then you fire me. Put it in the contract. A two-week probation based on dailies. You have an out that way."
The office went silent. Evans studied him, looking for the crack. Duke held his gaze.
He was betting everything on a certainty borrowed from a future where this script had worked massively for someone else.
Finally, Evans walked to the window, looking out at the lot.
"The deal is this, a tiny budget. You get the credit, but we sign the probation clause."
"You'll forfeit your writer's fee to cover any overages. We distribute. You get a percentage of the net. The book is your problem. You write it, you sell it, you use it to hype the movie."
Duke looked at Jeffrey, who gave a minute, despairing nod. It's this or nothing.
"I'll consider the deal first," Duke said.
Evans stood iup, a smile on his face. "My lawyers will arrange the paperwork, it will be waiting here." The meeting was over.
In the hallway, Jeffrey furrowed his brow. "My God, Duke. The clauses… the forfeiture… it's usurious."
"It's a foot in the door," Duke said, his mind already racing toward logistics. "If we just focus, we can make it cheap. I also haven't accepted the deal yet."
"And the book? Doubleday will want it, but they'll want the Blackwell name."
"Then we'll give them a different name," Duke said. "Let's go. I've got to be on set."
The Graduate set had moved to the LA Zoo.
They were filming the painfully awkward attemp of a date between Benjamin and Elaine.
The air smelled of popcorn, animal musk, and the sour tang of manure.
Duke found his usual spot in the shadow of a boulder.
He watched Nichols framing a two-shot while schoolkids pressed against the barriers making faces. Hoffman and Ross looked exhausted.
During a break, Nichols collapsed into the chair next to Duke, smelling of sweat and cigarettes.
"This is hell," he announced cheerfully. "Absolute hell."
"It'll work," Duke said. "The awkwardness is real. They couldn't act this uncomfortable otherwise."
Nichols grunted, stealing a sip of Duke's Coke. "Maybe. Heard you were shopping your sentimental script."
Word traveled fast.
"Paramount bit," Duke said. "With strings but I haven't decided wether to join them or not."
"Evans?" Nichols nodded. "He's a business guy, but if he sees gold, he'll back you. Until he doesn't."
He eyed Duke. "You're really trying to direct it?"
"That's the plan."
"You're insane. Wonderful, but insane." Nichols was quiet for a moment, watching the crowds. "Let me see it."
"The script?"
"Yeah. The thing worth risking a hopeful writing career over. Let me take a look."
(We'll have a look-Steve McManaman)
Duke hesitated for only a second.
He pulled the Love Story script from his battered bag and handed it over.
Nichols didn't read like an executive; he read like a director, eyes flicking across pages, pausing at descriptions, lips moving slightly on the dialogue.
The break stretched. A PA came to fetch Nichols, but he waved her off without looking up.
He finished the last page, closed it, and sat holding it for a long minute, staring at the monkey enclosure.
"It's not very subtle," he said finally.
"No."
"It's manipulative as hell."
"Yes."
"The dialogue is… crisp. Almost too good. They talk like people wish they talked."
"I know, it's supposed to help the dreamy atmosphere."
Nichols turned to look at him with new respect.
He tapped the script. "This will destroy some sympathetic people. In the best way. It's going to be huge."
Hearing that from Mike Nichols sent a jolt through Duke. "You think so?"
"I know so." He handed it back. "Embassy."
"What about them?"
"They're distributing The Graduate. Joe Levine runs it like a personal fiefdom. He's cheap, and volatile… but he has a nose for what plays. And he loves a package."
Nichols stood up, brushing zoo dust off his trousers. "He's also actively trying to sell the company, so he's looking for one last hit. A low-budget weepie with a built-in book campaign? He might salivate. So it's a possibility."
"You'd talk to him?" Duke asked, hope flaring.
"I'll mention it. Casually. 'A Kid who helped on Graduate has a great script.' That's all. Don't get excited."
"And for Christ's sake, be ready if he calls. He calls at three in the morning. He expects you to be awake, thinking about business."
Nichols strode back toward the set, bellowing for quiet. Duke sat holding the script processing the words.
The call about Doubleday came two days later. Duke was at home, trying and failing to rewrite the first chapter of the novelization.
It didn't matter how he tried, the words felt dead. Maybe a side effect of copying such an emotional film like this.
"They're confused," Jeffrey said. "Aldrich is thrilled you have a new project, but they seem to be focused on the C.H. Blackwell. They're ready to offer a huge advance for Love Story under that name."
"I can't," Duke said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Blackwell is for the horror. The grim stuff. Love Story needs a clean name. If we use Blackwell, the Jaws readers will expect a shark to eat Jenny on page fifty."
"So what's the plan?"
"Sell it under a pseudonym. Or under my own name."
Jeffrey was silent. "They won't like it. They're paying for the Blackwell brand."
"Tell them this, Publish Cujo as planned under Blackwell. Let it be a hit."
"Then, six months later,But quietly release Love Story under the other name. No fanfare and we let word of mouth build."
He could hear Jeffrey's internal gears turning. "That's… not terrible. Risky, but clever. I'll pitch it as a long-game marketing ploy. Aldrich likes being the smartest guy in the room."
"Good. Make the pitch."
After hanging up, Duke felt the fatigue of building castles in the air.
Everything was contingent.
A movie where neither distribution nor production had started, his book released without fanfare.
His entire empire right now was balanced on a series of "ifs."
He returned to The Graduate set, now on a soundstage helping carry non heavy things.
Nichols sought him out near the craft services table. "Levine," he said by way of greeting.
Duke's heart thumped. "And?"
"He likes it, and wants to meet. He heard about the Paramount deal, and he hates that Evans tried to get the project first. But he smells a bargain. He wants the script."
"That's good, right?"
"It's a foot in a different door." Nichols lowered his voice.
"Listen. If you meet him, understand his mind. He's not an artist. He'll talk about 'the little people' who love a simple story. He'll cry if it gets him a better price. Talk about the heart, not the art."
"Would he agree to let me direct?"
Nichols laughed. "That depends if he believes there's not enough risk to it."
"Maybe he'll offer to co-finance with Paramount. He'll want to 'guide' you, which means his nephew might be your Assistant Director."
Duke absorbed this.
"Thank you, Mike. For everything."
Nichols clapped him on the shoulder with a firm grip. "Don't thank me. Just make the damn movie."
He smiled. "The pool shot, by the way? With the reflection? It's genius. We screened the dailies. Best thing in the film."
It was the first unadulterated praise Nichols had given him.
That night, Duke finally found the crack in the dam.
He opened a fresh notebook and, instead of transcribing the movie, he started writing from Oliver Barrett's perspective—from a place of memory and loss. The prose was simpler, cleaner. It had to feel earnest.
'What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.'
The words flowed. He wasn't a time-traveler or a puppeteer anymore. He was just a writer trying to write down emotions he had never experienced.
The phone rang, shattering the silence. It was 3:17 AM.
He picked it up. "Hello?"
A gruff, nasal voice, thick with a New York accent, came down the line. "This Connor Hauser?"
Duke's blood went cold. "Who's asking?"
"Joe Levine. Mike Nichols says you've got a great story. You awake?"
Duke sat up straight, his sleepyness evaporated. "I am now, Mr. Levine."
"Good. Be awake. I don't like the Paramount deal. I like simple deals. I give you money, you give me a movie people pay for."
"You got a script. I want it. You got someone to bring it to the Beverly Hills Hotel? Bungalow 3."
"I'll bring it myself," Duke said.
"You? Now? You got a car that works at this hour?"
"I'll find a way."
A grunt of approval. "Thirty minutes. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Duke stared at the phone, then at the manuscript pages on his desk.
He didn't have a tie. He had a clean shirt, a cane, and a script that was a "fucking missile."
He grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
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