On 10 am on the morning.
The casual atmosphere of the previous meeting had been replaced by a austere legal air.
Robert Evans' office, usually a sanctuary of luxury, had been converted into a negotiation room.
On one side sat the Studio people, three senior Paramount attorneys in charcoal grey suits.
Their job was to say no, to mitigate risk, and to ensure that Gulf+Western's bottom line remained undisturbed by the whims of creatives.
On the other side sat Duke and Silberman.
Silberman was a middle age, sharp, and hungry lawyer he had hired. Duke himself had handpicked him for Ithaca.
Robert Evans sat at the head of the table, wearing a chocolate-brown suit and tinted glasses.
"Gentlemen," Evans said, "We are here to make history. Let's not get bogged down in the details. We want Duke. Duke wants Paramount."
The lead Paramount attorney, a man named Sterling who looked like he was disapproving this conversation, adjusted his reading glasses.
He picked up the draft contract.
"Mr. Evans," Sterling said, his voice dry as paper. "We are prepared to offer the standard director's package. Guild minimums, a healthy overhead provision, and a net profit participation of twenty percent. It is generous."
Jeffrey didn't even look up from his notepad. "We aren't interested in standard, Mr. Sterling. And we certainly aren't interested in net profits."
"My client is aware of how 'monkey points' work. We know that under studio accounting, any movie could be technically in the red."
Sterling raged. "That is preposterous."
"It's the industry," Duke cut in. His voice was calm, contrasting with the tension in the room.
"I'm not here to argue accounting with you, Mr. Sterling. I'm here to make movies that will keep the lights on this studio. Jeffrey, read the terms."
Jeffrey slid a single sheet of paper across the mahogany.
"Three pictures," Jeffrey recited, his tone clipped.
"Total creative control. Final cut privilege. And regarding compensation, we require a production fee of $75,000 per picture, against 12.5% of the First-Dollar Gross."
The silence in the room was absolute.
"First-dollar gross?" Sterling choked out.
"Mr. Evans, this is insanity. Stars, even major stars like McQueen or Newman fight for points on the gross. Directors? Most importantly unknown directors? It's unprecedented. The board will never approve it."
"And," Jeffrey continued, ignoring the outburst, "Mr. Duke requires a 7.5% passive equity interest in the copyright and all ancillary rights."
"That includes television licensing, foreign syndication, soundtrack sales, and any future media formats yet to be invented."
Sterling slammed the folder shut. "Copyright participation? You want to own the negative? Paramount Pictures does not surrender ownership of its assets."
"We are a studio, not a printing press for your client's portfolio. Bob, this is a non-starter. We should walk away."
All eyes turned to Evans.
This was the moment. Duke knew it.
In the timeline of history, Robert Evans was known for his gut instincts, his willingness to bet the house on a feeling.
But he was also an employee of Charlie Bluhdorn, a corporate raider who counted pennies.
Duke leaned back, crossing his arms.
He looked Evans dead in the eye. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He was projecting the confidence he needed to seal the deal.
He knew that Evans was desperate. Rosemary's Baby was still unreleased, and Paramount was ranked number six out of six Major studios.
They were the bottom of the barrel and needed a miracle.
"Bob," Duke said softly. "You told me you wanted the touch. What kind of studio do you want to run?"
Evans took off his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at Sterling, then he looked at the contract.
"Duke stays," Evans muttered.
"Excuse me?" Sterling asked.
"I said, he stays," Evans said, louder this time.
He stood up, energized by his own recklessness. "Give him the points. Give him the gross. If the movies flop, 12.5% of zero is zero, and we're out a little production money."
"But if he hits? If he hits like he did in Love Story? Then 87.5% of a fortune is a hell of a lot better than 100% of nothing, which is what we have right now."
"But the copyright, Bob..."
"Give it to him!" Evans barked. "It's ancillary! Who cares about foreign TV rights in twenty years? We need box office now."
"Draft it. I'll handle Bluhdorn. Just get the ink on the page and agree on most terms."
Sterling looked like he had swallowed a lemon, but he signaled to his co-workers. The pens came out.
Duke signed his name with a flourish.
By securing copyright participation, he wasn't just getting paid for the movie release; he was securing a cut of the VHS boom, the DVD revolution, and the streaming wars of the 2020s.
Duke thanked god with his eyes closed real quick.
An hour later, Duke and Evans were walking across the Paramount lot. The sun was high and hot.
The sound of saws and hammers echoed from a nearby soundstage where a set for a western was being dismantled.
"You realize you just made me the most unpopular man in the legal department," Evans said, lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter. He looked exhilarated, though. He loved the drama.
"They'll get over it when the receipts come in," Duke said.
"Now, let's talk about the first picture. I need you to authorize the funds for the rights acquisition of Midnight Cowboy."
Evans stopped walking. He kicked a loose pebble on the pavement.
"I made some calls, Duke. United Artists is getting cold feet, you were right about that. But there's a problem."
"The producer, Jerome Hellman. He's... difficult. He's got Schlesinger directing, and they're in a bunker mentality."
"That's because every studio executive is out to butcher their project," Duke said.
"They won't trust me," Evans admitted. "If I call Hellman, he'll think I'm trying to poach the project just to sanitize it."
"That's why you shouldn't call him," Duke said. "I will."
"You?"
"I'm the artist with the Final Cut clause," Duke reminded him. "I speak their language. I'm meeting Hellman. You just make sure the checkbook is ready when I call you."
Evans grinned, shaking his head. "You move fast. Okay. Go get him. But Duke?"
"If you bring me a movie about a hustler and it gets an X-rating... Bluhdorn might actually fire us both."
"I can hire you if neccesary, don't worry about it" Duke said.
The Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel was the epicenter of Hollywood deal-making.
Jerome Hellman was sitting in a corner booth, looking like he hasn't sleep in days.
He was a serious producer, a man who cared about the integrity of the work, and he had spent the last six months fighting tooth and nail to get his project of the ground.
(Producers are underated)
He had a drink in front of him something dark and strong and a copy of the Midnight Cowboy script sitting under his hand. He looked up as Duke approached.
"Mr. Hellman," Duke said, extending a hand. "I'm Duke. Thanks for seeing me."
Hellman took the hand warily. He didn't stand up.
"I'm only seeing you because Evans' secretary called my office five times in an hour."
"But I'll tell you what I told the guys at UA. The script isn't changing. The ending stays. The scene in the theater stays."
Duke slid into the booth opposite him. He didn't signal the waiter. He just looked at Hellman with intense focus.
"I don't want to change a thing, Jerome," Duke said.
Hellman blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I know what UA is telling you," Duke said, channeling his knowledge of history. "They're telling you the American public isn't ready for Joe Buck, that Ratso Rizzo is too repulsive."
"They want you to cut the scene with the student in the movie theater because they're terrified of the homosexual subtext, all because they're scared of the ratings board."
Hellman's guard didn't drop, but his eyes narrowed in interest. "And Paramount isn't?"
"Paramount is terrified," Duke said smoothly. "But I'm not. And I'm the one with the contract."
Duke leaned in, lowering his voice. "I just signed a three-picture deal with Evans this morning. Ironclad. Total creative autonomy. I control the cut."
"Not Evans, not Bluhdorn. Me. And I want Midnight Cowboy to be my first picture."
Hellman took a sip of his drink, studying Duke. "Why? It's dirty. It's a tragedy about two losers."
"It's not about losers, Jerome," Duke said, tapping the table. "It's about a guy who comes to New York thinking he's going to be a star, and finds out he's just meat."
"That's the reality of our current country. The people are angry. Vietnam is burning. Everyone is tired of musicals. They want the truth."
Duke paused, letting the words sink in. He needed to show Hellman that he understood the project.
"I know John Schlesinger is the director," Duke continued. "I know he's brilliant. It's going to be iconic."
Hellman looked stunned. "You seem very confident."
"My business is to look confident." Duke said enigmatically. "Look, Jerome, here is the reality. United Artists is stalling."
"They're going to bleed you dry with notes and then bury the film in a limited release because they're ashamed of it. They won't even know how to sell it."
"And you do?"
"I don't want to sell it as a movie," Duke said. "When the MPAA gives it an X-rating and they will, UA will try to cut it to get an R."
"I say we embrace the X. 'Whatever you hear about Midnight Cowboy is true.' That's the tagline. We market it to adults. We treat the audience like they're smart."
Hellman sat back, his hand releasing its grip on the script. He looked at Duke with a mixture of confusion and hope.
For months, he had been fighting executives who wanted to sanitize his movie. Now, here was a guy telling him to lean into the dirt.
"You'd really take the X rating?" Hellman asked softly. "Paramount would release an X-rated film?"
"I have final cut," Duke repeated. "And Evans is hungry. He needs hits, and I've convinced him that controversy creates cash. If you come to Paramount, Jerome, I can promise you two things."
"We'll buy out UA's development costs by end of business today. You and John get your fees, full quote. And. no suits on the set. No notes from the studio. You make the movie you want to make. I'll run interference."
Hellman looked around the Polo Lounge. Then he looked back at Duke.
"Schlesinger is skeptical of everyone," Hellman warned. "He thinks Hollywood is a cesspool."
"Bring him to the lot tomorrow," Duke said. "I'll tell him exactly what I told you. I want the real New York."
Hellman let out a long breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. "UA hasn't signed the production order yet. Technically... we're free agents until Friday."
"Then let's not wait until Friday," Duke said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a quarter.
"There's a phone right there. Call UA. Tell them you're walking. Tell them Paramount just offered to cover their exposure. They'll be relieved to get it off their books."
Hellman stared at the quarter. Then he looked at Duke.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"You're a crazy man, Duke," Hellman said. "An X-rating? Really?"
"I'm telling you, Jerome, we'll even aim for Best Picture," Duke said again.
Hellman laughed, a genuine, hearty sound. He picked up the quarter.
"Okay. I'll make the call. But if Evans tries to cut a single frame of the Times Square scene, I burn the negative."
"Thats ok, i wont stop you," Duke shrugged.
As Hellman slid out of the booth to head for the phone, Duke remained seated. He took a sip of water. His heart was racing, but his face remained calm.
He had just acquired Midnight Cowboy.
In his mind, he reviewed the grocery list in his notebook. The next few years were going to be a frenzy.
But for now, he had the contract. He had the gross points. And he had the copyright.
Duke signaled the waiter.
"I'll have the steak tartare," he said. "And bring a bottle of champagne. My friend is coming back to celebrate."
The waiter nodded and walked away. Duke looked out the window at the palm trees swaying in the California breeze as he smiled.
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