There was a smell of fresh paint in the Ithaca Productions building, Duke stood in the center of the office, his hands in his pockets, listening to the muffled sound of a distant construction crew.
A knock on the door broke his concentration.
Robert Evans was leaning against the wood, a thick manila folder tucked under his arm.
"I brough it, Duke," Evans said, walking in without an invitation.
He tossed the folder onto a bare desk. It landed with a heavy thud.
"Most guys sign a three-picture deal and immediately want a list of starlets to screen-test. You? You want a mob project."
Duke didn't look at the folder yet. He knew what it was.
'Mario Puzo's The Godfather'.
"The manuscript isn't even finished," Evans scoffed, pacing the small room.
"It's a pulp novel about Italians killing each other. You want it? It's yours."
Duke finally reached out and touched the folder.
To Evans, this was a failing asset he was unloading to balance the books.
But Duke remembered the future, the Oscars, the revenue, the way 'I'll make him an offer he can't refuse' became part of the global lexicon.
"I'll take it," Duke said. "Ithaca Productions takes over the option. We pay the remaining installments to Puzo. We own the production rights. Paramount gets distribution, but Ithaca controls the project."
Evans stopped pacing and looked at Duke, his eyes narrowing behind his tinted lenses.
"You really think there's a movie in there? It's a mess of a book. Too many characters. Too much blood."
"It's not a movie about the mafia, Bob," Duke said, his voice soft. "I also dont plan on starting on it anytime soon."
Evans laughed, a dry, rhythmic sound. "You're a hoarder, kid. Fine. The lawyers already drafted the transfer. Ithaca owns the project."
Evans stuck out a hand, and Duke shook it. The deal was done.
One of the most important cinematic properties of the 20th century had just been signed over to a boutique studio.
As Evans left, a man with a thick beard and a quiet, intense energy walked into the room from the back office, Gary Kurtz.
In the original timeline, Kurtz would go on to be the person behind the production of Star Wars. But as of now he was working as a producer for Ithaca Productions.
"The paperwork is in the safe," Duke told him.
Kurtz nodded, not asking for details.
"The location scouts are back from New York," Kurtz said, pinning a series of grainy black-and-white photos to the corkboard on the wall.
"They found the pharmacy. The lighting is going to be a problem, though."
Duke walked over to the photos.
He saw the New York of 1968, the grime, the steam rising from the manholes, the faces of people who had been beaten down by the city.
This was the world of Midnight Cowboy.
In a way Midnight Cowboy relies a lot on the dark charm of New York to work as a movie.
"I think Jerome Hellman doesnt want to use traditional rigs, Gary," Duke said.
"They seem to want to use long lenses from across the street and want the actors to walk among real people who don't know they're in a movie. Understandable if we only want to capture the charm of New York."
In the original production of Midnight Cowboy, a real New York taxi nearly hit Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight as they crossed the street, and the take made it to the final film.
(I'm walking here!)
Kurtz scratched his beard, his mind already calculating the risks. "It's dangerous. We could lose the equipment. We could get sued."
"Budget for the lawsuits, Gary and we budget for the bail money," Duke replied. "This is the first film of the contract. It has to be a success either comercially or critically."
Kurtz smiled faintly. He liked the chaos.
"I'll start the gear prep. We're looking at a winter shoot. It'll be freezing, but the light will have that grey, hopeless quality you like."
They spent the next two hours deep in the office, mapping out an initial plan of the production.
Duke knew exactly which shots worked and what locations would they need.
The door to the office burst open, and Jeffrey, Duke's agent, practically stumbled in. He was sweating, his tie loosened, clutching a script that looked like it had been thrown and picked up from the trash.
"Duke," Jeffrey panted, leaning against the doorframe. "You told me to keep my ear to the ground at the agencies. You told me to look for anything by a guy named William Goldman."
Duke stood up, his pulse quickening. "Did you find it?"
Jeffrey held up the script. The title page read, 'The Sundance Kid and Butch Cassidy'.
"It's a western," Jeffrey said, catching his breath. "Goldman's agent is shopping it around, but he's playing it low-key. He thinks it's a small project because westerns are supposedly out of fashion."
Duke took the script from Jeffrey's hands. He knew the history.
In 1968, this same year, William Goldman would eventually sell this script for $400,000 the highest price ever paid for an original screenplay at the time triggering a massive bidding war between Fox, Warner Bros., and Paramount.
It would become the biggest hit of 1969 and win four Oscars.
"What's the asking price right now?" Duke asked, his eyes scanning the first page.
"He's looking for a quick sale to get Goldman some liquidity," Jeffrey said.
"He mentioned twenty-five thousand dollars for a total buyout of the rights. Fox is scheduled to see it on Friday. If we want it, we should start to move before the weekend."
Duke looked at Kurtz, who was watching from the corkboard. "Gary, how much is in the Ithaca operating account from the Paramount signing bonus?"
"About fifty thousand," Kurtz said.
"Jeffrey," Duke said, handing the script back. "I want you to get in your car right now. Don't go back to your office. Go directly to the agent's house."
"Tell him Ithaca Productions is offering twenty-five thousand in cash, today. Not an option. A buyout. Tell him we have the money ready."
Jeffrey looked stunned. "Duke, it's a lot of money for a script that hasn't been vetted by anyone. We haven't even had the readers look at it."
"I've read enough of it," Duke said, his voice hard. "Twenty-five thousand is a good price, Jeffrey. If you aren't at his house in twenty minutes, I'll find another agent that is."
Jeffrey didn't wait for a second warning. He grabbed the script and bolted back out the door.
The office went quiet again. Kurtz looked at the door, then back at Duke.
"You're collecting a lot of scripts lately," Kurtz observed. "The Godfather. Now this western, are you also going to save this one?"
"I plan on directing Butch Cassidy myself, Gary," Duke said, sitting back down at his desk.
"Also, in some years, nobody is going to care about who has the biggest studio lot or the most contract. They're going to care about who owns the movie rights."
Duke looked out the window to the sea.
He knew that by 2025, companies like Disney and Netflix would spend millions, and in some cases billions to acquire the kind of IP he was currently buying for the price of a mid-sized sedan.
He thought about the grocery list in his pocket.
Butch Cassidy was a great first big win.
It would provide the massive commercial hit he needed to balance out the critical reception of Midnight Cowboy.
"Who do you see in the leads for the western?" Kurtz asked, curious.
"I don't have Butch Cassidy decided," Duke said without hesitation. "but the Sundance kid must be Robert Redford, he's mostly done TV and a few small roles, but he's got the look."
Part of the reason why the future Sundance Film Festival was named that was cause of Robert Redford early role as the Sundance Kid.
Kurtz nodded, taking notes.
"What's next?" Kurtz asked.
Duke stood up and grabbed his coat. "Next, we go to New York. I need to meet John Schlesinger."
"We tell him we have the money, and we'll solve the location."
As they walked out of the office, Duke looked at the "Ithaca Productions" sign on the door.
"Hey Gary," Duke said as they reached the parking lot.
"Yeah?"
"Keep an eye on Lucas. He's doing some experimental stuff at USC still, but work with him to get a project."
Kurtz frowned, "You're going to invest in Lucas project?"
"Yeah, that's my plan" Duke said, starting his car.
Duke drove off the lot, while they keep yapping about the movie production.
---
In 1968, New York wasn't the sanitized tourist hub of 2025, it was a city on the edge of a breakdown.
Garbage strikes, the scent of diesel, and the looming shadow of the Vietnam War hung over every street corner.
There was also the heroin epidemic, and the construction of Co-op city.
(Quick story, i once dated a girl in Co-op city and i asked her if it was dangerous and she said 'No, just stick to well lit areas, and be aware when walking' and i was like 'Ok'.
So i was on my way, and was asked 'What i was doing there' by a group of gentlemen, so i have to make a run for it while being pursued and never picked her up.)
Duke and Gary Kurtz landed at JFK and took a yellow cab.
As they crossed the Queensboro Bridge, Duke looked out at the skyline.
He knew the city's future, the bankruptcy of the 70s, the clean-up of the 90s, and the transformation of the 21st century.
'Could I meet Trump while i'm here, what about that New York financier?'
John Schlesinger, the director attached to the Midnight Cowboys project wasn't at a studio office.
He was holed up in the Chelsea Hotel, a place that if Duke remembered correctly, was filled with painters, poets, and junkies at this time.
When Duke and Kurtz entered Schlesinger's suite, the air was thick with the smell of damp clothes and coffee.
The director was huddled over a light box with Jerome Hellman, looking at 35mm slides of 42nd Street.
Schlesinger looked up, his eyes weary but sharp.
"Hello," Schlesinger said, his British accent cutting through the room's hum.
"You must be the man who helped our project. I hope you don't come to tell me about the notes you have on the script."
"I don't have notes, John," Duke said, tossing his overcoat onto a velvet chair. "Although I do have a direction, let's focus on making a good movie."
Schlesinger gestured to the slides. "Well, we're checking locations, the city is falling apart. It's perfect, but it's a logistical nightmare."
"We want to shoot in the Port Authority bus terminal. But I don't know why the NYPD is already giving us trouble about 'public decency.' and even ask to read our script."
Duke walked over to the light box.
"Let's not ask the NYPD for permission," Duke said.
"I've authorized Gary to set up a fund. We pay some cops to look the other way, or we shoot from the back of a van with tinted windows. If we get arrested, we film the arrest and find a way to use it."
Schlesinger's eyebrows shot up. "You're actually encouraging us to break the law? I didn't know I was in front of someone who liked Guerrilla Filmmaking."
"Hellman already told me you guys wanted to shoot this in a Documentary style, so i'm following you guys lead." Duke said, they all shared a quick laugh.