The landscape of Zion National Park in September 1968 looked like the reimagined Old West.
The red sandstone cliffs towered over the army of trucks, trailers, that the Butch Cassidy Production had brought.
The air was so dry it cracked your lips after some time.
The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on the shoulders of the crew members.
Duke stood on a ridge overlooking the valley, squinting against the glare.
Beside him, Gary Kurtz was adjusting the hood on a massive 35mm Mitchell camera, checking the lens flare.
They looked less like famous Hollywood producers and more like general contractors working on a particularly difficult excavation site.
"Sound is clear," Kurtz murmured, pressing his headset to his ear. "But the horses are getting restless. The heat is getting to them."
"Let's pray they hold," Duke said, his eyes fixed on the two figures standing near the edge of a hundred-foot drop.
Down below, the scene was set. It was the moment before the jump.
The moment where Butch and Sundance realize they are trapped by the people that has been pursuing them across three states.
In the original timeline, this scene was played for laughs. Paul Newman's Butch would pace back and forth, complaining about the fall, while Redford's Sundance admitted he couldn't swim. It was charming and light.
But looking through the long lens now, Duke saw something different.
Steve McQueen stood at the edge of the cliff.
He was pacing but would keep still for moments too. His body was coiled tight, the muscles in his jaw tight.
Next to him, Robert Redford looked more nervous, forming a nice contrast.
"Action!" George Roy Hill's voice boomed through the megaphone, echoing off the canyon walls.
The scene played out. McQueen turned to Redford. He delivered the line, "I can't swim!" as a punchline.
"Cut!" Hill yelled.
The tension broke instantly. McQueen took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty bandana, and slapped Redford on the back.
"You look pale, kid," McQueen grinned, his voice raspy and familiar. "Don't worry. If you drown, I'll grab your boots. It's good leather."
Redford laughed, a genuine, relieved sound. "You worry about your own boots, Steve."
"I never worry," McQueen winked.
Duke let out a breath.
For weeks, he had heard whispers that the set of Butch Cassidy would be problematic.
But the reality was boringly professional.
McQueen wasn't the diva the tabloids painted, he was a very profesional actor.
He had arrived in Utah two weeks before the rest of the cast, spending twelve hours a day with the wranglers. He had apparently taken quite a liking to horse riding.
Later that afternoon, the production moved to a flatter stretch of desert for the montage sequences, the long rides that would eventually be set to the song "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head."
Duke sat in a canvas chair next to George Roy Hill. The director was looking pleased.
"It's looking good, Duke,. Seems like it was a good decision to go with McQueen" Hill said, watching the dailies on a small Moviola set up in the back of a truck. "But he does change how I though the movie would feel."
"Is it too dark?" Duke asked, testing him.
"No," Hill said, rewinding the film to look at McQueen's eyes in a close-up. "Look at him. He's constantly looking over his shoulder. He plays Butch like a guy who really commited a crime. It makes the funny moments better, cause the relief is real."
On the screen, McQueen was trying to ride a bicycle. He wobbled, fell, and got back up with a curse. It feel relaxing after the streess of other daillies.
"Redford is stepping up, too," Hill noted. "He's not trying to outdo Steve. He's playing his role and It works."
Duke nodded. He had gambled on the chemistry, and he had won.
The friction between McQueen's intensity and Redford's charm created a spark.
When the sun finally dipped below the red cliffs, painting the sky in violent shades of purple and orange, the day was officially over. But the work wasn't.
In St. George, the local watering hole was a place called "The Sands." It was a dive bar with sawdust on the floor .
Most Hollywood productions would have retreated to the Holiday Inn or the private trailers. But not this one.
When Duke walked into The Sands, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and laughter. At the center of the room, holding court at a table made of a repurposed wagon wheel, was Steve McQueen.
He wasn't sitting with the producers or the director.
He was sitting with the stunt team and the local wranglers. A beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.
"So I told the insurance guy," McQueen was saying, "'If I fall off the horse, you don't have to pay me. But if the horse falls on me, you owe the horse an apology.'"
The table erupted in laughter. McQueen took a pull of his beer, looking completely at ease.
Redford was there too, sitting a few chairs away, talking quietly with the script supervisor.
He looked more reserved, amused but separate.
Duke walked over to the main table. McQueen looked up and raised his glass.
"The money man!" McQueen shouted. "Someone get this man a drink."
Duke took a seat. A stuntman named Hal passed him a cold beer.
"Good day out there, Steve," Duke said. "The jump looked solid."
"The jump is easy," McQueen shrugged. "The riding... that's the work. Your horses are good, Duke. Where did you get them?"
"I rented them from a ranch in Montana," Duke lied since Kurtz was the one who rented them "They're quarter horse crosses. Tougher."
"I can tell," McQueen nodded appreciatively. "They don't spook at the cameras."
He leaned in closer to Duke, his blue eyes suddenly serious. "You were right about the kid."
"Redford?"
"Yeah," McQueen said, glancing over at Redford. "He's a very good listener. He also works hard."
"That's why I wanted him," Duke said.
McQueen smirked. "Yeah, well. Don't tell him I said that. I still gotta give him shit about his hair. I told him he looks like he's auditioning for a shampoo commercial."
"He told me you look like a mechanic who stole a cowboy suit," Duke countered.
McQueen threw his head back and laughed. "He's learning! Good."
As the night wore on, Duke went out the room to walk.
He saw Gary Kurtz in the corner, scribbling on a napkin, probably calculating the cost of the beer tab. Duke walked over to him.
"Relax, Gary," Duke said. "We're under budget for the week."
"We are?" Kurtz looked up, surprised. "How? We blew three rolls of film on the bicycle scene."
"Steve isn't demanding twenty takes," Duke explained. "And Redford is terrified of messing up, so he's coming prepared. We're moving faster than Hill expected."
Kurtz smiled, a rare expression during production. "It's weird, Duke. It feels... easy. Too easy."
"Don't say that," Duke warned. "The train robbery is next week. That involves explosives. Nothing is easy with explosives."
Just then, a production assistant burst into the bar. He looked frantic, clutching a yellow piece of paper. He scanned the room, saw Duke, and beelined for him.
"Mr. Duke! Telegram from the main office. It came in urgent."
The music in the bar seemed to fade for Duke. He took the paper. Telegrams were the telephone of this era, the only way news traveled fast.
He unfolded it, noticing it was from Jeffrey.
MPAA RULING IS IN 'STOP' X RATING CONFIRMED 'STOP' STUDIO NERVOUS
(This is how telegrams are written and they didnt use commas, they would write Stop)
Duke stared at the paper.
An X rating. In 1968, an X was usually reserved for pornography. It was the "death kiss" for a commercial film.
It meant most newspapers wouldn't run ads. It meant many theater chains wouldn't book it.
Kurtz read over his shoulder, his face went white.
"Jesus," Kurtz whispered. "X? Duke, 2e have to cut it. We have to cut the Times Square scene or we cut the party."
Duke folded the telegram slowly and put it in his pocket.
"No cuts," Duke said.
Kurtz stared at him. "Are you crazy? An X rating means we're in the gutter. Did you even ask Evans about this?"
"An X rating means we're prohibited or cool you know," Duke said, his voice rising with a sudden, fierce energy.
"Think about it, Gary. Kids? College students? People protesting the war? We have to convince them that they want to see what the government is telling them they can't see."
Duke grabbed a beer from a passing waitress.
"We wear the X like a badge of honor," Duke announced. "We market it. 'The movie they tried to ban.' 'We won't hide from it.'."
Kurtz looked skeptical, but he saw the fire in Duke's eyes. "You really think that will work?"
"I'm sure it will," Duke said. "Nobody trusts authority anymore, Gary. If the board says it's bad, the people will assume it's great."
Duke raised his bottle to the room.
"Hey!" he shouted. The bar went quiet. McQueen looked over.
"We just got word from New York," Duke announced. "Our first picture, Midnight Cowboy, just got slapped with an X rating."
The room erupted in cheers, most people too drunk to even remember what duke just said.
The stuntmen, the wranglers, the stars, they all raised their glasses.
Duke drank his beer.
As the noise of the party resumed, Duke walked out the back door of the bar into the cool desert night.
He took a deep breath of the air.
Midnight Cowboy was going to be a scandal. Butch Cassidy was going to be a great film. And somewhere in San Francisco, George Lucas and Coppola were working on their indie film.
Duke looked up at the stars.
"Let's wait until they see The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," he whispered to no one. Wondering how did Midnight Cowboy warrant an X rating.
He turned and walked back into the noise, ready to buy the next round.
---
I just saw a Charles Barkley compilation of him roasting Lebron's hairline and it's hilarious