The narrow gauge of the rail line were extremely hot inder the sun. The air around the tracks was thick and heavy.
Duke wiped a layer of grit from his forehead and checked his watch. It was just past noon, the sun hanging directly overhead.
They were prepping for the the train robbery sequence.
In the script, this was the moment Butch and Sundance stopped being charming rogues and started being more outlaws.
"Danny," Duke said, keeping his voice low as he approached the special effects coordinator, Danny Lee. "Talk to me about the charge."
Danny Lee was a man who loved his job a little too much. He was currently kneeling by the reinforced door of the express car, wiring a bundle of primer cord.
"It's safe, Duke. Don't worry," Danny said, not looking up.
"Hill wants a pop. He wants the wood to splinter outward. Visuals. If I use the standard load, i'll just smoke. I packed it a little tight to make sure the door actually flies off."
"A little tight?" Duke asked, eyeing the bundle.
"Just a smidge. We want it to look good for the 35mm, right?"
Duke looked over at the ridge where the cameras were set up. Then he looked at Steve McQueen.
McQueen was standing about twenty yards back, leaning against a pile of railroad ties.
He was wearing the dirty bowler hat, his suspenders hanging loose. He was chewing on a matchstick, staring at the train car with boreness.
In the original timeline, Paul Newman played this scene with a comedic exasperation tone. McQueen's expression looked like he was actually commiting a crime.
"Hey, Steve," Duke called out. "You might want to back up another ten feet."
McQueen took the matchstick out of his mouth. "Danny says it's just the door, Duke."
"This is Danny's first job," Duke said. "Let's not underestimate things. Back up."
McQueen studied Duke for a second, his blue eyes narrowing a little. Then, with a shrug that communicated he was only doing it to humor him, he took three steps back.
"All right!" George Roy Hill's voice cracked over the megaphone. "Everybody settle! This is the money shot. We do not want to reset this. We blow the door, the boys run in, grab the safe, and we get out. Roll sound!"
"Speed!"
"Camera!"
"Rolling!"
"Action!"
The scene began. Robert Redford, looking genuinely sun-baked and anxious, paced near the tracks.
"You think you used enough dynamite, Butch?" he shouted, his voice cracking perfectly.
McQueen didn't pace. He stood dead still, staring at the fuse sizzling toward the car.
"It'll do," McQueen grunted.
The fuse burned down. The camera shutter clicked.
And then, the explosion sounded.
It wasn't a "pop." It wasn't a movie explosion where a fireball appears into the sky.
It was a concussive explossion that felt like a hammer hitting you on the ear.
(I though about how to explain an explosion sound but idk)
The express car didn't just lose its door.
An entire side of the wooden carriage disintegrated. A shockwave of splintered oak, twisted iron, and dust blasted outward.
Duke, standing well behind the safety line, felt the wind knocked out of him. A piece of burning wood the size of a baseball bat passed through the air and landed with a thud ten feet from the camera crew.
Silence. Absolute, ringing silence.
Dust watched a little stunned the train engulfed in a cloud of dirt.
The crew was frozen, ears ringing, eyes wide. George Roy Hill was clutching his megaphone.
Then, through the settling dust, a silhouette moved.
Steve McQueen walked out of the smoke.
He wasn't acting. He was coughing, waving his hand in front of his face, his coat covered in a fine layer of dirt.
He walked right up to the twisted wreckage of the train car, and peered inside at the safe, which was smoking but intact.
McQueen turned slowly to face the stunned crew. He looked at Redford, whose jaw was practically on the floor.
McQueen tilted his head, spit on the floor and improvised.
"Well," McQueen rasped, his voice cutting through the ringing silence. "The door's open."
"Cut!" Hill screamed, his voice shaking. "Cut!"
The set erupted. Medics ran forward, stunt coordinators started yelling at Danny Lee, and the camera operators began checking their lenses for cracks.
Duke walked calmly toward McQueen. The actor was dusting off his sleeves.
"You okay?" Duke asked.
McQueen looked at the decimated train car, then back at Duke. A slow, grin spread across his face.
"That was dangerous," McQueen said.
"Danny overdid it," Duke admitted. "He nearly killed the protagonist."
"Nah," McQueen said, patting Duke on the shoulder. "Nobody got hurt. Did you see Redford? He looked like he was gonna cry."
McQueen turned and walked toward the craft services table, leaving Duke standing in the wreckage.
Duke looked at the shattered wood. He knew that in the editing room, that explosion would look terrifying. It fit the slightly darker, grittier tone they were building.
Two hours later, Duke was sitting in the back of a production trailer that smelled of stale coffee and hot aluminum.
The adrenaline of the explosion had faded, replaced by a different kind of stress.
He was on the phone with Robert Evans.
Connecting a call from the Utah desert to the Paramount lot in Los Angeles involved three operators and a lot of static, but Evans' voice cut through the interference as best as it could.
"Duke? Are you there? Tell me you're there. I need a sane person."
"I'm here, Bob," Duke said, leaning back in the swivel chair and putting his feet up on the narrow desk. "Calm down. How's the weather in LA?"
"The weather is horrible!" Evans shouted. "I just got off the phone with the MPAA. Valenti is not answering me. They're giving Midnight Cowboy an X. They're putting us in the same bin as porn and those Scandinavian erotic films!"
Duke closed his eyes.
In history, the X rating for Midnight Cowboy was an important moment.
It was the first studio film to embrace the rating, and it proved that adult themes could win awards. But to Evans, right now, it looked like financial suicide.
"Bob, listen to me," Duke said, keeping his voice steady, low, and reassuring. "Stop screaming and listen."
"I'm listening, Duke! We can cut the party scene. We can cut the scene in the theater. If we trim three minutes, we get an R."
"Don't cut a frame," Duke said.
There was a pause on the line. "Excuse me? Did the desert heat affect your brain?"
"Bob, think about what year it is," Duke said, channeling every ounce of confidence he possessed. "It's 1968. The kids are burning draft cards. They're marching in Chicago. They hate the establishment. They hate the rules."
"If the MPAA, tells them they can't see a movie... what is that going to make them do?"
"It's going to make them think it's filth," Evans countered, though his voice had lost some of its edge.
"No," Duke corrected. "It's going to make them think it's the truth. I want us to market it the X as real life that they don't want to show."
The line crackled with static. Duke could practically hear the gears turning in Evans' head.
Evans was a gambler, a showman. He understood hype better than anyone.
"You really think we can spin it?" Evans asked softly.
"I know we can," Duke lied, or rather, predicted.
"Schlesinger made a masterpiece. Hoffman is heartbreaking. Voight is incredible. If we cut it, we could lose the spark behind it. I want to promote this movie to the Oscars"
"Oscars?" Evans laughed, a dry, nervous sound. "An X-rated movie at the Academy Awards?"
"Trust me," Duke said. "The voters are tired of musicals. They want grit. Tell Valenti to go to hell and them tell the press we stand by the artistic integrity of the picture."
"Artistic integrity," Evans mused, tasting the words. "I like that."
"It is," Duke said. "The payoff is worth it."
"Alright," Evans sighed. "I'll hold off the editors for another week until you can come to Paramount to speak with my boss. But if this blows up, Duke, I'm telling everyone it was your idea."
"I wouldn't have it any other way. How's the Easy Rider script coming?"
"Don't get me started. Hopper is being a pain. Go back to your cowboys, Duke."
"Have a nice week, Bob."
Duke hung up the phone. He sat there for a moment, listening to the hum of the generator outside.
He had just saved Midnight Cowboy from the cutting room floor.
He took a deep breath. One crisis down.
Duke left the Butch Cassidy set that evening. He told Gary Kurtz he was scouting locations for pickup shots, but in reality, both knew he was heading north.
He drove a rented Ford Bronco through the night, crossing the border into Colorado, heading toward the coordinates Kurtz had told him.
The production of The Rain People was legendary in his future life film history circles, not because the movie was a blockbuster (it wasn't), but because it was the incubator.
It was where Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas, tired of the studio system, hit the road with a bunch of equipment to make a movie on their own terms and that was the birth of American Zoetrope Studios.
He found them just after sunrise, parked in a gravel lot near a roadside diner.
It was a mixed collection of vehicles a couple of campers, a modified Volkswagen bus, and a station wagon packed to the roof with cable.
Duke parked the Bronco and stepped out. The morning air was crisp and smelled of bacon grease.
A young man was sitting on the bumper of the VW bus, fiddling with a Nagra audio recorder.
He was skinny, wearing a plaid shirt that was two sizes too big, and he had a thick head of dark hair and a beard that didn't quite hide his youthful face.
He didn't bother to look up as Duke approached. He looked tired.
"We're not hiring extras," the young man said, his voice quiet.
"I'm not looking for work," Duke said, smiling. "I'm looking for Francis, George."
George Lucas blinked, surprised. "Duke?"
"You look tired man," Duke said, extending a hand. "Me and Kurtz were producing McQueen Western down in Utah."
Lucas's eyes widened slightly. "The Hill movie?"
"Yeah." Duke nodded.
"McQueen," Lucas repeated, a spark of interest forming behind his tired eyes. "How is he on set?"
"He's nice," Duke said. "He nearly blew himself up on a train yesterday."
Before Lucas could ask more, the door to the largest camper swung open.
A man stepped out. He was wearing a rumpled suit jacket over a t-shirt, his hair a mess of black curls, and he was holding a half-eaten bagel.
Francis Ford Coppola. The man who would make The Godfather in three years. Yet right now, he just looked like a man who hadn't slept in three days.
"George!" Coppola boomed. "The light! Look at the light! We need to get the camera on the hood. Shirley is ready."
"I'm fixing the audio sync, Francis," Lucas said, unfazed by the outburst.
Coppola turned and saw Duke. He stopped, chewing his bagel suspiciously. "Who's this? Police? We're students sir, we just want to take some picture on our first road trip."
"This is Duke,, the director of Love Story," Lucas said. "he's producing the McQueen movie."
Coppola's demeanor changed instantly. He descended the camper steps. "A producer? You directed Love Story? What are you doing out here?"
"I heard you guys were making something different," Duke said. "I also wanted to visit Lucas."
"Different," Coppola scoffed, but he was smiling. "That's one word for it. Right now, the unions hate us and the studio doesn't want to fund us. Come on, I'll show you."
Coppola grabbed Duke by the arm and dragged him toward the station wagon.
Inside, there was a makeshift editing bay set up in the backseat, a Moviola resting on a stack of suitcases.
"Look at this," Coppola commanded.
He ran a strip of film through the viewer. It was a shot of Shirley Knight standing in a phone booth, rain pouring down the glass.
It was grainy, handheld, and raw. It didn't look like a Hollywood movie. It looked like the French New Wave.
On Duke's previous life, he remembered a professor that explained that the French New Wave was influential on all the films that came after, wheter their directors had watched the films or not.
"It's beautiful," Duke said honestly.
"It's slightly messy," Coppola corrected. "But life is messy. Hollywood now wants everything clean, I want to make movies that feel like life."
Duke watched Coppola. The energy coming off the man was a mix of frustration, ambition, and brilliant.
"You should work with my studio," Duke said quietly.
Coppola stopped winding the film. He looked at Duke. "I actually want to create my own like Corman."
"Imagine it, a place in San Francisco. Away from LA, away from the executives. A place where filmmakers help filmmakers. I'll named it Zoetrope."
"Zoetrope," Duke repeated. "I like it."
"It's a pipe dream," Lucas muttered from outside the car, where he was taping a microphone to a makeshift boom pole. "We're out of cash, Duke. We only have enough film for one more week."
Duke reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a checkbook.
He wasn't going to fund the studio, not yet. But he needed to buy his ticket onto this train.
"I can't fund the studio," Duke said, scribbling on a check. "But I can buy you a week of film. Consider it an investment in the future."
He tore off the check and handed it to Coppola.
Coppola looked at the number, 50,000$.
It wasn't a fortune, but to an indie production in 1968, it was enough.
"Why?" Coppola asked, looking at Duke genuinely baffled. "You don't even know if this movie is any good."
"I'm not betting on the movie," Duke said. "I'm betting on people."
He walked over to Lucas. "Gotta go, George, can't be out of set for too long."
Lucas nodded, and gave him a goodbye hug.
----
abrutp end but i didn't know how to end things