The air conditioning on the Paramount's meeting office was set to a brisk sixty-eight degrees, yet Robert Evans was sweating.
Duke sat near the end of the long mahogany table, watching the smoke from a dozen cigarettes. He kept his face neutral, his hands folded over a manila folder.
He was the only person in the room who wasn't panicking, which, paradoxically, seemed to make everyone else panic even more.
"National General is out," A middle age man said, his voice flat.
He tossed a memo onto the polished wood, it landed with a soft slap. "They won't book it. They say it violates their family values clause. That's three hundred screens we won't expand to."
"Loew's is wobbling," added the Vice President of Distribution. "They say if we cut the theater scene, the... oral interaction they might play it in the cities. But they refuse to show it near the suburbs."
Evans stopped pacing. He stood at the head of the table, his hands gripping the back of his leather chair so hard his knuckles were white.
He looked immaculate, as always, the tan, the oversized glasses, the silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to be daring but not enough to be vulgar—but his eyes were darting around the room.
"So we have a movie," Evans said, his voice tight, "that cost three million dollars. It has Dustin Hoffman, fresh off The Graduate."
"It has a performance by Jon Voight that could make a stone cry. It is, by all accounts, a great fim. And you're telling me nobody can see it?"
"Nobody decent would want to see it, Bob," The man from distribution said, leaning back. "Let's be realistic. The board has seen the cut. It's filthy. Feels homosexual. It's depressing."
"And now the MPAA has slapped it with an X. Do you know what else is rated X right now? Vixen by Russ Meyer."
The guy paused, looking around the room to gather support. He found plenty of nodding heads.
"I've spoken to Arkoff at AIP," Milt continued, dropping the bomb. "American International Pictures. They handle... this kind of material. Biker movies. Beach parties. Grindhouse stuff."
"They're willing to take the print off our hands. We recover our production costs, maybe a small percentage of the back end, and we wash our hands of the scandal."
"I'll even negotiate the deal myself, that way we preserve the Paramount brand."
The room went silent. Selling a prestige picture to AIP was like selling a Rolls Royce to a demolition derby.
It would bury the film in drive-ins and seedier downtown theaters, ensuring it would never be reviewed by the Times or considered for an award.
Evans stared at his subordinate, his fist slightly clenched.
Duke cleared his throat.
The sound was small, but in the silent of the room, it drew every eye.
"You sell to AIP," Duke said, his voice calm, conversational, "and you will be burying a great movie and losing the box office of it."
The guy turned his heavy gaze toward Duke. "Duke, is it? The 'fixer.' Look, we appreciate what you're doing with the western in Utah. I hear the dailies are great. But this is distribution politics. Better stick to your horses."
"I'm not talking about horses right now," Duke said. He stood up, not aggressively, just enough to get poeple to hear him. He picked up his manila folder. "I'm talking about math."
He opened the folder and began sliding papers down the center of the table. They weren't movie posters or reviews. There were maps, census data and iniversity enrollment charts.
"Your is operating on a model that worked in 1950s," Duke said, gesturing to the papers.
"The family unit. Dad and mom take the 2 kids to the drive-in to see a musical or a John Wayne picture. That audience exists. But they aren't the audience that matters anymore."
Duke pointed to a graph showing a sharp spike in the 18-to-25 demographic.
"This is the Baby Boom," Duke said. "They are the largest generation in American history. And right now, they are sitting in college dorm rooms and they are bored out of their minds. They are angry."
"They are watching their friends get drafted to Vietnam. They are watching police beat protesters in Chicago."
Duke walked around the table, approaching the map of Manhattan he had laid out.
"They don't trust us," Duke said. "Don't trust the government, don't trust their parents and they certainly won't trust a movie that has an approval seal from the MPAA."
He tapped the map.
"The X rating isn't a death sentence for the film, Bob," Duke said, locking eyes with Evans. "It's the best marketing campaign we never paid for."
The distribution guy scoffed. "You want to market filth to children? That's your strategy?"(Didn't bother to give him a name, Im basically trying to showcase the rise of the New Hollywood Wave and how baby boomer births literally allowed it)
"They aren't children," Duke corrected sharply. "They're adults who are being treated like children. If we tell them about how hardcore this movie is, they will line up around the block."
Duke looked back at Evans. He could see the gears turning behind the glasses, at least Evans was listening.
"But he is right about one thing," Duke conceded. "We can't book this in the suburbs. The National General theaters in the malls? Forget them. We don't want them."
"We don't want theaters?" the distribution VP asked, confused.
"We don't want those theaters," Duke said. "We want Art Houses or independent cinemas. Specifically, the ones within walking distance of a university campus."
He pointed to the map of New York City again. He had circled two areas in red marker. One was the standard theater district in Midtown. The other was Greenwich Village.
"We ignore Midtown," Duke said. "We put the film here. The Village near NYU. We book it in Cambridge near Harvard. In Westwood near UCLA."(you would go crazy at how much i have to google to make each chapter)
"Guerilla distribution," Evans murmured.
"Exactly," Duke said. "We create a circuit. We don't run ads in the Family Circle. We run ads in the counterculture papers,The Village Voice, The Berkeley Barb. And we brag about the X rating on our film."
Duke pulled a mock-up poster, it was grainy black and white, and it looked more like a wanted poster or a protest flyer.
At the bottom, in bold, jagged type, it read.
'WHATEVER YOU HEAR ABOUT MIDNIGHT COWBOY IS TRUE.'(This was a real advertisement)
"Make them feel like seeing this movie is a political act," Duke said. "Make them feel like by buying a ticket, they are sticking it to the goverment."
The room was silent again.
The fistribution guy shooked his head. "It's a niche strategy. You might fill a few art houses, sure. But we'll never make the money back. And the problem is... the studio will still be the one releasing an X-rated film."
"There is no shame in success," Duke said.
Evans looked at his subordinate, then at the map, then at Duke. He ran a hand through his hair.
"Clear the room," Evans said softly.
"Bob?" Milt asked.
"I said clear the room," Evans barked, his voice suddenly regaining its famous edge. "Everyone out. Except Duke. Go get lunch. I don't care. Just get out."
There was a shuffling of papers and the scraping of chairs.
Within thirty seconds, the room was empty.
Evans walked over to the balcony doors and threw them open.
He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and leaned against the railing, looking out at the lot—the fake streets, the soundstages.
Duke joined him, leaning on the railing a few feet away.
"You have a lot of nerve," Evans said, exhaling smoke. "Coming into Paramounts boardroom and telling my VP of distribution he's still living in the 50s."
"Bob, I told you this movie is going to be massive."
Evans chuckled, a dry sound. "AIP offered me a million dollars for the negative. Cash. I could take that check, tell the board I mitigated the loss, and move on to Butch Cassidy. Nobody would blame me."
"You would blame yourself and Hellman would come yell at you," Duke said.
Evans turned to look at him. The sun caught the side of his face. He looked younger than his years, but the weight of the studio seemed to be aging him fast.
"Why do you care so much for them?" Evans asked. "You're producing Butch Cassidy and the board loves that project cause of McQueen, you will suffer very little if things go bad."
"I care because it's a great movie," Duke said. "And because I know what you want, Bob."
"Oh? And what do I want?"
"You want to be powerful in Hollywood," Duke said simply. "Not just a deparment head. You want to be the guy who saved Paramount not by playing it safe, but by betting the house on movies."
Duke turned to face him fully.
"If you sell this to AIP, it becomes a dirty movie that people watch in raincoats, it will disappear."
"But if you stand by it? If you release it with the Paramount mountain logo on the front, knowing it has an X? You're making a statement, 'We define what is acceptable, not the ratings board.'"
"And if it bombs?" Evans asked, his voice low. "If the kids don't show up? If the critics savage us for showing soft smut?"
"Then you fire me," Duke said. "You tell everyone I pushed you into it. I'll take the fall and Paramount keeps Butch Cassidy."
"You're not even on the payroll, Duke," Evans smiled crookedly. "I can't fire you."
"Then ban me from the lot. But it won't bomb, Bob. I'm telling you. The world is changing."
"The New York Times is going to review this movie. And they aren't going to talk about the sex. They're going to talk about the loneliness."
Duke leaned in closer.
"Think about the Academy Awards next year," Duke whispered. "Imagine the room when they announce an X-rated movie for Best Picture. Imagine the look on Jack Valenti's face. You want to be a legend? That's how you become a legend."
Evans stared at the Hollywood sign in the distance. He took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it over the railing.
"The University Circuit," Evans said, testing the words. "Ten cities?"
"Start with five," Duke said. "New York, LA, San Francisco, Boston, Chicago. Create a scarcity. Make tickets hard to get."
"And the poster?"
"Black and white. Gritty. No gloss."
Evans nodded slowly. A smile, a real Evans smile began to form.
"You know," Evans said, "we could spin the X. Tell the press it doesn't stand for... whatever they think it stands for."
"Tell them it stands for Extraordinary," Duke suggested. "Or Excellence."
Evans pointed a finger at him. "I like that. 'X marks the spot where the truth is.' Something like that."
He pushed off the railing and walked back into the room. He picked up the phone on the conference table.
"Get me marketing," Evans barked into the receiver. "And get me the booking agent for the Art houses. No, not the chains. The indie guys. Yeah."
He hung up and looked at Duke.
"If this works, Duke, I owe you. If it doesn't, don't let me see you again."
"Deal," Duke said.
Two weeks later, Duke stood on a street corner in Greenwich Village.
It was raining, a cold, miserable New York drizzle that turned the city gray. He was standing across the street from a theater.
The marquee simply read, Midnight Cowboy- Rated X.
It was 7:00 PM on a Friday.
Duke checked his watch, then looked back at the theater. His heart did a small, nervous flutter. He knew the history, he knew the trends, but seeing it in real life was different.
There was always the chaos factor. Maybe it was too rainy. Maybe the protest at Columbia earlier that day had kept everyone on campus.
Then, a bus pulled up and hissed to a stop.
A group of four young men got off, they headed straight for the box office.
Then a couple, sharing an umbrella. Then a group of girls in bell-bottoms.
Duke watched as the line began to form. It started at the box office, went past the poster, and began to snake down the block.
He crossed the street, pulling his collar up, and merged into the back of the line, just to listen.
"My mom said we shouldn't come see it," a girl in front of him was saying.
"That's how you know it's good," her boyfriend replied. "Did you see the review in the Voice?"
Duke smiled. The "anti-marketing" was working. The establishment's disapproval was the only endorsement these kids needed.
He bought a ticket and slipped into the back of the theater.
It was packed. Not a seat empty. The air smelled of damp wool, cigarettes, and anticipation. When the lights went down and the Paramount logo appeared, there were a few ironic cheers.
Duke watched the audience, not the screen. He saw them leaning forward. He saw them wince at the brutality, laugh at the desperate camaraderie between Ratso and Joe.
When the movie ended, and the lights came up, Duke slipped out before the crowd surged into the lobby. He needed a drink.
He walked around New York for a while to discharge his stress, until he saw someone getting robbed and decided to quickly go back to his safe hotel.
'At least, the University Circuit idea was a hit.' He though as he catched a cab back home.
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Had to run errands so mb for being late.