It was hot in Zion National Park, Duke stepped out of the air-conditioned production trailer and was immediately assaulted by the sun.
Utah in September was supposed to be cooling down, but the red rock canyons acted like a sort of oven, trapping the summer heat and baking everything inside.
He adjusted his sunglasses, squinting as he walked.
He had been back from New York for less than twenty-four hours.
"Welcome back to set," a voice called out.
Duke turned to see Gary Kurtz approaching, holding a clipboard that had a corner that looked like it had been chewed on by a dog.
Kurtz looked exhausted. His face was coated in a fine layer of red dust, making him look like he was slowly turning into part of the landscape.
(I didnt mention on the other chapter but the dynamite explosssion thing on the Butch Cassidy Set was real)
"How was the Big Apple?" Kurtz asked, falling into step beside Duke as they walked toward the main set.
"Rainy," Duke said. "How are things here? You look like you've been fighting Indians."
"Worse," Kurtz grimaced. "I've been fighting Steve."
Duke stopped. "Steve is fighting?"
"Steve is... Steve," Kurtz sighed. "Hill wants to shoot the bicycle sequence today. He flew in a demo tape from Bacharach and played it for the cast this morning."
Duke felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He knew this moment in history.
The bicycle scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was one of the most polarizing moments in cinema history. Some poepl loved it, some people hated it
It was a tonal shift that defied all the rules of the Western genre.
You didn't stop a chase movie for a three-minute music video set to a pop song.
In the original timeline, Paul Newman had embraced the whimsy. But Duke had decided to cast Steve McQueen.
"Let me guess," Duke said. "McQueen hates the song."
"Hates it?" Kurtz laughed, a dry, cracking sound.
"He threw the cassette player into the air. He came to tell me that if we make him ride that bicycle while a guy sings about raindrops, he will pay for damages on his own and leave."
"Where is he now?"
"Over by the ridge.'"
Duke nodded. "Alright. Let me handle it. Keep the crew prepping the tracking shots. If we lose the light, we lose the day."
Duke found Steve McQueen exactly where Kurtz said he would be.
McQueen wasn't in costume. He was shirtless, wearing grease-stained jeans, kneeling in the dirt next to a Triumph Bonneville motorcycle.
McQueen was wrenching on the carburetor, his hands black with oil, his face set in intense concentration.
A few yards away, the prop, a vintage 1890s bicycle with oversized handlebars lay on its side in the dust, looking pathetic and rejected.
Duke walked up slowly. He didn't interrupt. He waited until McQueen tightened a bolt and sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with a rag.
"You fix the timing?" Duke asked.
McQueen looked up, he didn't smile.
"It was running well but the altitude did dome damage to it." McQueen grunted.
"Good machine," Duke said, nodding at the Triumph.
"Faster than a horse," McQueen said pointedly. "And definitely faster than that piece of junk."
He gestured with the wrench toward the bicycle.
Duke sighed and sat down on a nearby rock. "I heard you didn't like the song."
McQueen let out a sharp laughter. "The song? Duke, have you heard it? I just blew a train, I'm being hunted by a Super Posse. And Hill wants me to pedal around in circles while some Bobby Vee guy sings."
McQueen stood up, pacing agitatedly.
"It cuts the balls off the movie, Duke. Trust me."
This was the crux of the problem. McQueen's entire persona was built on cool. On danger. Looking foolish was his biggest danger.
"You're right," Duke said.
McQueen stopped pacing. He looked surprised. "I am?"
"Yeah," Duke said. "I dont personally like the song, and the bicycle is a joke."
Duke stood up and walked over to the vintage bicycle. He picked it up, spinning the front wheel.
"But that's the point, Steve," Duke said, channeling his inner director. "Think about what this machine is. In 1898, this was the future. This was the thing that was going to put the horse out of business."
McQueen watched him, listening.
"Butch is a guy who thinks he's smarter than everyone else," Duke continued.
"He thinks he can outrun the law, outsmart the banks, and even outrun any problem he has. He sees this bike and he thinks, 'I can conquer this too.' so he gets on it. And for a few minutes, he feels free."
Duke looked at McQueen.
"The song... the 'Raindrops' song... it isn't happy, Steve. We know the truth of what happened to Butch Cassidy. This scene? This is the last time Butch ever smiles. It's the last time he gets to be a boy before he has to die."
McQueen stared at the Triumph, then at the bicycle. He ran a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair.
"The last time he smiles," McQueen repeated softly.
"Exactly," Duke said. "It's a sort of calm before the storm. If we play it tough, it's just another scene. But if we play it right... the ending hits better."
McQueen chewed on his lip. He picked up a rock and threw it at a cactus twenty feet away.
"I still hate the singer," McQueen muttered.
"We can fix the mix later," Duke lied. "But I need you to ride the bike, Steve."
McQueen looked at the bicycle.
"I can do a wheelie on that thing," McQueen said.
Duke smiled. "I bet you can."
"No, seriously. I bet I can jump it off that ramp over there."
"Don't kill yourself, Steve. Just ride it."
McQueen wiped the grease off his hands onto his jeans. "Alright. But if I look like an idiot, I'm taking the Triumph and I'm riding it to Mexico."
"Deal."
An hour later, the set was buzzing.
George Roy Hill, looking relieved but still anxious, was setting up the tracking shot. The camera was mounted on the back of a flatbed truck, which would drive parallel to the path.
Katharine Ross, dressed in the heavy, layered skirts of Etta Place, was standing by the fence, holding a parasol.
She looked radiant, the perfect counterpoint to the dust and testosterone of the set.
(Katherine Ross is so gorgeous in this film)
"Alright!" Hill shouted through the megaphone. "Action!"
The speakers cracked, and the opening chords of BJ Thomas's voice drifted over the canyon.
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head...
In the original timeline, Paul Newman had looked charming and slightly goofy, his legs splayed out, singing along. McQueen was only slightly different, playing it with a boy's joy.
Duke watched from the shade of the camera truck. It was working. It was different, yes, but it worked.
At the end of the take, McQueen rode the bike straight toward the camera, skidded the back tire in a cloud of dust, and hopped off while the bike was still moving.
"Cut!" Hill yelled. "Beautiful! Print it!"
McQueen walked over to the water cooler, sweating. Robert Redford was standing there, leaning against a post, arms crossed.
"Nice riding," Redford drawled. "For a circus act."
McQueen grabbed a ladle of water and poured it over his head. He shook his hair out like a dog. "Let's see you do it, Sundance. That seat is harder than it looks."
"I'll stick to the horses," Redford smiled. "Less pedaling."
"You're just scared you'll fall off and mess up the hair," McQueen shot back, grinning.
Duke walked over to George Roy Hill, who was watching the dailies on the small Moviola set up in the back of the truck.
"You were right, Duke," Hill murmured, watching the footage. "Steve brings... an edge to it. It's not as funny as I imagine it. But it feels more desperate. I like it."
"It's the 60s, George," Duke said quietly. "Nobody wants just 'funny' anymore. They want to feel something authentic."
As the sun began to dip below the canyon walls, painting the sandstone in violent shades of orange, the production began to wrap for the day.
"Hey, Duke!"
Duke turned to see McQueen sitting on his Triumph Bonneville. The engine was idling with a low, throaty rumble that echoed off the cliff.
"You busy?" McQueen asked.
"Just paperwork," Duke said.
"Screw the paperwork. Hop on."
Duke hesitated for a fraction of a second, before accepting.
"Where are we going?" Duke asked, climbing onto the back of the seat.
"Redford bet me I couldn't make it to the top of the Angel's Landing trail before sunset," McQueen shouted over the engine.
"Steve, that's a hiking trail. It's a thousand-foot drop."
"Then hold on tight."
McQueen gunned the throttle. The bike surged forward, kicking up a rooster tail of red dirt.
They tore across the valley floor, leaving the movie set behind. The wind roared in Duke's ears, drowning out the world. He held onto the grab bar, watching the landscape blur.
McQueen drove like he acted with total commitment and zero regard for safety.
He banked the bike around sagebrush, jumped over dry creek beds, and pushed the engine to its redline.
They didn't go up Angel's Landing but they did climbed a high ridge overlooking the Virgin River. McQueen killed the engine, and the silence rushed back in, sudden and absolute.
(I have never gone to Utah so dont quote me on locations.)
McQueen kicked the kickstand down and got off. He walked to the edge of the cliff and lit a cigarette.
"You know," McQueen said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "I read the script for the ending again last night."
Duke stood beside him. "The Bolivia shootout."
"Yeah." McQueen looked out at the horizon. "We don't actually see them die. We just hear the guns."
"That's right."
"It's a good ending," McQueen said. He turned to look at Duke. "But I was thinking... maybe we need more guns."
Duke laughed. "More guns?"
"Yeah. In the script, it's like fifty soldiers. I think it should be a hundred. Maybe two hundred."
"Why?"
McQueen took a drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowing.
"Because if they're gonna kill... if they're gonna kill us... I want it to look like they needed a lot of people to do it."
"I'll talk to Hill," Duke promised, but not actually on going through with it, it was too late to add more expenses to production. "We'll get you an army."
McQueen nodded, satisfied. He flicked his cigarette butt over the cliff.
"Good," McQueen said. He patted the seat of the Triumph. "Now, let's get back. I owe Redford twenty bucks. I told him I'd be back in ten minutes, and we've been gone twenty."
"He's going to rub it in," Duke warned.
"Let him do it," McQueen grinned, and for a second, he looked exactly like the bandit he was playing. "I stole his boots while he was in makeup. He's gonna have a hard time walking home."
McQueen kicked the starter, and the engine roared to life.
===
I went through a writers block today and i barely wrote this