In the high-ceilinged boardroom of Paramount Pictures, Duke Hauser sat at the head of that table. He was twenty-four years old, a fact that seemed like a clerical error to the veterans surrounding him.
To his right sat Robert Evans, and to Duke's left sat the inherited executive team, the men who kept the gears grinding.
Stanley Jaffe, the president.
Frank Yablans, the head of distribution, and Peter Bart, the vice president of production. They were men of the industry, and they were looking at Duke with some fascination as they watched the youngest Mogul in Hollywood history.
"Gentlemen," Duke began. His voice wasn't loud. "The paperwork is finalized. As of 5:00 PM yesterday, Ithaca Productions holds complete control of Paramount Pictures."
He let the words hang in the air.
"The first order of business now that the acquisition is done is structure."
Duke continued, his gaze sweeping the room, never lingering long enough on anyone, "Effective immediately, Robert Evans is stepping down as Head of Production for Paramount."
A ripple of genuine shock went around the table. Jaffe straightened his tie, Yablans narrowed his eyes, preparing himself to say something. But Evans just smiled.
"He is assuming the role of Chief Executive Officer of Ithaca Productions," Duke explained, silencing the room before the murmurs could start.
"Ithaca will operate as our autonomous prestige label. It will develop and produce its own slate, leveraging Allied Artist distribution muscle but maintaining its own creative and financial protocols. He will be reporting directly to me."
He laid the map out for them.
Paramount was to be the high-volume, market-dominating company. It would be aggressive, commercial, and high-margin.
It would be fed by a pipeline that included Ithaca's projects, but its mandate was broader, louder, more populist.
Ithaca was to be the jewel, the critic's darling, and focused on prestige and smaller movies.
"The goal," Duke said, locking eyes with Yablans, who was leaning forward, his demeanor softening into curiosity, "is not to make ten good movies. It's to make two great ones, six very good, profitable ones, and to have maybe two losers."
"Remember we are in the business of sustaining this studio for the next few years with profit, not propping up vanity projects or feeding the egos of talent that hasn't had a hit since the Eisenhower administration."
Frank Yablans gave a slow, approving nod.
"Which brings us to item two," Yablans said, sliding a thick, manic folder down the polished table. It stopped inches from Duke's hand. "The release schedule for next week. Darling Lili."
The name landed with a thud, heavier than the folder itself. All eyes went to Duke. They all knew the numbers.
The Blake Edwards musical was a whimsical World War I romance starring Julie Andrews, and it was a monster. Not in scale, but in cost.
It had ballooned it's budget into a Old Hollywood indulgence, location shoots in Ireland and Paris, elaborate aerial sequences that cost a fortune, a director given carte blanche based on a previous success.
Duke opened the folder. The figures were grim, red ink sprawled across the pages. The marketing spend was already massive, a desperate attempt to buy an audience that didn't exist.
In his mind, Duke didn't need the numbers. He knew Darling Lili was a catastrophic flop, a $15 million sinkhole that poisoned Paramount's balance sheet for years and served as a nail in the coffin of the traditional musical.
How did even knew, well he loved Musicals in his previous life.
He looked up, his face impassive, revealing nothing of the foreknowledge that guided him. "What's the P&A commitment for the wide release?"
"Another million-two," Yablans grunted, rubbing his temples. "We're locked into network spots, full-page spreads in the Times and the LA papers and a radio blitz."
"Pull them," Duke said.
The silence that followed was stunned.
Jaffe leaned forward, a little offended by the breach of contract. "Duke, we can't. The contracts are signed. The networks—"
"Buy them out," Duke interrupted, his voice level. "Or swap them for future placements on the fall slate. Eat the penalties. Limit the print run to… 200 theaters. Major markets only. No television blitz. No radio."
"You're burying it," Peter Bart said. It wasn't an accusation, it was a statement. He was watching a man kill a $25 million investment without blinking.
"I'm performing an ethical burial," Duke corrected, his voice cold, yet oddly reassuring. "The film is dead, Peter. Spending more on the funeral won't bring it back. If we release it wide with a full spend, we lose the production budget and the marketing budget."
"If we bury it, we take the critical hit, we take the financial write-off, and we move every salvaged dollar of that marketing budget to the next quarter. We do not throw good money after bad."
"We acknowledge the mistake, learn from it, and cease all productions that look, smell, or sound like it. Consider Darling Lili a very expensive funeral pyre of a different era."
The coldness of the decision was breathtaking, but it was also liberating. There was no sentiment, no attempt to salvage pride or save face for the legendary director Blake Edwards.
It was pure, unsentimental business logic, the kind the sugar-and-zinc conglomerate had ironically been too emotionally invested to enact.
In that moment, the men in the room understood the new paradigm. The bleeding needed to stop today.
"Now," Duke said, closing the Lili folder with a definitive snap. "Let's talk about the future. Gary?"
Gary Kurtz stood up. Now heading Production for Paramount, Kurtz was a calm presence in the room. He unrolled a large sheet of paper displaying the production slate.
"The Ithaca-transition projects," Kurtz began, his voice steady. "First, The French Connection. Friedkin is in New York right now. He's essentially doing guerrilla filmmaking. The dailies… they're great. Also the budget is tight, but he has managed to hold it."
Duke nodded. "Good. Don't restrain his rope. If he delivers what I think he will, it'll be a great action thriller."
"Dirty Harry," Kurtz continued, tapping the next entry. "Pre-production is smooth. Eastwood is locked, Siegel is directing. It's a potent package. we're planning on shooting in San Francisco."
"Klute," Kurtz said, moving to a co-production file. "This is the Alan Pakula thriller. It's set up at Columbia, but we have a significant stake and production stake. Casting is in flux."
Duke's gaze sharpened. This was a pivot point.
In his past life, Klute was a seminal 70s thriller that cemented Jane Fonda as a dramatic force. But Jane Fonda, was in the midst of her fiercest activism.
She had recently picketed the premiere of Duke's recently released film, Hacksaw Ridge.
"Jane Fonda is still being considered?" Duke asked, in a little disbelief.
"She's still the biggest choice. Pakula wants her and Donald Sutherland is loobying for her."
Duke steepled his fingers, the tips pressing together. The room waited.
"Talk to Columbia, and take her off the list," Duke said. The decision was final. "And Sutherland too. This isn't a formal blacklist. I don't care about their personal politics. But I will not invest Paramount or Ithaca capital in a star who actively campaigns to bankrupt my other productions."
"I asked for an actress, but meet the director in the middle if necessary, I don't want to impose, but if they keep trying to hire Fonda, we will use every trick to ballon the budget and damage Columbia."
It was a ruthless, pragmatic move. The old Hollywood blacklist of the 50s had been ideological and cruel, at least this was purely commercial self-defense.
Peter Bart scribbled a note, his mind already racing through alternatives, Faye Dunaway, perhaps? Or a new discovery?
Kurtz moved on, the tempo of the meeting picking up. "As for the urban market projects. Melvin Van Peebles's Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song. He's financing it himself, mostly. We have a handshake deal for distribution."
"And Shaft. Gordon Parks is directing. Richard Roundtree is cast. It's cleaner, more of a detective thriller, but squarely in the same vein. Both are low budget urban movies."
"Double the marketing allocation for both," Duke said, turning to Yablans. "This is a market the majors are ignoring. They see it as a niche. But they have a good amount of disposable income. Frank, I want you to personally handle the rollout. Put the posters where black people are, not just in the white suburbs."
Yablans, who understood money better than anyone, grinned. "My pleasure. We'll get to work on this."
Duke then turned to the native Paramount slate for 1970 and '71.
Without Love Story, the lineup looked awful.
It was a collection of bloated musicals, tired comedies, and safe literary adaptations.
"Stanley," Duke said to Jaffe. "I want a full project audit. Every script in development, every film in pre-production. I want several projects killed by the end of the week. I don't care about hurt feelings, broken promises, or sunk costs. I want their budgets reallocated."
"To what?" Jaffe asked, his pen hovering over his notepad.
Duke reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a single script. It was worn, and the cover stained with coffee rings. He placed it in the center of the table.
The title was typed in simple Courier font. The Godfather.
"To this. Mario Puzo's novel is a phenomenon, and the industry thinks mob movies are dead. They are wrong. This script… it's an American Epic." Duke placed his hand flat on the script.
"Every dollar we save from cancelling a flimsy musical or a bad comedy gets poured into this." he tapped the script, "This is our flagship. Make it happen."
The meeting adjourned on that note, a sense of clarity replacing the earlier anxiety. The path forward was harsh, unpaved, and dangerous, but it was a path.
As the others filed out, energized by the sudden injection of purpose, an assistant leaned in.
"Mr. Hauser? There's… someone waiting for you in your office. He insisted."
"Who?"
"Mr. Zukor, sir."
Duke frowned. Adolph Zukor. The founder.
The man who had built Famous Players, then Paramount. The man who had survived Thomas Edison's patent wars, the Spanish Flu, the coming of sound, the Great Depression, and the consent decrees.
The Chairman Emeritus, now 97 years old, a living ghost who was still advising the company he created.
"I'll go now."
The private office was a small, wood-paneled room off the main dining hall.
Adolph Zukor was a small man, shrunken by time into something fragile and birdlike. But as Duke approached, he saw that the eyes behind the thick lenses were not old, they were alert.
"Mr. Zukor," Duke said, approaching with genuine reverence. "This is an honor."
Zukor turned, his movement slow but deliberate. He didn't offer a hand, his were folded in his lap, papery and veined like dried leaves. "Hauser. Sit. They tell me you own the studio now."
Duke sat opposite him. "I'm its steward, sir."
Zukor let out a soft, rasping sound that might have been a laugh. "Steward. A good word. The others… the Bluhdorns… they were not movie people."
He studied Duke, his gaze dissecting him. "I saw your picture. Hacksaw Ridge. I read your books. The shark, the car, the fish story… the love story. I like your art, it seems you like to build stuff."
"I'm trying to build a studio that lasts," Duke said quietly.
"Paramount was built on stars," Zukor said, his gaze drifting back to the window, to the iconic water tower looming over the lot. "We sold them. We sold the dream. Then the conglomerates came. They tried to turn it into a bank. An unpredictable bank." He looked back at Duke, his eyes fierce. "You are not a banker."
"No, sir."
"Good. A banker would have tried to save Darling Lili. He would have seen only the asset, not the reception." Zukor nodded slowly, approvingly. "I am too old for this new world. The films move too fast. The sound is too loud."
He reached out then, a slow, monumental effort, and placed his ancient hand over Duke's. The grip was surprisingly firm. "Take care of my Studio, son. Don't just use it. Make it great again."
It was a blessing. A passing of the torch not just in legal fact, but in spirit.
"I will, sir. I promise."
He walked Zukor to his waiting Rolls-Royce, helping the near-centenarian into the care of a uniformed nurse.
He stood on the curb and watched the car glide silently toward the gate.
Duke stood alone on the bustling studio street for a moment.
He turned, finding Gary Kurtz waiting a respectful distance away, holding the Godfather script against his chest.
"Gary," Duke said, his voice clear and carrying on the warm afternoon air. The tension of the boardroom was gone. "Set up a meeting."
"With Pakula about the re-cast for Klute?" Kurtz asked, opening his notebook.
"No. That can wait. I want you to arrange to meet Francis Ford Coppola. And ask Lucas to come too"
Kurtz blinked, his pen pausing. Coppola was known, but he was chaotic.
He'd just made The Rain People for Warner Bros., a critical darling that lost money, and he was currently running a nascent studio in San Francisco called American Zoetrope that was rumored to be on the verge of financial collapse.
"Coppola? For what? The man is radioactive right now."
Duke took the script from Kurtz's hands, feeling its weight, "Trust me, arrange the meeting, I'll make him an offer he can't refuse"
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Longer chapter