The scent of old leather and expensive cigar smoke clung to the air in the producer's office. It was a different kind of war room.
On one side of the polished mahogany desk sat Lawrence Turman, the lead producer of The Graduate, a man with the weary eyes of a veteran campaigner. Beside him, a studio lawyer whose face was a perfect mask of neutral condescension.
On the other side sat Duke, his posture straight, the faint, lingering ache in his knee a grounding reminder of the stakes. Beside him, Jeffrey, his agent, fidgeted with a stack of papers, a little nervous.
"Let's be clear, Mr. Hauser," Turman began, steepling his fingers. "As i understand Mike wants you. He seems to believe you have a… a unique understanding of the material. But a hundred thousand, while helpful, is a drop in the bucket. And a producer credit? That's not a title we just hand out like that."
Duke didn't blink. "It's not a hundred thousand for the budget, Larry. May I call you Larry?" he continued, not waiting for an answer. "It's a hundred thousand for Mike's freedom. My understanding is that the studio is nervous about the third act. They want it funnier. They want the ending clearer. I'm there to cover for Mike in a way."
The studio lawyer shifted. "We have notes about the ending, yes. But thats just part of the process."
"Your notes will takes the edges off the story," Duke said, his voice calm but absolute. "My investment is a signal. It says an outside party, with no legacy ties to this studio, believes so completely in the director's vision that he's willing to put significant capital behind it, unconditionally. My role as producer won't be to give creative notes. It will be to stand between Mike and anyone who tries to give him the wrong ones."
Jeffrey, emboldened by Duke's tone, slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. "The terms. A hundred thousand dollars from Ithaca Productions in exchange for a three percent stake of the gross. And an on-set producer credit for Mr. Hauser, with the specific, contracted right of final consultation on all creative changes requested by the studio."
The lawyer scoffed. "Final consultation? That's unprecedented for a financial participant of this level."
"So is the film Mike is about to make," Duke replied.
The negotiation lasted three hours. It was a battle of attrition, fought over definitions of "gross," "net," and "creative consultation." But Duke's position was unassailable. He wasn't desperate.
The money was a tool, and he held it with the relaxed confidence of a man who knew he had an entire armory at his disposal. He wasn't just buying a piece of a movie; he was buying an education, a reputation, and a foothold into the industry.
When the papers were finally signed, Turman looked at Duke with a new respect. "You drive a hard bargain."
"Thank you," Duke said, gathering his copies. "I guess we're now on the same side."
Walking out of the studio gates, Jeffrey was buzzing. "My God, Duke! Three percent of the gross! Do you have any idea what that could be worth? I read the script and it's not a family movie."
"Yeah it is," Duke said simply, a small joke after remembering the plot of The Graduate.
He spent the next week immersing himself in the one aspect of filmmaking he had experience from the future: the practical, grinding reality of production.
He still needed to get back on track for the 60's. He devoured manuals and union contracts. A producer isn't a single job, but a spectrum of roles.
There is the Creative Producer, a keeper of the vision of sorts, who worked with the director from script to screen. This was the role Mike wanted him to play.
There was the Line Producer, the general on the ground, who managed the budget and schedule down to the minute and the dollar, ensuring the creative vision didn't bankrupt the operation.
Then there was the Executive Producer, who often secured the money or the key elements which could be a movie star, the underlying rights, the investment and wielded power from a lofty, often distant, height.
Duke understood it clearly.
He was the one who could translate the director's artistic needs into the language of money and logistics for the studio, and vice-versa.
He was the buffer to put it in a simple way.
His apartment, once a writer's sanctuary, now became a de facto production office. The phone, which had rung with publishers, now rang with a new breed of caller.
The first was a fast-talking man named Roger Corman, the king of B-movies. "Hauser! Hey loved your book. I've got a script, The Blood-Spattered Bride. Im thinking of shooting it in ten days. A hundred and fifty grand. You'll double your money!"
Duke listened politely, then declined. He wasn't interested in explotation films.
Next was a young, intensely serious filmmaker named Peter Bogdanovich. He came to Duke's home, clutching a well-worn copy of a novel.
"It's Larry McMurtry's The Last Picture Show," he said, his eyes burning with passion. "It's about the death of a small town, the death of the old America. It's in black and white. No stars. It can be done for cheap, as long as I have funding."
Duke, who knew the film would be a masterpiece, felt a pang of regret.
This was the kind of project he wanted. But his capital and focus were tied up in The Graduate. He couldn't spread himself too thin, not yet.
"Look lets talk," Duke told him. "But my attention right now is full. Come see me when you have a working script." He made a mental note to follow Bogdanovich's career closely.
Then came the screenwriters, their eyes filled with a desperate hope. They pitched westerns, spy thrillers, historical epics.
Duke listened to them all, his mind categorizing them, not by their potential profit, but by what he remembered where box office hits. Sadly, he couldnt find any of those future hits.
Of course even if he did find it, he wouldnt have money to do anything.
Amidst this new chaos, the literary world hadn't forgotten him.
A messenger delivered a package from Doubleday. It was his Cujo manuscript, returned not with a rejection, but with a letter from Aldrich and a memo from a senior editor named Phyllis Grann. The letter was full of praise, but the memo was the real document.
"Connor," Aldrich had written, "We are all terrifically excited about Cujo. The raw storytelling power is undeniable. However, Phyllis has some excellent points regarding the commercial positioning. The ending, as it stands, is perhaps too bleak. There is a feeling that, after putting the reader through such a harrowing ordeal, we owe them a glimmer of light. Could the boy, Tad, survive? A last-minute rescue? Additionally, the sections from the dog's point of view, while brilliantly written, are distancing. The reader is forced to identify with the 'monster.' Could we perhaps limit the internal perspective to Donna and Vic, to keep the audience's empathy firmly anchored?"
Duke read the memo twice, a cold anger settling in his stomach.
They wanted to tamper with the story.
He picked up the phone and dialed Aldrich directly, bypassing Jeffrey.
"Connor! You got the memo?"
"I did."
"Phyllis's points are well-taken, don't you think? A little hope never hurt a bestseller."
Duke looked at his desk, "No," he said, the word final as a slamming door.
There was a stunned silence on the other end. "No?"
"The boy dies. The dog's perspective stays. That's the book. That's the point of the book."
"Connor, be reasonable. The sales could suffer."
"You bought Jaws because it was a shark that killed people," Duke interrupted, his voice low and sharp. "You're buying Cujo because it's a rabid dog that kills a child. This ain't a petting zoo. The book is what it is. Take it."
The line was silent for a long time. He could hear Aldrich's breathing, the faint rustle of papers. He was forcing the publisher to choose between his editorial instincts and his commercial ones. He was betting that the success of Jaws had earned him the right to be intractable.
"Look I need something at least" Aldrich said, his voice a mix of frustration and admiration.
"I can keep the kid alive but nothing else" Duke replied. "I'll finish the touch ups on the manuscript. Do we have a deal?"
Another pause. "We have a deal. But God help us at the review boards."
"Let me worry about the reviews," Duke said, and hung up. He remembered in the Cujo movie, the kid survives with a last minute rescue.
Hollywood tends to not show kids dying.
He was now not just a writer who had gotten lucky.
He was a producer.
He wanted to built Ithaca Productions not as a vanity label, but as its own production and distribution company.
The Graduate was his first production. And he knew, with a chilling and exhilarating certainty, that this was only the beachhead.