The transition from 1969 to 1970 was heavy in the air.
Duke was on a New Year party being held on a sprawling estate.
Duke stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the reflection of the lights in the pool outside. He felt a strange sense of victory.
He was back from the mud of Hawaii and now he needed to focus on building his own Company, Ithaca Productions.
Then he saw someone from the other side of the room catching her doing eye contact.
Julie Christie was standing in a circle of people near a fireplace.
As she felt his gaze, she looked away before returning to look at him again.
Her eyes, a startling blue, locked onto his across the crowded room. She didn't look away. Instead, she offered a slow, knowing nod with her head.
Duke began to move through the crowd until he reached the periphery of her circle.
"Hey, I didn't know you were back from the jungle," she said, her voice soft.
"I cameback last week," Duke replied, stepping in. "The mud was harder to wash off than I expected."
"I've heard you've been doing a war movie," a producer in the group chimed in. "I don't know if people would want to watch a war film when Vietnam is going on."
Duke shrugged, his eyes never leaving Julie's. "It's a different kind of war film. One where the hero is a pacifist in the middle of the war."
Julie arched an eyebrow. "A pacifist war hero in the middle of the Vietnam era. That's very brave, Duke."
"Yeah, lets hope Jane Fonda doesn't attack it."
The conversation around them drifted toward the usual industry gossip, who was being fired at MGM now that Kerkorian acquired 40% of the shares, the latest box office numbers for Easy Rider but Duke and Julie had created a private conversation.
It was in the way she leaned slightly toward him when he spoke, the way her fingers toyed with the rim of her glass, and the way he held her gaze just a second longer than was polite.
Slowly, the group began to fracture, pulled away by the lure of fresh drinks or more important people arriving.
Suddenly, they were standing alone near the terrace doors.
"You have a reputation," she said. She looked at him over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable.
"Most people have rumours in this town. Usually, they're just lies."
"Not this one," she said. A small, flirtatious smile played at the corners of her mouth. "The rumor is that you have a certain... preference. That you find a preference for the company of women who have actually lived a little more."
Duke felt a small source of heat in his cheeks.
"Rumors are usually based on a kernel of truth," Duke said, stepping closer. "I've always found that wisdom is much more attractive than innocence."
Julie didn't flinch. She took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes tracking the movement of his mouth. "Is that right?"
The party noise seemed to recede into a dull hum. The reserve they had both started with had evaporated, replaced by a sudden confidence.
"You know," Julie said, she took his hand and squeezed it lightly, her tone shifting to something more practical but no less suggestive.
"I've heard whispers that you're developing something new. Something after the war movie. A script that needs a certain kind of feminine perspective."
Duke knew there was no new script, at least not one he was ready to show. He had Big Fish and The Exorcist in the wings, but neither were for Julie Christie.
"I might have a few pages," Duke lied, his voice steady. "But they're not the kind of thing you discuss in a room full of people."
Julie nodded, her eyes flashing with playful intent. She set her glass down on a passing waiter's tray.
"Then perhaps we should go somewhere more private," she said, her hand grazing his arm, the touch lingering just long enough. "I'd very much like to hear about your... vision."
"My car is out front," Duke said.
"Good," she replied, her smile widening. "Lead the way."
___
The editing suite at the back of the Ithaca Pictures lot a converted warehouse space that smelled of acetate, coffee, and cigarettes was a windowless room.
In the dark, there was only the Moviola.
Duke sat hunched over the machine, the small screen flickering with the images of the "work print." Next to him sat Lou, an editor Duke had poached from a TV network.
Duke was trying to talk to him about his editing.
"You're cutting on the breath," Duke said, rubbing his eyes. "Don't cut on the breath. Cut on the impact."
"If I cut there," Lou argued, gesturing with a pencil, "we lose the geography. The audience won't know where the bunker is in relation to De Niro."
"I don't want them to know," Duke said, his voice gravelly from three days of minimal sleep. "This isn't a map, Lou. It's a meat grinder."
Duke reached out and stopped the machine. He wound the reel back.
On the tiny, grainy screen, Robert De Niro was dragging a body through the mud.
"Look at his eyes," Duke pointed. "Right there. Before he moves. Cut to the hands. Then cut to the explosion. Bypass the wide shot entirely."
Lou hesitated, then made the splice. He taped the film, threaded it back through, and hit the pedal.
Close up: Eyes. Close up: Hands gripping the uniform. BANG. Screen goes white.
"Jesus," Lou whispered. "It feels... like it works."
"It's the language of the 70s," Duke said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. "The 60s were about wide shots like Lawrence of Arabia, The Sound of Music. Now its more about close ups and fast editing."
They were building Hacksaw Ridge frame by frame. Duke was meticulously crafting the sequences, ensuring that the spiritual element wasn't overwhelmed by the gore.
He checked his watch. It was 2:00 PM.
He had a meeting in an hour. And he had a phone call he had been putting off.
Duke walked back to his office, shielding his eyes against the sharp Los Angeles sun. The transition from the dark room to the bright lot always made him feel like a vampire.
He sat at his desk, which was currently covered in stacks of trade papers Variety, The Hollywood Reporter and quarterly projections from Atari.
He looked at the phone. He picked it up and dialed the number he had written on a cocktail napkin two nights ago.
It rang three times.
"Hello?" The voice was unmistakable.
"Julie," Duke said.
"Duke," Julie Christie said. "I was beginning to think you wouldnt call back."
"I was somewhat busy," Duke said. "I've been in the editing bay for my film."
"Is that your excuse?"
"It's the truth," Duke said. "Look, about the project..."
He paused. They had both lied at the party and used the script to get to a private place. There was no script for her in Ithaca.
But Duke was a producer. And producers invented reality.
"I'm securing the rights to something," Duke said. "It's... complex. It's a thriller, but not a whodunit. It's about a modern woman struggling to break free from a patriarchal life."
(Its a good film)
He was talking through the plot of Klute.
"Go on," she said. Her tone had shifted. She was listening.
"It's set in New York," Duke continued, improvising the pitch. "You play a woman who thinks she's liberated, thinks she's in control, you would also be playing a prostitute."
"And when can I read it?"
"Give me a month," Duke said. "I'll talk to the writer."
"A month," Julie mused. "That gives us plenty of time to discuss character development. Over dinner?"
"Dinner," Duke promised. "Friday. I'll pick you up."
"Don't be late, Duke."
He hung up, exhaling slowly.
At 3:30 PM, the mood in the office shifted from romance to hardball.
Jeffrey, his agent, walked in with Philip D'Antoni.
D'Antoni was a producer's producer and he held the rights to a non-fiction book by Robin Moore called The French Connection.
In the original timeline, 20th Century Fox made the movie. But in January 1970, Fox was financially in a horrible position.
They were too nervous about a movie where the hero was a racist, alcoholic cop to invest.
Duke wasn't nervous.
"Mr. D'Antoni," Duke said, not rising from his chair. "Coffee?"
"I'm good," D'Antoni said. He looked around the office. It was modern, sparse. No movie posters. "I hear you're the guy from Love Story and also rejected Warner's offer."
Duke smiled. "Sit down, Philip. Let's talk about Popeye Doyle."
D'Antoni sat. "Fox is interested, Duke. They're offering a distribution deal."
"Fox is broke," Duke countered bluntly. "They're going to nickel and dime you. They're going to tell you to shoot in the middle of nowhere to save money. They're going to want a hero the audience can like."
Duke leaned forward. "I personally don't give a damn if the audience likes Popeye Doyle and we can shoot in New York."
"That's expensive," D'Antoni said. "Permits alone..."
"I'll pay for the permits," Duke said. "I'll pay for the car chase. In fact, I want the car chase to be the centerpiece."
Duke slid a check across the desk. It was an option payment, significantly higher than what Fox was floating.
"This is Ithaca Pictures," Duke said. "We don't have a board of directors, I just want this movie in theaters by 1971."
D'Antoni picked up the check. He looked at the amount. He looked at Duke.
"You're buying into a lot of ugly, Duke. This story isn't The Sound of Music."
D'Antoni pocketed the check. "I'll tell my lawyers to draft the papers. But I get to pick the director."
"William Friedkin," Duke said immediately.
D'Antoni froze. "How did you know?"
By 6:00 PM, Duke was alone again. The sun had set, turning the sky a bruised purple.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a battered script in a red cover.
Title: DEAD RIGHT
Author: Harry Julian Fink
This was the orphan of Hollywood. It had bounced around for years now.
It was the script that would eventually become Dirty Harry.
Duke flipped through the pages. The dialogue was sparse, brutal. It was a Western disguised as a cop movie.
It was about a man who realizes the system is broken, so he becomes the system.
Sort of fascist but populist too.
He picked up his phone.
"Secure the rights to the Fink script, 'Dead Right.' Change the working title to 'Dirty Harry.' And send a copy to Clint Eastwood's agent." Duke said, his voice tired.
He clicked the machine off.
The French Connection. Dirty Harry. Hacksaw Ridge.
He looked at the slate he was building. It was aggressive.