The smell of garlic hung thick in the pizzeria where Duke and William Friedkin who was midway through a stromboli, waving his hand for emphasis.
"The problem with modern American cinema, Duke, is that it's too polite in a way. The Hayes code is still affecting films even after being repelled" Friedkin said, leaning forward.
Duke sipped his soda, watching Friedkin. He liked the man's energy. It was a jagged, electric energy that matched the grime of the project they were discussing.
"That's why I want you for The French Connection, Will," Duke said.
Friedkin grinned, a sharp, sudden expression. "You've got some good films under your belt, Duke. Most producers would want to talk about likability."
He chuckled, taking a long drink of soda. "I watched The Public Enemy again last night. Cagney. God, that man knew how to act. I want to take inspiration from his character for Popeye."
"Exactly," Duke agreed. "I also want to put a great focus on the car chase."
They spent the next hour talking about the Old Hollywood they both grew up with and the New Hollywood they were currently in.
Friedkin told a story about a meeting at a major studio where an executive asked him if he could make a gritty New York ganster movie similar to The Sound of Music."
"I told him," Friedkin laughed, "find someone else, cause I wasn't the man for that kind of job."
As the plates were cleared, the conversation shifted. Duke leaned back, looking around the room before speaking in a lower tone.
"I'm done with the studio leash. Paramount is great for the budget, but they're too slow and Evans has to back me for everything despite me already making two big hits for them."
"I want to build my own company. I want Ithaca to distribute its own films and make my distribution from the ground up."
Friedkin wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. "That's a big play. Distribution is where they kill you. It's too expensive, Duke."
"Not if you have a certain reputation," Duke said.
Friedkin tilted his head. "You ever hear of Allied Artists? They're an old studio. They were called Monogram Pictures back in the day, B-movies, cheap Westerns."
"They're in a bad situation right now. Drowning in debt. But they've got the infrastructure. If someone with cash swooped in, they could turn it into a distribution powerhouse."
Duke's mind flickered to his memories. He remembered Allied Artists.
In his past life they would distribute Cabaret and Papillon before eventually folding. They were able to distribute a film in 1972 and 1973 into some of the highest grossing movies of their respective years.
"Allied Artists," Duke mused. "I'll look into them."
The transition from the warmth of the Pizzeria to the cold air of the MPAA screening room forty-eight hours later was abrupt.
Duke sat in the back row, next to him, Robert Evans was filled with anxiety.
Evans was wearing a silk turtleneck and cologne, but he couldn't hide the sweat on his brow.
On the screen, the Okinawa sequence of Hacksaw Ridge was playing.
It was a rough cut, but the sound design, comprised of wet thuds, metal, and the prayers of Desmond Doss was already terrifyingly effective.
On the screen, a Japanese soldier was engulfed in a flamethrower's arc. A second later, a medic was blown apart while trying to apply a tourniquet.
The lights came up. The silence in the room was heavy.
The three members of the MPAA ratings board stayed seated. In the center was a woman with a tight bun and a clipboard, her face frozen in genuine horror.
"Mr. Hauser," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "This... this is not a motion picture. This is horrible."
"It's an honest depiction of the Maeda Escarpment," Duke said, his voice level.
"It is pornographic in its violence," another board member added, a man in a gray suit who looked like he wanted to go home.
"We gave Midnight Cowboy an X for its obscene themes, but this? This is visceral. As it stands, this is a clear X."
"We cannot, in good conscience, allow children or even most adults to see this."
Evans groaned audibly next to Duke. "An X? Lets trim some scenes."
Duke didn't look at Evans. He looked at the board.
To Duke, the "realities of war" were an abstraction he used for art. He didn't have a moral crusade about "truth." He was a filmmaker.
He knew that the power of Hacksaw Ridge came from its intensity. If he cut it, the movie became a generic war flick. It would lose its soul.
"I was a door gunner in Vietnam," Duke said, his voice dropping. "What a M60 does to a human body it's horrendous."
The board members shifted uncomfortably.
"You're telling me that Doss, an US Veteran experience it's 'obscene'?" Duke continued, standing up.
"You're telling the men who bled on that ridge in 1945 that their sacrifice is too 'ugly' for the American public to see? This isn't a porno movie. This is a story about a man who refused to kill in the middle of circuntances you can't even imagine."
"The rules are the rules, Mr. Duke," the woman said.
"Fine," Duke said, grabbing his jacket. "Keep the X for now. But I'm not cutting a frame. Instead, I'm going to screen this rough cut for the American Legion. I'm going to show it to the Pacific Theater Veterans Association."
"If the men who were actually there, the men who lived through the mud and the fire say it's too much, then I'll do the cuts myself. But if they say otherwise... then I'm going to make sure every newspaper in the country knows that the MPAA is censoring the history of our veterans."
He walked out, leaving the people in a stunned silence. Evans scurried after him, catching up in the hallway.
Evans came walking behind him. "The American Legion? Those guys are too conservative! They'll hate it!"
"They'll love it, Bob," Duke said, pushing through the heavy glass doors into the night. "Because they're the only ones who know how it was there. Doss also has a reputation among veterans."
Late that night, Duke received a phone call at his home.
"Mr. Hauser? This is Jack Valenti."
Duke sat up, the sleep vanishing instantly. Valenti was the president of the Motion Picture Association of America, the same organization that was giving Hacksaw Ridge an X rating.
He was a former LBJ aide, a political man of the highest order, and the man who had essentially created the rating system to save Hollywood from government censorship.
"Mr. Valenti. I didn't expect to hear from you."
"I watched your film, Duke," Valenti said. His voice was surprisingly warm. "I watched it alone in my private theater this evening. Twice."
Duke waited.
"It's a goddamn great film," Valenti said. "I've seen a thousand war movies. But I hadn't cried at a movie in ten years, but I was a mess after your film."
"Thank you, Jack."
"The board is scared," Valenti continued. "They're literalists. They see blood, they think X. They're worried about the Parent Teacher Associations and the church groups."
"But they're wrong. In this political climate with the country tearing itself apart over Vietnam. A film about an American hero who holds onto his soul in the middle of hell? This shouldn't be hidden behind an X rating. It's too important."
"I'm glad you agree," Duke said. "But the board doesn't."
"The board needs a 'out,' an excuse if you may Duke. They need a cover. If I just overrule them, it looks like favoritism. But your idea... the veterans? That's brilliant."
"If you can get a few high-ranking generals or a Medal of Honor recipient to sign off on this to say it's an accurate and respectful tribute I can use that as leverage. I can tell the board that an X rating would be an insult to the armed forces."
Valenti paused, the sound of a lighter clicking over the line.
"Get me the support of the veterans, and I'll give you an R. Heck, if you trim some, I might even get you a PG, though I think the R suits the grit of the film better."
"I'll keep the R," Duke said. "I want the audience to know they're in for something real."
"Good man," Valenti said. "This movie needs to be seen, I think some politicians would love this film which could be great publicity."
The next three weeks were a whirlwind of logistical maneuvers that had more in common with a political campaign than a movie release.
Duke didn't just send out invitations. He used the Atari cash flow to charter buses. They reached out to VFW halls across Southern California.
They contacted the Congressional Medal of Honor Society.
Duke personally visited a retired Colonel named H.W. Harris, a man who had been a company commander on Okinawa and carried shrapnel in his leg.
They sat in Harris's wood-panneled den in San Diego.
"You want to show me a movie?" Harris asked, his eyes narrow and suspicious. "I don't like movies, Mr. Hauser. I only watch Disney movies."
Duke said, handing him a folder of production stills. "There's a man in the middle of it who makes it worth watching."
Harris looked at the photos, De Niro covered in mud, the ridge and some side by side of Doss and De Niro. He didn't speak for a long time. Then he looked up.
"Doss," Harris whispered. "I remember hearing about him. The medic who wouldn't touch a rifle. He saved a lot of people by lowering them down that cliff."
"I want to make sure I got it right," Duke said. "If I didn't, I would you to tell me."
The screening for the veterans was held at the Egyptian Theatre. It was a sea of gray hair, garrison caps, and quiet, weathered faces.
Evans was there, hiding in the back.
Duke stood at the front of the theater. He didn't give a speech.
The lights went down.
For the next two hours, the only sound in the theater was the projector and the occasional, sharp intake of breath. When the battle for the escarpment began, the atmosphere in the room changed. Men were leaning forward, their knuckles white on the armrests.
When the film ended, there was no applause. Not at first.
There was a profound, ringing silence.
Then, Colonel Harris stood up. He turned around to face the rest of the veterans. He didn't say a word. He just started clapping toward the screen.
One by one, the men in the theater stood up. Some were weeping quietly. Others were nodding. It was a standing ovation that lasted for five minutes.
Duke felt a lump in his own throat.
The letter arrived at the MPAA offices forty-eight hours later. It was signed by thirty-five decorated veterans, including two Medal of Honor recipients.
"This film is an honest, and deeply necessary tribute to the reality of the Pacific Theater. To restrict its viewership would be a disservice to the history of the United States Army."
Jack Valenti called Duke an hour after the letter was delivered.
"You did it, you son of a gun," Valenti laughed. "The board met this morning. They were terrified of the optics. They've granted the R rating. No cuts required."
"Thanks, Mr. Valenti."
"Don't thank me. Thank those old men. Now, get that movie into theaters. And Duke?"
"Yeah?"
"Be prepared, i have a surprise for you."
Duke hung up the phone and walked to the window of his office.
Below him, the Ithaca lot was buzzing.
He pulled a file from his desk. It was the prospectus for Allied Artists.
He picked up the phone.
"Jeffrey? It's Duke. Call the board at Allied. Tell them I would like to meet on Monday."
He sat back, a small smile on his face.
___
I just saw the most beautiful actress in a horror movie called Heart Eyes