The air on the set of The Graduate was thick enough to taste—a cocktail of sawdust, anxiety, and creative friction.
Duke stood in his now-customary position, leaning on his cane just outside the circle of light, a silent sentinel.
For weeks, he'd watched the low-grade war between Mike Nichols' vision and the mounting panic of Embassy Pictures.
Today, the battle lines were drawn over a seemingly simple shot: Benjamin Braddock, trapped at the bottom of the Robinson's pool.
"Mike, for God's sake, it's a simple thing," Lawrence Turman, the film's nominal producer, pleaded, his voice strained. "We need a clear, clean shot of his face through the water. The audience needs to see his despair, you convince us to hire Hoffman cause of his acting and now youre covering his face."
Nichols, perched on the edge of a diving board, didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed on the water. "Relax Larry. With this shot the audience will feel his isolation. His disconnection. We're using a wide-angle lens. We're putting the camera in the water with him, distorting everything. The world above is just a blur of noise and light. He's sinking in a way."
Paul Meyers, the studio suit, threw his hands up. "A wide-angle? Underwater? It'll look like a goddamn funhouse mirror! Hoffman's face will be all distorted. We're selling his performance, not a fisheye experiment!"
"It's not an experiment, Paul," Nichols shot back, his voice dangerously calm. "It's the point of the entire film. He's at the bottom of a plastic prison, and the world doesn't make sense anymore."
"The point is to get people into seats, not to give them a goddamn art-school lecture!" Meyers' voice rose, his face flushing. "We are not funding a student film, Nichols. You may have an Oscar, but you still answer to this studio. Lets just do it my way. Everyone we will change the setup!"
The crew froze. The gaffer held his breath; the script supervisor looked at her shoes. This was the line.
Duke moved then. He moved fast with his cane on the concrete pool, he was talking with a grip to move some things. All eyes turned to him.
"Paul, Lawrence," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the tension. "A question. What are you paying for?"
Meyers turned on him, exasperated. "Not this again, Hauser. We're paying for a movie."
"You're paying for this," Duke said, gesturing with his cane to the entire setup—the pool, the cameras, the tense director. "You're paying for Mike Nichols. You didn't hire a technician to point a camera at a movie star. You hired an artist to make his film. My company invested in that artist."
"That lens," he pointed to the camera fitted with the wide-angle, "is part of the architecture of that world. Do you want to end up with just another coming-of-age story. This…" he looked at Nichols, a flicker of understanding passing between them, "…is good. Let him continue."
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He simply stated facts, his presence and his financial stake forming an unbreakable bulwark around Nichols' creativity.
Meyers sputtered, looking to Turman for support, but found none. Turman just sighed, defeated by Duke's logic and the fact he didnt even care if he got yelled or insulted. "Fine. Do the damn wide-angle. But if this sinks us, it's on your head, Hauser."
"It won't," Duke said, turning away as the crew burst back into frantic activity. "Everyone lets start over again."
---
Back in his home at night, a different kind of battle awaited.
He got home and Jeffrey and a middle age man in a suit awaited for him in front of his door.
The October 15 tax deadline loomed, a specter threatening to claim the majority of his million-dollar Jaws windfall.
The man sitting across from him, Arthur Finch, was his chosen weapon. Finch was in his fifties, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that seemed immune to the LA heat. He had the calm, amused eyes of a man who had seen fortunes made and lost, and who specialized in ensuring the former outweighed the latter.
"Let's begin with the stakes, Mr. Hauser," Finch said, placing a single sheet of paper on the desk. "Without a sophisticated strategy, the federal government will be your primary beneficiary this year. On an income of an aproximated $1.08 million, you will pay approximately $756,000 in taxes. We're already in June so we need to start up with things."
The number hung in the air, stark and brutal.
"To put it plainly," Finch continued, his voice devoid of emotion, "you will work until August of next year for the government, and you will keep only what you make in the final four months. They will take seventy cents of every dollar you earned with that book. My job is to radically renegotiate that arrangement."
"And what's your cost for this renegotiation?" Duke asked, his gaze steady.
"I am prohibitively expensive for most, and worth every penny for a select few," Finch replied without a hint of arrogance.
"I once had a client, a bestselling novelist, who received a seven-figure advance for a three-book contract. The IRS wanted to tax it all in the first year. We argued that the advance was not a single payment, but an investment in his future creative output—an intangible capital asset that would be 'produced' over several years. We structured the income over the projected writing schedule, saving him a fortune."
Duke gave a curt nod. "Okay then let's do it."
"Excellent. The objective is to get your taxable income under $200,000. We attack on three fronts." Finch produced a yellow legal pad.
"First, business expenses. Your life is now a business. We will deduct your home office, your car, every meal with a potential business contact, your subscriptions, your research materials. We will hire a group of people to work and pay them through Ithaca Productions. We could conservatively erase $180,000."
Duke nodded. "Go on."
"Second, capital investments and depreciation. This is where we make our real stand. Ithaca Productions will make two major purchases. One, a full suite of film production equipment—cameras, sound gear, editing machines. We'll spend $150,000. The law allows us to depreciate that over seven years. We'll take a first-year deduction of $25,000."
"And the third purchase?"
"Ah, the masterpiece," Finch said, his eyes gleaming. "You will have Ithaca Productions purchase a capital asset."
"A building. I suggest the Carthay Circle Theatre. It's a landmark, it's for sale, and it's perfect. We'll structure it with a large mortgage. The purchase price is around $400,000. We don't deduct that, but we deduct the mortgage interest and the property taxes immediately. Furthermore, we depreciate the building itself over thirty years. All told, the Carthay gives us another $40,000 in first-year deductions."
Duke processed this. He wasn't just saving money; he could use it to build up his Porduction company. He owned a theater.
"What about a record label," Duke said suddenly. "Ithaca Records. We start it. We sign a few acts. It's a legitimate business venture that will lose money for the first few years."
Finch beamed. "A brilliant, forward-thinking addition. We can easily write off $50,000 in startup costs, artist advances, and studio time."
"What's the total so far?"
"With the expenses and depreciation, we've reduced your income by roughly $295,000. You're still looking at a taxable income on over three-quarters of a million."
"The final move," Finch said, lowering his voice. "Philanthropy. You need to make a substantial charitable contribution. The most efficient way is to donate appreciated assets, like stocks."
Duke's eyes narrowed in thought, then cleared with purpose. "I want to create a charity. A foundation. Not for the general public. For veterans. Specifically for Vietnam vets dealing with injuries and… readjustment." The word was a pale substitute for the indiference Vietnam Vets would face once the war ended. "We'll call it the Platoon Fund."
Finch's professional mask slipped for a second, revealing genuine admiration. "That, Mr. Hauser, is not just smart; it's noble. And it's a devastatingly effective strategy. However, donating cash is less efficient than donating highly appreciated stock, which you don't yet have in that quantity. The deduction is the same, but with stock, you also avoid the capital gains tax. Since that's not an option, we'll use cash."
Duke sat back, looking at the numbers Finch was now scribbling.
Gross Income: $1,080,000
Less Business Expenses: ($180,000)
Less Equipment Depreciation: ($25,000)
Less Carthay Theatre Deductions: ($40,000)
Less Record Label Startup: ($50,000)
Adjusted Gross Income: $785,000
Less Charitable Stock Donation to Platoon Fund: ($600,000)
Final Taxable Income: $185,000
"$185,000," Duke read, a slow, hard smile spreading across his face.
He looked at Finch who had just turned a $756,000 liability into a manageable sum.
He had saved over half a million dollars, acquired a theater and a film company, started a record label, and founded a charity that would do real good for Vet.
"You've transformed a problem into a legacy, Mr. Hauser," Finch said, gathering his papers. "This is good money managing."
Duke streched his hand and shook Finch hand with a smile.
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I have never written about taxes