The idea of becoming a sort of Irving Thalberg figure lingered in Duke's mind long after leaving Katharine's house.
To become the beloved genius, the creative compass whose taste alone could greenlight a classic. It would give his memories from the future full play.
And most importantly, it would mean to let others handle the soul crushing details of budgets, logistics, and set disputes.
He'd read about Thalberg in his previous life during a class on American Cinema, the "Boy Wonder" who, despite a fatal heart condition, had taken the reins of a fledgling MGM at twenty-five and through sheer force of will and impeccable taste, forged it into Hollywood's most succesful and prestigious studio.
Even the current Producer Centric Sytem in America is a Thalberg invention, he revolutionized the producer role by making the producer the central creative authority overseeing every aspect of a film's production.
Before him, producers were often primarily business managers or financiers in control of budgets.
It was a story that had once inspired him; the archetype of the brilliant, doomed artist-executive(he was also destined to die young cause of his disease).
He stood at his window, looking down at the city that contained the industry he intended to dominate.
His own reflection in the glass was a stark contrast to the romantic image of Thalberg. He didn't see a wunderkind fueled by creative passion; he saw a calm, calculating executive.
---
His reflection was interrupted by the arrival of his core staff. David Chen, Larry Goldberg, and Mark Jensen entering into his office, the air shifting from contemplative to operational.
The large U.S. map, with its stark red circles, became the focal point.
Goldberg didn't bother with a preamble. "We need to talk about New York," he stated, his voice a low rumble of dissatisfaction.
He tapped the red circle around the city. "We've hit our ceiling. Adler's review in the New York Times got us through the door, but it's a thinking man's review. It doesn't sell tickets. We're holding at sixty-five percent capacity. Respectable, but it's not creating the momentum we need to justify a national rollout. We're also not getting the organic word-of-mouth."
He let the implication hang in the air before voicing it. "My concern is that we're trying to force a square peg into a round hole. The initial data suggests Targets is a niche product. A critic's darling, perhaps. I think we need to consider a strategic pivot. We pull back from a wide national release. We double down on the academic and art-house circuit. We treat it as a prestige item, not a mass-market product. We cut our losses on a broad campaign and conserve our capital for a project with more commercial legs."
The suggestion was a retreat, and the room felt it. Jensen looked nervous, his belief in the film visibly wounded.
"A retreat now would be a signal of weakness to every exhibitor we have already approached," Chen countered, his voice cool and analytical. "We cannot simply abandon the campaign. We must alter its trajectory. If organic buzz is failing, we manufacture it."
"How?" Goldberg challenged. "We throw money at advertisements in papers nobody reads?"
"Not advertisements," Duke interjected, seizing the thread. "Access. We make it an event."
He looked at Jensen. "Coordinate with Bogdanovich. I want him doing Q&As at every university film society from Columbia to NYU. Frame him not just as a director, but as the brilliant young scholar of cinema. This isn't just a movie; it's a lecture on the death of the old and the birth of the new American nightmare." Duke pointed at Goldberg. "And I want you to personally court the critics at the Village Voice and The New Yorker. Adler was polite; let's find someone who will be passionate."
He turned his gaze to Goldberg. "Larry, you're right that the current path is unsustainable. So we change the path. We must use the niche New York success as a badge of exclusivity. Our future movies will be more commercial."
It was a nuanced plan, acknowledging the data without surrendering to it. Goldberg gave a slow, grudging nod. It wasn't the all-out assault he had initially hoped for, but it was a smarter, more sustainable engagement. "I can work with that. We'll re-allocate the budget for L.A. towards targeted industry mailers and a premiere event that feels more like an insider's club."
It was then that Chen, who had been silently observing the strategic pivot, produced a large presentation board.
On it was the final, sleek design of the new Ithaca Productions logo: the silhouetted Odysseus, bow drawn, the arrow having already passed through the twelve axe heads.
"The new standard is ready," Chen said simply.
A rare, genuine silence of appreciation fell over the room. It was stark, powerful, and demanded attention.
"It's perfect," Jensen breathed, his faith visibly restored by this tangible symbol of their identity.
"Strong. No bullshit," Goldberg added, his approval genuine.
"It is our statement," Duke said, his voice firm, the Thalberg fantasy fully receding in the face of this concrete symbol of his true ambition. "And from this moment forward, it goes on everything. At the start of every film, on every piece of correspondence, on the signage for this building."
As the meeting broke up and the team moved to execute the new orders, Duke felt a surge of profound confidence.
---
Katharine Ross had been a little distant since their In-N-Out conversation.
The easy warmth was replaced by a polite, professional chill that was somehow more isolating than outright anger. She finally came to his office late at night, her posture rigid, her famous eyes looking everywhere but at him.
"Duke, we need to talk," she began, her voice carefully neutral, the kind she used with directors.
"I know," he said, gesturing for her to sit. "The Thalberg thing. I've been considering it."
"This isn't about Thalberg. Not really." She finally met his gaze, and he saw a well of frustration and disappointment there that was far deeper than he'd anticipated.
"It's about the fact that I feel like I'm standing in line. I have to go through a call with Eleanor just to ask if you want to go have dinner or what time you're picking me up, and even when we're on dates, half of it is spent with you focused on something else."
She stood up, unable to remain seated, her energy crackling in the quiet room. "Do you know the last time we had a conversation that didn't circle back to box office grosses or distribution networks? It was in a burger joint, Duke. And even then, you were talking about that band of yours. Our relationship… it's started to feel like a business venture and it shouldn't feel like that."
The words landed with the force of a physical blow. He had been so focused on building up his company, he hadn't noticed the cracks forming within his own relationship. He'd mistaken her quiet support for tacit approval of his absences.
"Kate," he started, his mind scrambling for a solution to a problem that couldn't be solved with half hearted words, "this is just the hard part, the launch phase. It won't always be like this."
"That's my problem, Connor!" she said, her voice rising slightly, using his real name which he was not accostumed to hear. "It's always the hard part! It was The Graduate, then it was the paperback deal, now it's this distribution thing. There's always something going on. What's the point of building this… this company… if you're not going to enjoy it?"
She took a shaky breath, reining in her emotion. "Look I can't do this right now. The secrecy, the single-minded focus… I need a break."
The phrase was laced with a dissatisfaction that shocked him. She wasn't pulling back cause of his ambition, but from his absence.
"I see," he said, his voice still calm, the same tone he had used to dismiss Saul Zaentz.
"There's something else you should know," she said, her decision clearly made, grabbing her purse as if to leave. "It's probably part of why I'm so… frustrated. I was at a party last night and your friend Peter was there."
"Bogdanovich?"
"Yes. And he was… he was speaking very loud. He was drunk, and he was badmouthing you. He was telling anyone who would listen that you were throwing his film to the gutter, that your little amateur distribution operation was going to kill his career before it started. He said the New York numbers were a disaster and that he should have gone with American International Pictures."
The words was a cold knife in Duke's gut. This was not an external enemy.
This was a man whose career he had kickstarted, whose film he knew from his memories would be a box office bomb yet he was personally bankrolling the launch of.
And here he was stabbing him in the back at the first sign of difficulty. The ingratitude was significang, but more than that, it was a critical failure of leadership.
"I see," he said again, the words still clam in his voice.
"I thought you should hear it from me," Katharine said softly, her anger spent, leaving only a sad resignation. "Before you read it in some gossip column."
She turned and walked out of his office, closing the door with a quiet, final click that echoed in the sudden silence.
Duke was left alone with his thoughs once more. "Man it would be a great thing if some gossip colum were to pick up his grievances, at least we could get some free publicity for Targets."
He picked up the phone, his jaw a little hard. "Eleanor, get me Larry Goldberg and find Peter Bogdanovich. Tell him I want to see him in my office, first thing tomorrow morning." The crisis required a response, and Duke wanted to have a conversation with Peter to let some of his own grievances come out.