The air in New York was cold and damp, a stark contrast to the perpetual sun of Los Angeles.
Duke had flew over and now stood with Larry Goldberg in the cramped, temporary office overlooking 58th Street, the neon sign of the Fine Arts Theatre glowing faintly in the afternoon gloom.
"We're open," Goldberg grunted, gesturing with a coffee cup toward the theater below. "We got the review from Renata Adler at the Times."
Duke didn't need to ask for the details; Goldberg's demeanor said it all. He slid the folded newspaper across the desk.
Adler's review was not the rave they both had prayed for, she called the film "cleverly constructed" and praised Bogdanovich's "assured hand," but found the juxtaposition of Karloff's gothic horror and the sniper's random violence "intellectually intriguing but emotionally cold."
It was a thoughtful, respectable review that lacked passion. It would not, on its own, create a line around the block.
"The numbers?" Duke asked, his voice even.
"We're at sixty percent capacity for the first two days. Not bad for an art house opening. Not great either of course. It's… something." Goldberg lit a cigarette, the smoke pluming in the stale office air.
"It's not a failure, Hauser. It's a foothold. But it's a slippery one. The buzz is mostly academic for now. The L.A. opening next week will be crucial. We need a win on the other coast to build a narrative at least." Goldberg keep smoking nervously, his calm seemed slightly gone. "The film is no Ben-Hur I'll tell you that."
Duke looked down at the theater.
He hadn't expected instant, explosive success, but the muted reality was a sobering reminder that his foreknowledge gave him vision, but not control over public taste.
The campaign was underway, and the battle was far from won.
Duke took a deep breath, his mind racing with possible strategies to turn the tide. "Alright, Larry, let's not panic just yet, we knew this wouldn't be an easy road. The film is intelligent, challenging work it's not going to have the same broad appeal as some of the summer blockbusters. But that's exactly why we need to shift the narrative, focus on the critical acclaim and artistic merits of it."
Goldberg nodded, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "You're right, we can't expect to dominate the box office right out of the gate. But we do need to get people talking, build some momentum. What if we set up some special screenings, get the film in front of the right critics and tastemakers? Maybe a panel discussion with Bogdanovich, really dive into the creative process?"
"I like that idea," Duke replied, his eyes lighting up. "And we should reach out to the film societies, the university crowds they're the ones who are going to appreciate the depth and complexity of the work. Get them excited, we need help spreading the word."
Goldberg stubbed out his cigarette, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it, Hauser. We may not have the blockbuster momentum, but we've got a smart, discerning audience out there. We just need to find them and give them a reason to get passionate about this film."
Duke nodded, already mentally mapping out the strategy. "Alright, let's get to work. This is just the first battle - we're in it for the long haul."
---
Back in Los Angeles after a long flight, the mood shifted from the gritty front lines to the foundational work of empire-building. Duke and David Chen sat in the sleek, minimalist offices of a small design firm, looking at a series of drawings on a large board.
The lead designer, a man named Browning, stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back as he began to explain the design process. "A production logo is more than just a stamp, gentlemen. It's a promise, a declaration of quality and ambition that sets the tone for everything that follows."
Duke nodded, his gaze fixed intently on the screen. "Odysseus and the twelve axe heads that was my directive. A feat of impossible precision and strength, the true mark of a king."
Browning nodded, gesturing to the board. "Precisely. We explored numerous concepts, trying to capture the essence of that mythic challenge."
He went through a series of initial sketches, each one more polished than the last. "Some were too cartoonish, others too heraldic, harking back to the studio crests of the 1940s."
David Chen leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I can see the challenge. You needed to strike a balance between the classical imagery and a modern, bold sensibility."
"Exactly," Browning replied, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And I believe we've found it with this final design." He clicked to the last image, and Duke's eyes widened.
It was stark, elegant, and powerful – a silhouetted figure, bow drawn taut, in a classical Greek style. The twelve axe heads were arranged in a perfect line, and the arrow was a single, sharp line of light, having already passed through them all.
Beneath the image, in clean, strong typography, were the words: ITHACA PRODUCTIONS.
"It signifies the journey, the endurance, and the claim of kingship through merit," Chen observed, his analytical mind appreciating the symbolic efficiency. "A declaration that our films will achieve what others cannot."
Duke was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a rare note of pure, uncomplicated satisfaction crept into his voice. "It's great. That's the logo, that is what will come before The Godfather, before True Grit. Before everything." He leaned back in his chair, a subtle sense of triumph in his posture.
Browning nodded, a gleam of pride in his eyes. "We've poured our hearts into this design, Mr. Hauser. It's not just a logo it's the visual embodiment of your vision, your commitment to excellence. This will be the banner under which your cinematic empire will rise."
Duke extended his hand, a rare gesture of genuine appreciation. "Well done, Browning. You've captured the essence of what I'm trying to build here. This is the mark of Ithaca Productions, the seal of quality that will define a new era in filmmaking."
As they shook hands, even David Chen couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation..
---
That evening, the corporate wars felt a world away. Duke and Katharine Ross sat in the back row of a packed, anonymous cinema, watching Bonnie and Clyde.
Seeing the film once more but as a 1968 audience member, was a revelation for Duke. He felt the energy in the room, the gasps at the violence, the nervous laughter. This was the New Hollywood, raw and vibrant, playing out on the screen.
Afterwards, they sat in a brightly lit In-N-Out Burger, a stark contrast to the dark, elegant restaurants they usually frequented. Wrapping paper and fries were scattered between them.
"It's changing, isn't it?" Katharine said, gesturing with a fry as if toward the distant cinema. "That film Bonnie and Clyde, and The Graduate... it's not a fluke. The audience wants something different." She was energized, her eyes alight with the possibilities.
"They want truth," Duke corrected softly. "Even if it's ugly. Or especially if it's ugly."
He knew she mean the current change. The so-called 'New Hollywood wave'.
They discussed the industry, the delay of Yellow Submarine, which Katharine was excited to see.
"It's all so vibrant right now," she said, her tone shifting, becoming more personal. "You're at the center of it, Duke. But you're always in your office, or in New York with your maps." She looked at him, a new boldness in her eyes, a subtle shift that had been growing since some time. "You should come out with me to some parties. There are so many young directors, writers... people we should know, people you should know. Life it's not just about deals in boardrooms."
She was testing the waters, pushing against his insistence on absolute secrecy. Her success, and now his very public financial coup, was making their discreet relationship feel increasingly unnecessary to her.
Before he could respond, she pressed on, her idea fully formed. "You know what you should be? You should be the new Thalberg. The genius head of production. The creative center of everything. And let someone else be the CEO, handle the budgets and the distribution headaches."
"You should be the man who greenlights the movies, who nurtures the talent. You wouldn't have to sell anything, just... delegate. Focus on what you're truly brilliant at."
It was a seductive vision. The revered creative king, freed from the grubby details of supply chains and balance sheets. It was what everyone expected him to become.
Duke looked at her, this brilliant, ambitious woman who was trying to fit him into a Hollywood archetype she understood. He reached across the In-N-Out Formica table and took her hand.
"Irving Thalberg was a great man," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But he worked for Louis B. Mayer, yeah he built MGM, but he didn't own it."
He squeezed her hand gently. "I want to be the king of Hollywood not just an advisor."
-----
After a few years Duke will step down and become Head of Production. Not now tho.
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