The rejection from Fantasy Records was a big setback.
Duke understood that now.
He and Leo Walsh embarked on what they grimly dubbed "The Rejection Tour," a parade through the polished, soulless offices of the major labels that felt more like bureocracy than actual business meetings.
At Atlantic, a slick executive in a turtleneck listened to "Proud Mary" with a furrowed brow. "It's got a nice groove, Mr. Hauser, I'll give you that. But this 'swamp rock' thing... is that a genre? Kids want things like Sgt. Pepper. Where's the hook? Where's the showmanship?"
The pattern solidified at Columbia.
A committee of men in nearly identical grey suits stared at them across a vast conference table.
"The band's look," one of them began, tenting his fingers. "There's no... identity. They're just four guys. Where are the costumes? The mystique?"
Another chimed in, "And forgive me, but a record label run by the Jaws author... its a novelty, but it lacks a certain... musical credibility. Our distribution network is a precision instrument. We can't risk it on an unproven commodity from an unproven source." The phrasing felt rehearsed, a corporate mantra.
It was at their meeting with Capitol Records that the source of the poison became clear.
The A&R man, a nervous fellow named Davies, couldn't meet their eyes. "It's a strong track, Mr. Hauser, truly. But there are... concerns. About the long-term viability. About the perception."
"Perception of what?" Duke asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Davies shifted in his seat. "Well, the word from Fantasy... from Saul Zaentz himself... is that you're difficult to work with. Have... an unrealistic expectations for a debut act. He said you wanted creative control locked in contract and a huge share of the profits for doing none of the heavy lifting. He's been on the phone with half of Los Angeles. He's has been saying you're a rich amateur who doesn't understand the music business."
So that was it.
Zaentz, stung by Duke's refusal to capitulate, was actively bad mouthing them, poisoning the well to save face and warn off other labels from dealing with a hard negotiator.
The final, crushing blow came from A&M Records.
They were interested. Deeply interested.
Herb Alpert himself had listened to the tape. But the deal they offered was a predator's contract.
They wanted a 80/20 split in their favor for the first three albums, ownership of the master recordings, and final say on all creative decisions, including which songs made the album.
"We can protect your investment," the A&M executive said with a smarmy smile. "We'll build them the right way. You can still be involved, of course but as a smaller partner."
Walking out of that meeting, Leo Walsh looked like he'd aged ten years. The California sun, once a symbol of promise, now felt harsh and exposing.
"That's it, Duke," Walsh grumbled, lighting a cigarette with a trembling hand. "Zaentz has screwed us. They'd rather fail with a proven formula than succeed with something new. We're banging our heads against a brick wall."
He expected Duke to share his despair, to rage against the machine. Instead, Duke placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Leo. Lets keep calm. Lets think how to outmanuver the labels, we just want to get the album out there."
Walsh stared at him. "How? They have all the leverage. They control the presses, the trucks, the store shelves."
"They control the old world," Duke corrected, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "We're not in the old world. We have the one thing that matters: the product. A product that, in my bones, I know is a generational talent. Zaentz can run his mouth. The committees can hide behind their desks. But that music is a truth they can't talk away forever."
He turned to Walsh, his blue eyes clear and focused, all trace of frustration gone. "This is the most difficult part, Leo. The part right before the breakthrough. They're testing our resolve. They want us to get desperate, to sign one of those butcher's contracts. We will not. We have time. The album is finished. It's not going stale. We stay positive. We stay patient."
Duke light up a cigarrete to reduce his stress. "If we have to, we'll press the damn records ourselves and i'll sell them out of the trunk of my car. But we will not surrender the future of that band to a bunch of short-sighted executives."
The realization was crystallizing, not as a defeat, but as a challenge: he might truly have to build his own distribution from the ground up.
---
Back in his office, he sought solace in his one of two unprecedented success: The Graduate. But even here, the enemy was still out there.
Perception.
He unfolded the latest trade paper, his eyes scanning yet another glowing review. The critic praised Nichols' "audacious direction" and the "searing screenplay," but then his gaze snagged on a familiar, condescending phrase.
"...and at the heart of this charming anomaly is Dustin Hoffman's brilliantly awkward Benjamin Braddock, the everyday man who has, against all odds, become an unlikely silver-screen hero for a disaffected generation..."
Charming anomaly. everyday man. Against all odds.
The paper crumpled in his fist with a dry rustle. This wasn't praise; it was a pat on the head.
He was mad more about how the critic talked about how the film was number two because of bad casting. A respectable, intelligent runner up.
The narrative was being written without him, and it was a narrative of limitation.
In this era, critics are still some of the strongest people in the film industry and they will continue to be until the 90's- 2000's where the internet will wipe them out.
But he was in 1968, he couldn't just create art; he had to control the conversation.
The idea, when it came, wasn't fully formed. It was an impulse.
A magazine. Not a fan magazine, not a dry trade paper.
Something that could frame the debate, that could explain why what he was doing mattered, that could turn the "everyday man" into "defining actor of a generation."
It was about influence. Soft power. Extending Ithaca's reach beyond production and into the cultural bloodstream.
He buzzed his intercom. "Eleanor, ask David Chen to come in, please."
His Director of Operations arrived moments later, his expression as impassively efficient as ever. "Sir?"
"Draft a preliminary plan," Duke said, gesturing for him to sit. "I'm considering launching a magazine. A high-end film publication. I need to know what it would take. Start-up costs, staffing, printing, distribution channels, timelines. I want to know the scale of the undertaking before I make a decision."
Chen didn't blink, already pulling out his notepad. "A publishing arm. Understood. I'll have a feasibility analysis and a preliminary budget on your desk by the end of the week." He made a note. "Working title?"
Duke looked out the window. "Let's call it American Film project for now."
As Chen left, Duke buzzed Eleanor again. "And get Mark Jensen in here."
Jensen arrived, his energy a stark contrast to Chen's calm. "Sir? I saw Chen leaving. Are we acquiring a printing press?"
"Maybe," Duke said. "The idea is a film magazine. Serious criticism. Are you familiar with any critics that maybe we could have a talk about it."
Jensen's eyes lit up. "That's... brilliant. A platform."
He didn't need notes. "There's one. Pauline Kael. She writes for The New Yorker sometimes, but she's... more than that. She's brilliant. Thinks film is the only art form that matters. She's brutal, brilliant, and she hates the studio system's guts. She's in town, actually. Hates it here, but she's here."
"Set up a meeting," Duke said surprised. "I don't want to hire her yet. I just want to talk."
'Is it the same Paulina Kael that I know of?' Duke laid back in his chair thinking.
---
Two days later, Duke found himself in a small, book-choked rental in Santa Monica. Pauline Kael was a middle age woman with an intense, focused energy around her. Her eyes missed nothing, scanning him as he entered.
"Mr. Hauser," she said, not offering a hand, but gesturing to a chair. "The producer of The Graduate. You're causing quite a stir. To what do I owe the honor? Looking for a good review in advance?" Her voice was sharp, intelligent, laced with a hint of mockery.
Duke sat, leaning his cane against the side of the chair. "I'm considering starting a magazine," he said, bypassing the small talk. "Mark Jensen tells me you're an important film critic but most have never hear of you."
Looking at her, Duke confimed, it was Pauline Kael, the future critic legend.
"People who matter have heard of me," she shot back, but she was intrigued. She sat opposite him, perched on the edge of her seat. "What kind of magazine?"
"Not a fan club. Nor a trade paper. A serious publication that treats film as art. No condescension. No talking down to the audience or the artists." He laid out the vision he'd been piecing together since the crumpled review landed on his desk.
"We'd champion the New Hollywood forming around us Nichols, the people coming up behind him. We'd talk about cinematography, sound design, the architecture of a scene. We'd explain why actors like Hoffman shouldnt be considered an anomaly. We'd give this movement its vocabulary, its intellectual backbone."
Kael listened, her head tilted, her sharp eyes fixed on him. He could see the wheels turning, the allure of a platform where her voice wouldn't be diluted, where her arguments could be the central text. It was a powerful lure.
But then a shadow passed over her face, and she shook her head, a gesture of finality.
"It's a magnificent idea. A necessary one," she said, and he could tell she meant it. "But I won't do it from California. I can't. The air out here is thin. It smells of deals and desperation. I need the grit of New York. To write from here would be to become a sellout. I'm a critic."
Duke felt the familiar sting of rejection, but it was different this time. It wasn't about the quality of the idea or his ability to fund it.
It was a matter of intellectual purity, of geography and temperament. He hadn't even decided to launch the magazine, and already he was facing his first fundamental challenge.
He leaned forward, his own strategic mind engaging with hers. "Then don't," he said, not missing a beat. "Look we haven't decided if the magazine will be launched or not. But oyu could be our New York correspondent. Write your pieces from there. Send your manuscripts. We get it published."
Kael studied him, her expression shifting from refusal to a slow, dawning appreciation. A genuine smile, the first he'd seen, spread across her face. It was the smile of a fellow strategist who recognized a kindred spirit.
"Your optimism for Hollywood is a little contagious." she said, her voice losing its defensive edge.
She looked out the window at the perfect, suspect California sky, then back at him. "Alright, Hauser. You get this magazine off the ground, you give me a page—a real page, no edits unless I approve them."
"It's a deal," Duke said.
They shook hands, and Paulina Kael decided to mention at that time. "By the way, there's some rumours The Graduate will have a lot of nominations to the Oscars. People here have loved the film."
He thank her and left.
He still didn't have a firm commitment to launch the magazine, but with something more valuable: a potential alliance with its most powerful future critics.
The feasibility study from Chen would give him the numbers. The conversation with Kael had given him the cause. The decision was now awaiting confirmation.
---
That evening, the war faded into the background. He was with Katharine Ross at a small, dark Italian place tucked away in a canyon, a world away from the industry. The tension of the day melted in her presence. Their relationship was a quiet harbor, a secret they both guarded fiercely.
Their conversation, as it often did, turned to shop talk, but it was the comfortable, insider kind.
"Did you hear about Hal Ashby?" Katharine asked, twirling spaghetti. "He's been editing for Norman Jewison for years, but Jewison's has been really mentoring him for some time. Letting him direct second unit. I heard he's desperate to make his own picture."
Duke filed the name away. Ashby. Another director he remembered but only a little. Instead his mentor Norman Jewison who despite his name is a Christian ringed a lot of bells in his memories.
"And Bob Rafelson?" she continued, sipping her wine. "He's over at Universal, I think. He sounds like a mess, but he's brilliant. No one knows what to do with him. He did that show 'The Monkees' and I think Its getting cancelled or something."
This was the real Hollywood, Duke thought.
Not the boardrooms, but these whispered conversations about the next wave of talent, the ones the studios found confusing.
"The studios seem electrified," Katharine said, summing it up. "They saw the money in The Graduate. I got contacted by the studio to check if i wanted to make a sequel, but they want to change things to be safe. I hear the premise and its too old fashioned." She gestured with her arms around in disbelief at the studio while Duke smiled.
---
Later, back in his office, the two worlds of his January collided on his desk. On one side lay a fresh, crisp mock-up of the first issue of his new magazine.
He'd decided to keep the name: "American Film." It was bold, declarative, and unapologetic.
The mock-up featured a stark, powerful close-up of Katharine Ross's face, with cover lines promising an essay on "The New American Actors" and a dissection of the cinematography of The Graduate.
Lying directly on top of it was the latest rejection letter, this time from Capitol Records. The same tired phrases: "…a challenging sound… difficult to market…"
Duke picked up the mock-up, his fingers tracing the bold lettering.
He looked at the determined face of Katharine's on the mock-up, and felt a surge of resolve. He would break through.
He would pave his own damn road if he had to.