The Lancia Flaminia took the mountain curves in a smooth way as it made it's way hugging the contours of rock faces as they made their way to the Italian Village.
Duke Hauser sat in the back seat, his long frame folded into the Lancia's leather interior.
The only light inside the car came from a small reading lamp mounted above the rear window, illuminating Duke's lap, where a fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal laid.
He'd picked it up at the Palermo airport three hours ago. The paper was two days old.
The headline occupied the top third of the front page.
"KINNEY NATIONAL SERVICES FACES FEDERAL GRAND JURY: RACKETEERING AND LABOR TIES PROBED"
Duke read the article slowly.
The details were devastating. A federal grand jury in the Southern District of New York had been assembled to investigate Kinney National Services, Steve Ross's sprawling conglomerate, for racketeering, labor union corruption, and financial relationships with organized crime.
The investigation centered on Kinney's legacy businesses, the parking lots, the cleaning contractors, the funeral homes, the shoe company. Businesses that generate enormous amounts of cash. Businesses that had, according to sources cited, maintained financial relationships with elements of the Genovese and Gambino crime families dating back to the 1950s.
The article was careful with its language, "alleged," "sources say," "under investigation", but the implications were seismic.
Kinney's stock had dropped nine percent in after-hours trading. Institutional investors were reviewing their positions.
And Steve Ross, the man who had shaken Duke's hand in a Paramount office and sold him DC Comics, was now the center of federal attention.
Duke smiled.
Ross's smokescreen had failed. The FTC investigation into Atari, the one Ross had triggered to divert federal attention from Kinney had been resolved through the open patent pool.
The regulatory oxygen Ross had hoped to consume with the Atari inquiry had been freed up, and the FBI agents who'd been momentarily distracted were now fully focused on the thing Ross had been trying to hide.
Duke folded the newspaper and set it on the seat beside him.
He thought about Kinney's assets. Warner Bros. Pictures. Warner Bros. Records. The cable television interests that Ross had been quietly assembling. If the grand jury returned indictments, those assets would become toxic. Shareholders would flee. The board would fracture.
Duke would be waiting. Checkbook open. Expression neutral. Ready to offer a fair price for extraordinary assets.
The Lancia rounded a final curve, and the headlights swept across a courtyard of weathered stone. A villa with armed security flanked the entrance.
Duke climbed out of the car, stretched his frame, and breathed the Sicilian night air.
The set of The Godfather occupied the villa's ground floor and its surrounding olive groves, which had been transformed, through the meticulous work of the production design team, into a convincing version of a 1940s Sicilian village.
Stanley Jaffe was waiting near the camera setup, clipboard in hand. Beside him, leaning against a stone wall, stood Steven Spielberg.
Spielberg was twenty-four years old. He'd directed several television episodes for Paramount as training. Duke had brought him to Sicily partly as a good will gesture, and because he wanted Spielberg to see Coppola work, up close.
"Duke!" Spielberg straightened up as Duke approached, his face breaking into a smile. "You made it. How was Japan?"
"Productive. How's the set?"
"It's..." Spielberg searched for the word. "It's complicated. Coppola is amazing. The way he works with the actors and directs it's amazing."
"That sounds about right." Duke turned to Jaffe. "Where's Francis?"
"In the olive grove with Ruddy. And they're not happy."
Duke could hear them before he saw them.
They were standing in the olive grove, silhouetted against a bank of production lights, gesturing at each other.
"Duke." Ruddy saw him first and broke away from Coppola with the relieved expression of a man who has been waiting for reinforcements. "Duke, we need to leave. This it's a shakedown."
"Tell me."
Ruddy's frustration poured out like water.
The local "unions" had been demanding payments for services that were either never rendered or were rendered so incompetently that they constituted a form of sabotage.
Equipment disappeared overnight unless a "storage fee" was paid to men who showed up in the morning with the equipment in the back of a truck, smiling as if they'd found it by the side of the road.
The local government required permits that could only be obtained through intermediaries who charged fees that bore no relationship to the actual cost of the permit.
And every interaction, every transaction, every request for so much as a folding chair or a power cable, was filtered through a layer of corruption.
"The bribes alone are eating twelve percent of our daily budget," Ruddy said. "Twelve percent!"
Duke listened without interrupting. He let Ruddy exhaust himself, noting the specific grievances, categorizing them by severity and solvability, and watching Coppola, who had moved slightly apart from the conversation .
"Al," Duke said, when Ruddy paused for breath. "Pay what must be paid."
"What Duke?"
"Pay what must be paid. But document everything. Every payment, every recipient, every date and amount. Run it through the production shell company, not through Paramount's primary books."
"A paper trail for bribes?"
"Consider the bribes a research and development expense. And we keep a paper trail just in case."
Ruddy stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. "R&D. Jesus Christ, Duke."
"And one more thing. The local Bureocrats, the men collecting these fees. They know what movie we're making?"
"They know. Half of them want to be extras."
"Good. Then they understand that we're telling their story. That this film will make Sicily famous in a way that no tourist board and no government program ever could. Remind them of that. It won't eliminate the bribes, but it might reduce them."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we pay, and we make the greatest film of the decade on schedule and on budget." Duke clapped Ruddy on the shoulder. "You're doing great work, Al. Both of you are. The dailies I've seen are extraordinary."
Coppola turned from the olive grove. "You've seen the dailies?"
"I watched them in a screening room at Paramount before leaving for Japan."
"You really watched them?"
"I watched every frame. And I didn't send notes, because there are no notes to send. The work speaks for itself."
Coppola nodded.
After talking with them, Jaffe signaled him to enter a side room.
The side room was small, stone-walled, and lit by candles.
Jaffe spread the 1972 release schedule across a heavy oak table. The document was a single sheet, but it represented the culmination of two years of development.
"The lineup," Jaffe said, pulling a candle closer.
Duke leaned over the table. The candlelight caught his face from below, throwing shadows upward, making him look slightly older.
Jaffe began. "Cabaret. Bob Fosse directing. Liza Minnelli starring. Robert Evans producing through Ithaca."
"And that Diana film?"
"Lady Sings the Blues. Diana Ross as Billie Holiday. The buzz from early screenings is extraordinary."
Jaffe continued. "The Last House on the Left. Wes Craven's debut. Small budget, subsidiary label. And Blacula, an urban horror black film."
"The german film?"
"Aguirre, the Wrath of God. Directed by Werner Herzog. Shot in the Peruvian jungle with no safety net. Kurtz is producing it and he aparently has stopped the crew and the natives from killing the male lead a couple of times."
Duke frowned. "What?"
"The male lead apparently is hated by everyone, Herzog threatened to kill him and then himself, a producer wants to kill him, and the crew also wants to murder him"
"Well... Kurtz. He can handle it. Let's move on."
Jaffe pointed to the center of the document, where three titles were circled in red. "The Godfather. Then Play It Again, Sam, a Woody Allen, summer comedy, reliable box office. And Shaft's Big Score!, a sequel that capitalizes on last year's success."
Duke studied the slate in the candlelight. Eight films.
"This is beautiful work, Stanley. Coordinate the releases with Evans, Bob's instinct for timing is the best in the business. And make sure the marketing budgets are matched to the potential, not just the cost."
"Already done."
"Good." Duke straightened up and looked at the slate one more time.
___
Next day, on a restaurant or also called a trattoria, the table was laden with food, fresh sea urchin on ice, handmade pasta with sardines, grilled fish that had been swimming that morning, and wine.
Duke sat at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the Wall Street Journal folded beside his plate. Spielberg sat across from him, eating sea urchin.
"So," Duke said, pouring wine. "Tell me about Black Christmas."
Spielberg set down his fork and leaned forward. "I need help with the girl."
"What kind of help?"
"Casting. I know what she needs to feel like, but haven't found her."
"Look at the New Hollywood talent," Duke said. "The women who are coming up now."
Spielberg nodded, filing the advice.
"I finished your new novel, by the way. Misery."
"And?"
"It's great, Duke. I read the last hundred pages with every light in my apartment on and I still couldn't sleep."
"Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."
"When you turn it into a movie, you need an ugly woman, an atractive Annie Wilkes will dilute the message, maybe make her fat too cause she is a sort of human pig."
Duke took a sip of wine and looked out at the sea, ignoring Spielberg rambles about Annie Wilkes accepted atractiveness.
Spielberg changed the topic. "What's next? For the screen, I mean. What are you thinking about?"
"Three ideas," Duke said. "All very different from each other."
Spielberg leaned forward.
"The first is called The Usual Suspects. It's a noir. Five criminals are brought together for a police lineup. They've never met before. They're all suspected of a crime none of them committed. While they're waiting, they decide to pull a job together. The story is told in flashback by a small-time con man named Verbal Kint."
"Verbal Kint?"
"It will have a big twist. The twist..." Duke paused. He looked at Spielberg. "The twist is that you don't realize you've been lied to until the last thirty seconds of the film. And when you realize it, you want to watch the entire movie again, because every scene means something different."
Spielberg nodded.
"The second is called The Sandlot. A coming-of-age story. Summer of 1962. A group of boys in a small town who do nothing all summer except play baseball. That's it. No plot, no villain, no twist. It's about friendship and nostalgia and the way a single summer can define the rest of your life."
Spielberg's expression softened. "That's a nice topic. And the third?"
Duke set down his wine glass and looked at Spielberg with an intensity that made the younger man sit up straighter.
"Gladiator."
"The Colosseum. Ancient Rome. A general who is betrayed, enslaved, and forced to fight as a gladiator. He rises through the arena, becomes a hero to the people, and uses his fame to challenge the emperor who destroyed his family."
"a Sword and sandal film," Spielberg said.
"Not a campy 1950s version. I'm talking about something bloody, and political. Rome as a superpower in decline, corrupt, decadent, held together by spectacle and violence. And the arena as a metaphor for how power entertains the masses while it crushes the individual. And at the center of it, one man who refuses to be crushed."
Duke gestured at the Sicilian landscape, the ancient stone, the ruined temples visible on distant hillsides "Look around us, Steven. This would be the perfect place to film."
Spielberg was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving across the landscape. "Italy," he said. "You'd shoot it here?"
"Parts of it. The arena sequences, the political scenes, those need scale and architecture."
___
The cocktail lounge in Taormina was called The Velvet.
Dario Argento was waiting at a corner table, a glass of amaretto in front of him and a cigarette producing a thin column of smoke.
(amaretto is a sweet, almond-flavored Italian liquor, and it's amazing)
Argento was thirty-one years old. His face was angular, his eyes dark and watchful, and his hair fell across his forehead.
He'd directed 'The Bird with the Crystal Plumage' the previous year, a Giallo thriller that had been a sensation in Europe and a cult sensation in the United States, and he was already working on his follow-up, Deep Red.
"Dario," Duke said, extending his hand. "Thank you for making the trip."
"Sicily is never a hardship," Argento said, his English accented but fluid. "Especially when the invitation comes with a promise of interesting conversation."
They sat. Spielberg joined them. Duke made the introductions.
"Steven is directing a horror film for us," Duke said. "Black Christmas. A suspense piece set during the holidays."
Argento's eyes sharpened with interest. "Tell me, what are you building on it?"
What followed was a creative conversation. Argento and Spielberg fell into a dialogue about horror, about camera angles and color theory, about the Giallo tradition and its influence on the emerging American horror cinema.
"Steven," Duke said, "I want you and Dario to keep talking. Dario understands the genre better than anyone alive. Learn from him. Take what works and make it yours."
Spielberg nodded.
It was at this point that the fourth member of the evening arrived.
Barbara Bouchet entered. She was a Czech-born, American-raised, Italian by adoption, and beautiful. Her blonde hair caught on the light.
"Barbara," Argento said, rising. "You came."
"You promised interesting men and free drinks. How could I refuse?"
Introductions were made. Duke shook her hand and felt that she shook his hand for one moment longer than anyone else.
The evening evolved. Argento and Spielberg continued their horror conversation, moving from the theoretical to the specific, sketching shot compositions on cocktail napkins and debating the merits of steadicam versus handheld.
Duke didn't mind that they got absorbed into their own world.
He and Barbara drifted into their own conversation, about film, about Italy, about the absurdity of Hollywood and the beauty of Sicily.
She asked about his novels with genuine interest.
The evening deepened. The amaretto gave way to stronger drinks.
They left together. Spielberg and Argento barely noticed, deep in a passionate talk about the final shot of Psycho.
They didn't talk much on the walk. They didn't need to.
___
The phone rang at three in the morning.
Duke's hand found it in the darkness with the competence of a man who had been receiving three-a.m. phone calls for long enough.
"Hello."
"Duke. It's Clive."
Clive Davis. The man who ran the Paramount music division with the same instinct for talent that Duke brought to film, an almost preternatural ability to hear something in a demo tape or a live performance that nobody else could hear, and to know, with absolute conviction, that it was worth betting on.
"Clive, it's three in the morning here in Sicily."
"I know. I'm sorry. But this couldn't wait."
Duke shifted in the bed. Beside him, Barbara stirred but didn't wake, her breathing steady, her hair spread across the pillow. He looked at her for a moment.
"Talk to me," Duke said, keeping his voice low.
"I just finished two signing sessions. Back to back. Two days of negotiations. Our lawyers hate me, and my throat hurts from talking. But it's done."
"What's done?"
"Two new acts. Signed to the Paramount label."
"Clive, I'm in Sicily dealing with important stuff. Unless these kids are the next Beatles, tell me in the morning."
A pause. Then Clive's voice came again.
"I think you'll want to hear this, Duke. The first is a British four-member band. They're out of London, big sound, operatic vocals, the lead singer has range. They're theatrical, ambitious, and they write their own material. They call themselves Queen."
Duke's hand tightened on the receiver.
"The second is a group out of California. Their lead songwriter is a kid named Don Henley who writes lyrics and sings. They call themselves The Eagles."
The hotel room was silent. The Sicilian night pressed against the windows. Barbara breathed softly beside him.
And Duke Hauser sat in the darkness, holding a telephone, and started wondering if Clive Davis was also a time traveler.
Queen. The band that would sell three hundred million records. The band that would play Live Aid and change what a rock concert meant.
The band that would give the world "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "We Will Rock You" and a catalog so deep that it would still be generating revenue half a century later.
The Eagles. The band that would record Hotel California, the best-selling album in American history. The band that would define the sound of the 1970s and beyond.
The band whose greatest-hits compilation would become the first album to be certified 38x platinum.
Both of them signed to Paramount.
"Clive," Duke said. His voice was very quiet.
"Yeah?"
"Good job. I'll be back in the States in seventy-two hours."
"You're not going to ask about the deal terms?"
"I trust you. Whatever you paid, it wasn't enough."
A laugh on the other end, tired, relieved, and happy. "Goodnight, Duke."
"Goodnight, Clive. And Clive?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let those kids out of their contracts."
"Not a chance."
The line went dead. Duke set the receiver down and lay back against the pillow. T
Barbara shifted beside him, half-awaking. "Everything okay?" she murmured.
"Everything's perfect," Duke said.
___
Vote for one:
The Usual Suspects
The Sandlot
Gladiator
Recomend another movie.