The editing phase had been a quiet ss for them, but now on Joe Levine's office the air wa s more like a cigar smoke combined with loud office jargon.
It was November 1967, the film was done. Even the score, a haunting piano piece that Duke had made himself was done.
Now ca the part Duke hated, the part where he had to trust soone else to sell his story.
Duke sat on the leather sofa, his cane resting against his knee.
Gary Kurtz sat beside him, a notebook open, looking like a quiet accountant. Jeffrey was in the armchair, vibrating with his usual mix of excitent and terror.
George was absent, back at USC, likely explaining to his professors why he'd missed forty days of classes.
Joe Levine paced behind his massive desk, a fresh cigar unlit in his mouth.
"The release will be in January," Levine announced, turning to face them.
"I already contacted Doubleday, we'll drop the book in December, get it in every library from Maine to San Diego. Then we release the film the second week of January."
Gary frowned slightly. "January is kind of dead, Joe. That's where studios dump the movies they're not sure on, like foreign films."
"A release is a release," Levine corrected, pointing a thick finger.
"On it's own, a release, even on a bad month is better than no release, maybe you guys are too young to understand how this industry works."
"Every year, there's around 2000-3000 movies being made, yet only 200 films get a release. Not a wide release. Just a release which could an just 1 screen that you rent yourself."
"Of those 200 films, around half are occupied by the big studios, around 50-60 are occupied by big yet small studios and the rest is the wild west."
"Look, the films aiming for the Oscars cos out at Christmas. By the second week of January, the public is sick of musicals and three-hour epics."
"They're cold, they're broke from the holidays, and they're miserable. They want to feel sothing."
Duke nodded slowly. He knew this strategy worked.
Love Story had been a winter release in the original tiline.
The cold weather drove people into theaters, and the lancholy of the season matched the film perfectly.
"I agree with the timing," Duke said.
"The 'Gregory House' novel hits the stands December 1st. We have a six-week runway to build the hype."
"By the ti the movie opens, at least the movie's na will be recognizable."
"Exactly," Levine grinned. "Synergy. I love it. Trust Duke, we're going to make a fortune."
"Good," Duke said, leaning forward. "So let's talk specifics. What's the screen count?"
Levine waved a hand dismissively, turning back to the window.
"Don't worry about the details, kid. You made the movie. You brought it in under budget. Let and the distribution boys handle the logistics. We'll get it out there."
"Joe," Duke said, his voice hardening. "I didn't ask if you'd get it out there. I asked for the number. How many prints are you striking? What's the P&A budget?"
"P&A? Prints and Advertising?" Levine chuckled, glancing at Jeffrey.
"Listen to him. He reads Variety once and thinks he's Louis B. Mayer. We'll spend what we need to spend."
"That's not an answer," Duke said.
"It's the answer you're getting," Levine snapped, the jovial old man act dropping for a split second.
"You're a director. You directed. Good job. Now go write another book and let the adults sell the film."
The room went silent. Jeffrey looked like he wanted to dissolve into the upholstery. Gary Kurtz lowerd his head on to the book.
Duke didn't flinch. He slowly reached into his jacket pocket, not for a cigarette, but for a pen.
He tapped it rhythmically against the arm of the sofa.
"Joe," Duke said, his voice deceptively calm. "I think you're forgetting sothing."
He pointed the pen at Levine.
"I'm the guy who put two hundred thousand dollars of his own cash into the negative. I own twenty-five percent of this picture."
"I'm not an employee asking for a favor. I'm your partner asking for the business plan."
Levine stared at him.
He chewed on his cigar, realizing that Duke wasn't going to be patted on the head and sent away.
"You want the truth?" Levine asked, dropping into his chair with a heavy sigh. "You want the numbers?"
"I want the numbers."
"Right now? Zero. But don't worry-," Levine said flatly.
Duke's eyes went wide for a mont. "Zero?"
"We're not assembling a wide release yet," Levine admitted, leaning over the desk. "I'm not striking five hundred prints for a movie with no stars and an unknown director. Not yet."
"You saw the cut," Duke countered. "You said it was Great."
"It is Great," Levine argued. "But it's a sad great. It's a tragedy. You know what people do with tragedies? They stay ho."
"I need a reason to get them off the couch in January to watch a girl they like die of cancer."
Levine held up two fingers.
"The release strategy depends on two things."
"One, the Book. we know you're Gregory House. Doubleday knows. But the public doesn't. If that book ships in December and sits on the shelves? If it sells five thousand copies?"
"Then we release the movie in two theaters in New York and LA, try to get so critical notices, and pray we break even."
Duke remained stone-faced. "And if it sells?"
"If it sells," Levine said, his eyes lighting up, "if it becos a bestseller? Then the theater owners will be begging us for prints."
"I can't force the exhibitors to take a movie, Duke. They have to want it. And the only thing that makes them want it is a line around the block at the bookstore."
"And the second thing?" Gary Kurtz asked, speaking for the first ti.
"The Audience Test," Levine said seriously.
"The what?"
"We're doing a private screening next week in New Jersey," Levine explained.
"No critics, no industry people. Just regular people. Specifically, won, housewives, secretaries, students. You know, the target demographic."
Levine leaned back, steepling his fingers. "I'm going to be sitting in the back row. I'm not going to be watching the screen."
"'m going to be watching the audience. If It gets a good reaction I can start to move stuff around."
He looked Duke dead in the eye.
"If both the book and the audience test are a success, then I'll spend a quarter of a million on publicity and we open in every city in Arica."
Duke absorbed this. It was cynical, cold, and entirely accurate.
Levine wasn't betting on the quality of the filmmaking, he was betting on the reaction of the audience.
"So," Duke said, standing up and adjusting his coat. "The budget is variable."
"The budget is the closest thing in my company to a ritocracy," Levine corrected.
"You wrote the book, Duke. You directed the movie. Now you have to deliver the audience."
"If Gregory House fails, the movie dies. If the won in New Jersey don't like it, you go ho."
Duke walked to the window, looking out over the hazy Los Angeles skyline. He thought about the book sales of the original tiline.
He thought about the millions of copies. He thought about the cultural tidal wave that was Love Story.
He turned back to Levine, a small, confident smile playing on his lips.
"Great then, Let's test things Joe," Duke said.
"You're confident?"
"I'm not confident," Duke said. "I'm certain."
---
rry Christmas, Hope you guys enjoyed it with family, may god bless you all. Im drunk so goodbye.
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