The Loew's State Theatre on Broadway was not silent, it was filled with wet, stifled sounds of viewers trying not to weep and failing miserably.
Sarah leaned forward in her seat, her knuckles white as she gripped a crumpled tissue.
She was twenty-four years old, a junior librarian from Queens who had taken the subway into the city just to see if the movie could possibly live up to the book.
She had read the slim novel three tis after getting it gifted in Christmas.
On the massive screen, the colors were soft, almost hazy, like a mory being recalled through tears.
Blythe Danner, beautiful and tragically pale, lay in the hospital bed, while Harrison Ford stood over her.
The dialogue wasn't realistic, nobody actually spoke like that in a witty way while dying but it didn't matter.
"Love ans never having to say you're sorry," Blythe whispered.
A sob broke out from the row behind Sarah. Then another. And then even more.
Sarah felt the tears coming down her own cheeks.
When the credits rolled and the lights ca up, nobody moved. T
Sarah, finally gathered her coat, feeling drained but strangely happy. She looked around the theater. Red eyes everywhere. People sharing looks of mutual devastation.
As she shuffled out into the biting cold of Tis Square, Sarah saw the line for the next showing.
It wrapped around the block. People freezing in the wind, desperate to feel what she had just felt.
She looked up to see the LOVE STORY neon sign, feeling happy that at least for do ti the world was just love, and not thinking about the war, politics or anything else.
On a pool room, lights turned down in the center of the room, darkness passing across the faces of people of the entertainnt industry.
Duke sat at a corner table, his back against the wall, a habit he had picked up in 2025 and couldn't shake in 1969.
Beside him sat Jeffrey, his agent, who was nervously adjusting his silk tie.
Jeffrey always got nervous around the Big wigs, and the man sitting across from them was undeniably one.
Joseph E. Levine.
The head of Embassy Pictures who was still a short, rotund man.
He was originally a showman of the old school, a forr distributor who had hustled his way from the slums of Boston to carving his own place in Hollywood.
He was the man who had trusted in The Graduate, and now, in this tiline, he was the man who had also trusted in Love Story while the major studios were doubting Duke's abilities.
Levine was currently attacking a plate of oysters with the ferocity.
"You see the lines, Duke?" Levine bellowed, gesturing with a fork toward the general direction of Broadway.
"Around the block! In a blizzard! Paramount passed on it. Now they said, 'Joe, you have a unique vision for films' Idiots! I told them, 'People are miserable right now!'"
Duke smiled, sipping his water. "Congratulations. You read the situation better than anyone."
"You're right, I do have quite an unique vision!" Levine laughed, a booming sound that caused a few heads to turn.
He swallowed the inside of an oyster whole.
"And look at you. You signed with Evans. I told you, Duke. I told you six months ago. You co to Embassy, I'll get the world for you. You go to Paramount, you got what? A desk in the basent?"
Levine wiped his mouth with a napkin, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and genuine annoyance.
He liked Duke. He saw sothing in the younger man, a calm confidence that reminded Levine of himself thirty years ago.
That was why it stung that Duke had taken his talents to the dying giant that was Paramount.
"Paramount has its charms," Duke said diplomatically. "They have a good library. They have the lot."
"They have debt!" Levine shot back. "Gulf and Western is looking to sell them off. And what are you making for them?"
"I heard the rumors. A gay director making a cowboy movie? With the guy from The Graduate playing a cripple?"
Levine shook his head, looking genuinely pained. "Dustin is a star, Duke. I made him a star. And you've got him limping around the Bronx covered in grease? You're burying him. I would have taught you things if you stayed with ."
"It's not a bad film, Joe," Duke said. "It's a character study and I'm sure, it's going to make money."
"Peanuts," Levine scoffed. "Look at Love Story. That's business."
"We're going to do fifty million dostic. Maybe more. That's what a producer does. He gives the people what they want, not what they should want."
Jeffrey cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Well, Mr. Levine, Midnight Cowboy is aiming for the younger demographic. The counter-culture moven..."
Levine waved a hand, dismissing Jeffrey entirely. "Counter-culture. Hippies. They don't buy tickets, they sneak in through a side door. Listen to , Duke."
Levine leaned over the table, his deanor shifting. "I know you have a three-picture deal with Evans. I know you got the gross points. Good for you. You robbed him blind."
"But neither Evans nor Paramount are going to last. Bluhdorn is probably going to fire him before Christmas. And when the ship sinks, you don't want to go down with the ship."
Duke appreaciated his comnts, after all in 1969, Levine was still considered a kingmaker. And Duke needed allies who weren't beholden to a board of directors.
"I'm loyal to the contract, Joe," Duke said slowly, leaning in. "I owe Evans three films. The cowboy flick is one. The Western I just bought is two."
"The Western," Levine rolled his eyes. "Arican Westerns are dead, Duke. Spaguetti Western it's where the money's at."
"It's called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," Duke ignored him and keep going. "And it's not just a Western. It's a buddy type of movie."
Levine paused. He respected confidence, even if he disagreed with the premise. "Okay. So you give Evans his cowboy movies. Then what? You're a free agent?"
"Then," Duke said, "I have a third picture. And after that... the contract expires."
Duke picked up his glass, swirling the ice. "The thing is, Joe, Paramount is a studio. They move slow. They have committees. You? You're a lone man. You move fast."
Levine grinned, the cigar in his pocket practically vibrating with pride. "I'm the fastest gun in the West when it cos to investing."
"I have a slate of projects in developnt," Duke lied smoothly.
The "slate" was actually a mostly ntal list of the biggest hits of the next few years. "Projects that are going to be too weird for Paramount, but perfect for Embassy."
Levine sat back, intrigued. "What kind of projects?"
"Horror," Duke said. "Action. But not B-movies. High budget alongside a serious directors. The kind of movies that fill theaters."
Duke was thinking of The Exorcist. He was thinking of the genre explosions that were just around the corner.
"And you'd co bring them to ?" Levine asked. "After you're done playing at Paramount?"
"I'm testing the waters," Duke admitted. "When my contract is up, I'm not looking for a boss. I'm looking for a partner."
"Soone who can help handle distribution and afvertisents. I don't want to open a movie in New York and L.A. and wait for word of mouth."
"I want to open on a thousand screens on the sa day. I want television spots. I want wholepage ads."
Levine stared at him.
The idea of a "wide release" opening everywhere at once was considered madness in 1969. It was expensive. It was risky.
It was sothing mostly done for massive failures to help it grab cash before the reviews ca out.
"A thousand screens?" Levine whispered. "Are you planning on changing the distribution model entirely?"
"If you don't agree, consider it just rambling, Joe," Duke said.
"Paramount doesn't have the stomach for that. They're too old-fashioned. But you? You released Hercules and saturated the market directly. I'm just taking a page out of your book"
Levine puffed up like a peacock. He loved being reminded of his triumphs. "I did, didn't I? I plastered that guy's face on every billboard from here to Chicago."
"Exactly," Duke said. "So, here is the situation. I finish my three films for Evans. I make him a lot of money."
"But when I'm free... if you're still hungry... I co to you first. But no compromise. I keep the copyright. I keep the final cut. You handle everything else."
Levine looked at Duke for a long, silent minute. He was calculating.
He knew Duke was manipulating him, playing to his vanity. But he also knew that Duke was the most exciting thing to hit Hollywood in years.
"You're arrogant," Levine said finally, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You haven't even released your first picture, and you're negotiating your post contract career."
"I just like planning things," Duke countered.
Levine laughed again, slamming his hand on the table. "Alright! I like it. You finish your business with Paramount."
Levine reached for the wine bottle and poured a glass for Duke, ignoring the water.
"But tell the truth, Duke. Just between us, that film, Midnight Cowboy. Is it really as dirty as they say?"
"Dirtier." Duke responded.
Levine choked on his wine. "You're dreaming if you think that's making money, kid. To Dreams!"
They clinked glasses. The sound rang like a bell in the quiet dining room.
Twenty minutes later, Duke and Jeffrey stepped out of The Four Seasons to the street.
Jeffrey let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding since the appetizers. He pulled his coat tighter, looking at Duke with wide eyes.
"Are you insane?" Jeffrey hissed, though he kept his voice low.
"We just signed the most lucrative contract in Paramount history. The ink isn't even dry! And you're already flirting with Levine? If Evans finds out..."
"Evans won't find out," Duke said, walking briskly toward Park Avenue. "And even if he does, it just makes him work harder to keep ."
"It's dangerous to play studios like this," Jeffrey argued. "Levine is a loose cannon. And frankly, Duke, he's right. Love Story is a hit and Embassy is printing cash. Maybe we should have gone with him."
Duke stopped on the corner, waiting for the light to change.
Across the street, a massive billboard for Love Story lood over the intersection. It showed Blythe Danner and Harrison Ford in a soft-focus embrace.
"Levine is making money in 1968," Duke said, looking at the billboard. "But he doesn't have the vision for the future. He thinks Love Story is the peak. And will probably force to make another lodrama if i stay with him."
"Would that be too bad? It's the safer investnt." Jeffrey asked.
"I personally would have hated it" Duke said, his mind flashing to the gritty, cynical, explosive cinema that was about to take over, The French Connection, A Clockwork Orange, Taxi Driver.
"The audience wants to bleed. They want to be challenged. Want to root for the bad guy or the bad good guy too. In short, audience want a film that makes them feel sothing."
(I once went to a film festival and fell asleep along several people when they played a french movie since the pacing was way too slow to make anyone feel sothing)
Duke turned to Jeffrey. "Paramount is a platform for Ithaca, but Embassy can give the best deal."
A taxi pulled up, splashing slush onto the curb. Duke opened the door.
"Where are we going?" Jeffrey asked.
"I'm going back to my hotel," Duke said. "You're going to the office. I need you to draft a business letter to so agencies."
"Regarding what?"
"Regarding our third film, i would like to hear out so options at least," Duke said.
"Oh by the way," Duke smiled, looking back at the Love Story billboard one last ti. "Buy a ticket to Love Story, Jeffrey. Have a good cry. You look stressed."
Duke slamd the taxi door. As the cab pulled away, rging into the yellow river of traffic, he felt the hum of the city.
He had played Levine perfectly.
He had planted the seed that he was "gettable," which ant Levine would spend ti trying to impress him, perhaps offering favors or distribution help just to court him.
And at least if Paramount faltered, or if Evans got fired early, Duke would have a lifeboat ready.
Duke reached into his pocket and pulled out his small notebook.
Midnight Cowboy in post- production.
Butch Cassidy in pre-production.
Levine / Embassy confird as a Backup Plan.
He clicked his pen and added one more line at the bottom, a reminder of the next crucial piece of the puzzle.
Target Coppola.
The cab rattled over a pothole. Duke closed his eyes while cursing the state of new york streets.
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