The call came three days later. Eleanor's voice was, as ever, perfectly calibrated. "Mr. Hauser, Steven Spielberg on line one."
Duke picked up the receiver. "Spielberg."
"Mr. Hauser, hello, you gave me your contact card." The young man's voice was a mixture of nerves and defiant ambition.
"I recall. Are you ready to stop hanging around the Universal Lot?"
"Yes, sir."
"My office, tomorrow get here by 10 a.m." Duke hung up without waiting for a reply.
The next morning, Steven Spielberg sat across from him, looking slightly less like a kid who'd snuck onto a lot and more like a young man trying to project a professionalism he didn't yet had.
He carried a small, worn film canister under his arm.
"Ithaca Productions is expanding," Duke began, dispensing with preamble. "We have multiple films in pre-production. Targets proved our distribution model."
"True Grit will be our studio play. There are more coming, I cannot personally oversee the day-to-day mechanics of every project. I need producers. People who understand the script, who can manage a budget, help with directors, and ensure a project moves from script to screen efficiently."
He leaned forward, his gaze pinning Spielberg. "I'm offering you a position. You will be attached to projects, beginning with the development of our lower-budget slate. You will report to me and to David Chen. You will be my eyes and ears on the ground."
Spielberg's eyes widened. It was more than he'd dared hope for. It was a foot in the door, not as a director, but as a producer.
"And… what about directing?" he asked, the question he'd been yearning to ask.
"Prove you can manage a million-dollar budget on time, and we will discuss you directing one," Duke said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Do this job well, and the opportunity will come."
"I have a short film," Spielberg said, almost apologetically. "Amblin'. I'm finishing it."
"Finish it," Duke agreed. "After it, your time belongs to Ithaca."
But Spielberg wasn't finished.
He leaned forward, his nervousness evaporating as he spoke about his work.
"And… I have an idea. For a feature. It's about Peter Pan, but… not for kids. It's about what happens after Neverland. Peter is grown up, he's a lawyer in New York, he's forgotten who he was. He has to go back, to rescue his own children from Captain Hook. It's about… losing magic and fighting to get it back."
He spoke in a rush, his hands sketching shapes in the air. "It's got flying, and pirates, and this lost kingdom… I've been writing down ideas."
Duke listened, his expression unchanging.
In his mind, he remembered watching Hook, a film of spectacular ambition and flawed execution.
He saw the potential, the sheer, childlike wonder that was Spielberg's signature, but he also saw the budgetary black hole, the technical nightmare, and the narrative indulgence.
"It's an interesting concept," Duke said, his voice cutting through Spielberg's enthusiasm. "And it is a project for another time."
Spielberg's face fell slightly, but Duke continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That film requires a director who understands not just film, but logistics. Who can command a crew of hundreds and a budget of millions without losing the story. You are not that director. Yet."
He tapped a finger on the desk. "I will invest in that idea. Someday. But today, you are going to work as a producer. You will learn how to schedule a shoot, how to negotiate with the crew, how to balance a budget when a location falls through. You will sign a long-term contract with Ithaca. Do you understand the terms?"
Spielberg looked from Duke's impassive face to the Odysseus logo on the wall, the arrow forever flown true. He saw a path, steep and demanding, but a path nonetheless.
He nodded, a decisive, sharp movement. "I understand. I'm in."
"Good. Report to Mark Jensen on Monday. He'll get you started." As Spielberg left, the film canister still tucked under his arm, Duke allowed himself a sliver of satisfaction.
He had just enlisted the most talented family friendly filmmaker of the next generation for his company.
----
With John Wayne's signature finally on the contract for True Grit, the machinery of a major studio production lurched into motion.
The bank financing was secured with an ease that was almost anticlimactic, a stark demonstration of Wallis's lesson: John Wayne's name was better collateral than any property.
Duke met with Wallis in his Paramount office, a space that smelled of old leather and older power.
Spread across the massive oak desk were not just casting lists, but detailed budget breakdowns, location scouts' reports from Colorado, and a preliminary shooting schedule.
"The numbers are tight, but they're solid," Wallis grumbled, pointing a thick finger at a column for location expenses.
"We're shooting in the San Juan Mountains. It's not cheap, but it gives you the scale, the authenticity. You can't fake that on a backlot. Not for this picture."
"Authenticity is the point," Duke agreed, his eyes scanning the logistics. "The audience needs to feel the grit under their nails. What about the crew? The director wants his own cinematographer."
"And he'll get him," Wallis said, "within budget. I've worked with Hathaway before. He's a pro, but he'll spend every dime you give him. You have to watch the dailies like a hawk. If you see him building an extra cabin just for a single shot, you shut it down. Immediately."
He slid a casting list across the desk. "Now, Mattie Ross. We need someone with grit, not just a pretty face. She's one of the most important cast members of the damn picture."
"Agreed," Duke said, his gaze moving down the list of young actresses. "The chemistry with Wayne is everything. She has to stand up to him, not just admire him."
They debated the merits of a few names, their conversation a rapid-fire exchange of logistical details union rules for the period firearms, the cost of shipping film stock, the insurance premiums for the horseback stunts.
They settled on a timeline: pre-production would begin immediately, with a shooting schedule aimed for the late summer to capture the right light in the Colorado locations.
As they finalized the broad strokes, the intense focus gave way to a momentary lull. Duke, feeling the unusual candor the older man sometimes displayed, decided to probe.
"I've heard rumors," Duke said, his tone neutral as he leaned back in his chair. "Around town. That I'm difficult to work with."
Wallis let out a short, dry laugh that turned into a cough. He took a cigar from a humidor, rolling it between his fingers with a practiced touch.
"Hollywood runs on rumors, Hauser. You're young, you're successful, and you rejected Newman who is a man with a lot of friends in the industry."
"Of course this town would call you difficult. They have called me worse. They called Jack Warner a tyrant, and he helped built this town."
He lit the cigar, puffing a cloud of fragrant smoke into the room. "You know, you remind me of him in a way. Not the yelling. But the absolute, unshakeable certainty. The belief that your way is the only way."
He studied Duke through the haze. "What do I think? I think you're the most pragmatic person I've met in all of my years in this business. You don't get emotional. You saw the value in True Grit and you betted on it."
"You saw the strategic advantage in selling The Producers and you did it, even though I could tell you didnt want to. You swallowed your pride for capital and leverage. That's not easy for a young man to do."
Wallis pointed his cigar at Duke for emphasis. "But you're not just a calculator. A man who's only in it for the money doesn't hire an unknown like Bogdanovic or fight for a weird film like The Graduate. I can tell, you've got a genuine love for the movies."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping, the avuncular tone gone, replaced by the grim wisdom of a survivor. "But listen to me, and listen good. That pragmatism you have? You're going to need to double it. You're building your own house, and that means when the storm hits, you have no one else's roof to hide under."
"If True Grit is a hit, you're a genius. But if your next picture, or the one after that, is a box office bomb… that's it. The banks will call in their loans. The vultures will circle. This whole company you're building," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Hollywood, "it goes down with you."
"There's no studio to absorb your losses. Remember that the next time you're betting your money on a film, or blindly expanding."
He simply nodded, his face a mask of calm acceptance. "I'll take your words as compliments." he said.
"Good," Wallis grunted, sitting back.
---
As Duke peacefully though about the plans for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in his office, his peace was suddenly, violently, interrupted by the sight of Leo Walsh stumbling into Duke's office.
He looked like he'd been dragged behind a tour bus, his clothes rumpled, his face pale beneath the stubble, his eyes red-rimmed slits.
He moved with the careful, pained deliberation of a man whose head was a fragile bomb.
"Don't ask," Walsh groaned, collapsing into the leather chair as if the bones had been removed from his body. "We celebrated. We celebrated the hell out of it. Zaentz even bought a round, the cheap bastard."
He managed a weak, triumphant grin. "'Proud Mary' is number six on the Billboard Hot 100 and climbing like a rocket. The album is flying out of stores. It's a phenomenon, Duke. A goddamn, honest-to-God phenomenon. We did it."
Duke looked at him from behind the desk, his expression as unimpressed as a stone monument. "I've seen the charts, Leo. Celebrate on your own time."
"I told you to begin pushing discussions with The Jackson 5. The CCR success is our leverage. It's proof of concept. Show Joe Jackson that even though our company is small, but we can deliver hits."
Walsh's hungover euphoria evaporated, replaced by a mask of profound frustration.
He ran a hand over his face. "That's the thing. I was. I was making calls this morning, feeling good, you know? Really laying it on thick. Then I get a call back from a guy I know in Gary. He works for a tiny, local label, Steeltown Records."
Duke's focus sharpened instantly, his relaxed posture snapping into one of alert readiness. "And?"
"And," Walsh said, the word heavy with the weight of defeat, "the Jacksons… they already signed with them. In january, they released a single, 'Big Boy.' It was a local hit. The contract… it's a standard deal, but it's binding. They're locked in for another option period, maybe more."
"Joe Jackson sat right here, in this office, and didn't say a goddamn word about it. The bastard was shopping his kids around with a prior commitment no one knew about. Not us, not Motown… nobody. He was trying to create a bidding war to buy out a contract he never mentioned."
A rare, sharp flicker of pure anger crossed Duke's features.
He had been so focused on the grand strategy, on outmaneuvering the major labels, that he had been blindsided by a small-time hustler from Indiana.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, a small, deliberate motion to quell the sudden, throbbing headache blooming behind his eyes.
"Why," Duke asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet tone, "did our due diligence not uncover this? We are not amateurs, Leo. We do not walk into negotiations blind."
Walsh spread his hands in a helpless, defensive gesture. "It's a nothing label, Duke! A single that sold a few dozen copies in Indiana. It wasn't on any industry radar."
"It's the kind of deal that gets signed and forgotten in a drawer. There's no record for this stuff. How were we supposed to know? But you're right, it's legally enforceable. We can't just sign them. We'd be walking straight into a lawsuit from Steeltown, and it's a mess we don't need right now."
Duke stood and walked to the large window, turning his back on Walsh to look out at the sprawling city.
"Walsh, find a way to sign them after the contract is done or a way to break the contract in some way." Duke said calmly.
Walsh got up and walked out while leaving behind an "Understood."
---
You guys like the exposition im doing with conversations or should i explain in a paragraph how diferent things are in 1960s compare with 2025?