The late afternoon light struggled through the grime window on Hal Wallis's Paramount office.
Duke found the producer not as the energetic of their first meetings, but as a man showing a strong fatigue from the relentless True Grit Pre-production.
Wallis didn't look up from the complex marketing schedule that dominated his desk, a map with cities circled and ad buys quantified in dense columns.
"The Producers is locked for a May 22nd release," he stated, his voice a low rumble devoid of its usual theatricality.
He finally glanced at Duke, his eyes underscored by smudges of exhaustion. "We're going to be saturating New York, Chicago, L.A. The buzz from the industry screenings is… good. Brooks's madness might just pay off. It should open strong."
He rubbed his temples with a thumb and forefinger. "The Mel Brooks situation is handled, by the way. He's thrilled, thinks we're geniuses for buying his picture."
He shifted his weight, the leather of his chair groaning in protest, and pulled a massive binder from a side table.
Its cover was starkly labeled "TRUE GRIT - LOCATION SCOUTING - COLORADO."
He opened it with a practiced flip, revealing sprawling landscape photographs that spoke of vast, empty skies and rugged terrain.
Detailed maps were annotated in a tight, precise script.
"As for our Western…" Wallis began, his finger tracing a river on a topographical map.
"The scouts are back. The landscapes are somewhat okayish. The mountains have the scale, the rivers have the flow Portis described. But it won't be a perfect replica of the book."
He tapped a photograph of a train track cutting through a pristine valley. "See that? The railroad lines are wrong for the period. We'd have to tear up fifty miles of track. The unions would have our heads, and the budget would look like the national debt."
He flipped to another page, a photo of a town that was more 20th-century than 19th. "Some of these places that are designed to shoot westerns… the false fronts are just that. Facades covering up hardware stores and diners."
Wallis looked up, his gaze locking with Duke's. This wasn't a complaint or an excuse; it was a fundamental lesson in the reality of their craft. "So, we'll adapt. We use camera angles."
"We'll build our own false fronts in front of theirs. We'll shoot at magic hour when the light is soft and lies beautifully, the audience," he said, his voice gaining a sliver of its old conviction, "they'll feel the authenticity. They'll feel the grit and the grandeur. And we'll deny all accusations of changes to the book."
Duke nodded slowly, absorbing the lesson. This was the unglamorous core of it all: the constant, grinding negotiation between the vision in the script and the stubborn reality on the ground.
"The feeling is what matters," he concurred, his own voice a calm counterpoint to Wallis's weary passion. "As long as Mattie's quest feels real, and Cogburns makes the audience feel something then we're winners, the visual details are just problems to be managed."
He observed the profound toll the production was already taking on the older man.
"It's a strange time," Wallis mused, leaning back and staring at the ceiling as if reading the patterns in the water stains.
"The town is… jittery, after that Marting Luther King guy got murdered."
"The Oscars get postponed, pictures like yours, they're good. But now, a film like 'In the Heat of the Night' or 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner'… they're going to get a different kind of attention."
"I don't mind telling you, there's a lot of Oscar Voters who asked to change their votes after the murder happened, they want to use it to make a statement even though, your film and Bonnie and Clyde are clearly the films who should be the biggest winners."
"Sometimes," he said, his voice dropping, "the situation outside the theater means you just have to suck it up and understand your piece isn't the most important one on the board at that moment."
He fell silent for a long moment, lost in a memory.
"I remember 1944," he said, the name of the year hanging in the air. "Casablanca got nominated. We all knew it was special. When they called the name for Best Picture… Jack L. Warner, he stood up and when I tried to get up the Warner family blocked me from getting up."(This happened, you can look it up as the Casablanca Oscar Incident)
"He marched right up there and took that statue. He smiled, he waved, he gave his speech." Wallis's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "He was the studio head. I was the producer."
"Yet I was the man who found the property, who hired the writers, who fought for Bergman and Bogart, who oversaw every single frame. In this business, you have to have a hell of a lot of stomach."
"You have to know when to fight for the credit, and when to just be glad the damn thing got made and people are seeing it. Warner had supported me and I had been working with them for 20 years already by that point, and even then they screw me over. This town is wicked."
Duke left after some time from the office with a heavy hearth leaving the still complaining Wallis inside, he had expected The Graduate to win more than one Oscar which was was The Graduate originally won in his past life.
He did remembered Guess Who's Coming for Dinner and In the Heat of the Night both were later on forgotten films, and if asked what were the best films of 1968 most would say The Graduate and Bonnie and Clyde, as the films that kickstarted New Hollywood.
Basically, Guess Who's Coming for Dinner and In the Heat of the Night are both the 'Crash'(2004) of 1968.
A movie that won awards but that most don't even remember it even existed.
(Btw what i mentioned on this chapter about the Oscar being preferential to those two movies is a very popular theory on the Oscars history)
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The night of the postponed Academy Awards arrived.
The shadow of the recent tragedy hung in the chandeliered air, a guest not many knew on this room but everyone felt.
Duke, in a tailored italian suit, picked up Barbara Hershey. She looked stunning in a simple, elegant gown of deep blue.
"Ready for the night?" She asked softly, taking his arm.
"I wish i could say yes." He replied, his voice low.
At the ceremony, he was a bit inconspicouos.
Seated with the Graduate crew Mike Nichols, a coil of nervous energy; Dustin Hoffman, looking overwhelmed by his own presence in such a place.
Anne Bancroft, as the most experienced person in the crew, looked regal and composed
Duke represented the film's commercial and critical backbone. The air at their table was thick with a specific kind of anticipation, the kind laced with the fear of being found wanting.
Throughout the night, he was approached by a procession of power.
Executives offered handshakes that were both congratulatory and appraising. Directors looked at him with new respect. Actors sized him up.
He navigated it all with a cool calm demeanor.
His demeanor was a stark contrast to the nervous energy crackling around him and also on him.
Then, his eyes met Katharine Ross's across the room.
She was walking with her arms crossing those of Paul Newman, who was nominated for Cool Hand Luke.
Her smile was polite, professional, a perfect mask.
His own expression remained neutral.
A silent, tacit understanding passed between them, to avoid a conversation.
As the awards were announced, the winner emerged.
The Graduate won for Best Editing, and their table erupted in genuine, relieved cheers. But with each passing category, a subtle shift occurred.
When In the Heat of the Night won for Best Adapted Screenplay, the applause was fervent, almost political.
A little later, when it took Best Actor for Rod Steiger over Hoffman, the message became clearer.
He watched Mike Nichols, the man who was quite literally redefining American cinema with his film, prepare himself for Best Director.
The category was called.
The envelope opened. "Mike Nichols." The win was met with applause, but at their table, it was tinged with a slight, palpable deflation.
Nichols smiled graciously as he went to accept it.
Then came Best Picture. The air grew still. Duke felt Barbara's hand briefly touch his under the table. The envelope was opened. "In the Heat of the Night."
The applause was thunderous, a wave of approval that felt as much about the film's timely social conscience as its artistic merit.
Bonnie and Clyde, another daring, rule-breaking film, had also been largely passed over like The Graduate.
Duke looked at Nichols, who was clapping with a fixed, polite expression.
A cold, quiet sadness settled in Duke's chest. It wasn't about the loss of a trophy. It was the realization of the politics of it all.
In this moment, the industry wasn't rewarding the most innovative, the most culturally resonant, or the most daring.
It was rewarding the most appropriate. It was an act of cinematic penance, a vote for the message that felt safest and most necessary in a grieving nation. The Graduate, for all its success, was a film about alienation and generational discontent.
Driving Barbara home through the quiet Los Angeles streets, Duke remembered again the words of Louis B. Mayer, the man who originally got the title of King of Hollywood, the man who led MGM to the top, The man who steered the Golden Age, also the man who created the Oscars.
Louis B. Mayer always said that films should balance art with comerciability, if a movie is very artsy but has no comercial ability then its a failure.
Duke finally told himself to avoid the rise of those so called Oscar Bait films, that pretend to tackle problems without actually caring about them.
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