The week leading up to the middle of March was a blur of sunshine and paperwork, tuesday morning Duke arrived at his office feeling sharp. He sat behind his desk, took a long pull of black coffee, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Archie burst through the door, he was carrying a stack of manila folders. He dropped the pile onto Duke's mahogany desk with a heavy, satisfying thud.
"The office went absolutely crazy, Boss," Archie said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked exhausted, but he was grinning. "Word got out that the contest was real. That you were actually looking at the pitches yourself. I've got everything from the head editors down to the kids who sweep the floors at night."
Duke leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. "The Slush Pile. My favorite part of the job. Let's see what the works looks like, Archie."
They spent the first hour in a state of near-constant laughter. Duke had requested "weird and wild," and the staff of Pulse had delivered.
"Alright, look at this one," Duke said, pulling a bright green folder from the top. He read the title aloud. "The Atomic Plumber. It's about a guy who falls into a vat of radioactive waste while fixing a leak at a power plant. Now, every full moon, he turns into a werewolf who's weakness are silver wrenches."
Archie leaned over, squinting at the crude drawing of a hairy man in denim overalls. "Does he fight crime?"
"According to the pitch, he 'clogs the pipes of injustice,'" Duke said, tossing the folder into a large wire trash can near his desk.
Archie chuckled, scribbling a note. "The man's probably a genius, just born in the wrong century."
They kept digging. They found a pitch for a character called The White Bat, which was just Batman in a snowy camouflage suit. Duke tossed that one too.
They found stories about sentient toasted sandwiches, space-faring dolphins, and a Western where the horses were actually robots from the year 3000.
But then, as the stack dwindled to the final few folders, Duke's hand stopped.
He pulled out a thin, slightly wrinkled folder. On the front, was a name, Paul Levitz.
"Who's the kid?" Duke asked.
"Sixteen years old," Archie said, checking his clipboard. "Works in the mailroom. He's been hanging around the writing room after his shift, trying to learn how to script and already had the concept for his story ready. The guys say he's obsessed with comics and history."
Duke opened the folder. The art inside was rough, mostly pencil sketches but the composition was incredible.
It showed a man standing against a backdrop of crumbling stone arches and burning silk banners. The man looked exhausted. He was dressed in the layered armor of a Byzantine soldier, but it was worn and scarred. In his hand, he held a long, curved cavalry sword.
Duke started reading the pitch.
The story followed a man in the 11th century who had once been a premier assassin of the Varangian Guard's inner circle.
The Varangian Guard was an elite unit of the Byzantine army, serving as the personal bodyguards to Byzantine emperors.
He had spent his youth as the most feared blade in the Eastern Roman Empire, a man who killed without hesitation. But after a tragedy involving his own family, he had broken his oath. He had fled the capital as the empire began its long, slow collapse.
Now, he wandered the war-torn frontiers as a pacifist knight-errant. He wanted to help the innocent, but he refused to take another life.
To ensure he wouldn't kill, he had even modified his sword. He carried a "reverse-blade" spathion. The sharp edge faced him, and the blunt back of the blade faced his enemies. He could defend, he could strike, but he could not cut.
Duke stared at the page. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Archie," Duke whispered. "The kid is good."
"You like the Byzantine stuff?" Archie asked, looking surprised. "Isn't the history too dense for the kids?"
"It's not just the history," Duke said, his eyes bright.
He felt like he was looking at a prototype of Rurouni Kenshin/Samurai X, but appearing thirty years early in a completely different cultural context.
It was the "Pacifist Warrior" trope, perfectly executed. "It's the conflict. A man haunted by his past, trying to save a world that is falling apart, while holding a weapon that won't let him kill."
Duke tapped the folder. "I guess this is our winner. Call the kid up. Paul Levitz. Tell him he's moving out of the mailroom. I want you to pair him with a great artist. You guys got 9 months until Rogue sun gets retired in December."
"You got it, Boss," Archie said, standing up and grabbing the folder. "The mailroom kid. That's going to make a hell of a story for the trades."
Later that afternoon, the warm, dry air of Los Angeles was replaced by the pressurized atmosphere of a Gulfstream private jet.
Duke sat in a wide, plush leather chair. To his right, Stanley Jaffe and to his left, Robert Evans was pacing the narrow aisle of the cabin.
The jet was flying high over the American Midwest, heading toward New York City for the premiere of The Godfather in New York. The cabin was filled with Jaffe's cigar smoke.
"What if the critics hate it, Duke?" Jaffe asked for the tenth time. He wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip with a silk handkerchief.
Duke didn't look up from his bowl of almonds. He popped one into his mouth and chewed slowly.
"Stanley, breathe," Duke said. His voice was calm and steady. "You've seen the final edit. It's one of the greatest movies ever made. Why are you sweating?"
"I'm sweating because I'm an executive!" Jaffe barked, "It's my job to worry. Look at Evans! He hasn't sat down since we took off from Burbank."
Evans stopped pacing. He took a sharp sip of club soda from a crystal glass. "I'm just worried that the runtime is too long, Duke. Three hours."
Duke laughed. "Bob, sit down. Seriously. You're going to make a hole in the carpet, and I just rented this jet."
Duke leaned forward, his expression turning serious but remaining positive. "Listen to me, both of you. I spent weeks in that editing bay with Francis. I've watched this final edit of the film seven times. I've checked every frame. People aren't going to get bored. Relax."
Duke popped another almond. "Besides, Stanley, look at your suit. If you keep sweating like that, you're going to ruin it before we even land at JFK."
Evans finally sat down in the seat across from Duke. He let out a long breath. "You're a strange guy, Duke. You're twenty-five years old and you're acting like you aren't the one with the most to lose if this movie fails."
Duke said with a wink. "Trust the work, Bob. I'm more worried about where are we going to throw the party."
The rest of the flight was quieter. Jaffe eventually fell asleep, Evans stared out the window at the clouds.
Duke pulled out his notebook and started sketching out ideas for some stories before he forgot them.
When the Gulfstream touched down at JFK International Airport, the world outside the windows had turned gray.
The plane door opened, and a blast of freezing air rushed into the cabin. Duke stepped out onto the metal stairs and felt the icy rain hit his face. The wind whipped his hair and stung his eyes.
"Welcome to New York," Jaffe grumbled, pulling his heavy overcoat tight around his neck. "God, I hate the East Coast in March. When i'm in Columbia i'll only stay in California."
"It's perfect," Duke said, taking a deep breath of the cold air. "It feels like a movie. You know I would have killed for this weather when I was recording Love Story, the gray brings out a lot of character to compositions."
They moved quickly down the stairs and into a line of waiting black limousines. The heaters were blasting inside the cars, but the chill stayed in Duke's bones, specially his leg as they began the long crawl through traffic toward Manhattan.
They arrived at their luxury hotel near Central Park, The Pierre. Duke checked into his suite, tossed his bag onto the bed, and walked over to the window.
He had wanted to stay here cause he read the news of the robbery in January in The Pierre by the Lucchese crime family in which they stole 4 million and controlled the hotel for two hours.
Luckily, the security now seemed more robust than other hotels.
Below him on the window, the city was a churning sea of umbrellas and headlights.
Tomorrow was the day the world would see The Godfather.
Duke felt a surge of pure excitement. He turned away from the window, sat down at the small desk in the room, and picked up the phone.
"Room service? Yes. I need a large pot of black coffee, you got any cake?... Lady Baltimore Cake... Ok. And a newspaper. Any newspaper. Thanks."
He spent the evening reading the New York papers, listening to the rain rattle against the glass.
Wednesday, March 15, 1972. The day of the premiere.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a strong wind. By six o'clock in the evening, the area around the Loew's State Theatre in Times Square was crowded.
Barricades had been set up to hold back the crowds. The police were out in force, their blue uniforms dark against the flashing lights of the marquees.
Diller marketing seemed to have worked a little too well.
Duke arrived in a black car with Evans and Jaffe. As he stepped out onto the red carpet, the wall of flashbulbs was blinding.
"Connor! Over here!" the photographers screamed. "Mr. Hauser! Look at the camera!"
Duke smiled, moving with a calm, easy grace. He looked sharp in a classic tuxedo. He normally weared italian suits but he went with a british cut this time cause he figured almost everyone would be going with an Italian cut.
He didn't rush. He stood for the photos, shook hands with the theater owners, and he chatted briefly with the reporters.
Inside, Duke spotted Francis Ford Coppola standing near the concessions stand. The director looked like he hadn't slept in a while.
His beard was wild, and his eyes were bloodshot, looking more like a well dressed homeless guy than a director.
Duke walked over and put a steady hand on the director's shoulder.
"Francis," Duke said.
Coppola jumped slightly, then relaxed when he saw it was Duke. "Duke. God. You scared me, I think I'm going to be sick. The sound system-I don't think the speakers are right. The owner just dismissed me."
"The sound is fine, Francis," Duke said, his voice low and calm. "The movie is perfect. Stop looking at the speakers and talk with the people."
"You really think so?" Coppola asked.
"I know so," Duke said. "Go walk around. You've done your part. Now let the movie do its part."
The lights in the theater began to flicker, the sign to take a seat. Duke made his way to the center of the house, sitting between Evans and a very pale Stanley Jaffe.
The hum of the crowd slowly died down. The heavy velvet curtains began to pull back with a soft whir. The giant screen was a blank white canvas for a split second.
Then, the first image appeared.
A black screen. The sound of a solo trumpet playing a mournful, haunting melody.
"I believe in America."
The voice of Amerigo Bonasera filled the theater. We get a close up of his face.
Duke leaned back in his seat.
"America has made my fortune"
"I raised my daughter in the American fashion, I gave her freedom, but taught her never to dishonor her family."
"She found a boy friend, not an Italian. She went to the movies with him, stayed out late. Two months ago he took her for a drive, with another boy friend. They made her drink whiskey and then they tried to take advantage of her."
"She resisted, she kept her honor. So they beat her like an animal."
"When I went to the hospital her nose was broken, her jaw was shattered and held together by wire, and she could not even weep because of the pain."
"I went to the Police like a good American. These two boys were arrested and brought to trial."
"The judge sentenced them to three years in prison, and suspended the sentence. Suspended sentence! They went free that very day."
"I stood in the courtroom like a fool, and those bastards, they smiled at me. Then I said to my wife, for Justice, we must go to The Godfather.
With the actor's tearful narration, the camera kept zooming away from him.
Marlon Brando's back enters the picturefor the first time.
The blinds are closed, and the room is dark. We are watching over the shoulder of Don Corleone. Music can be heard, and the laughter and voices of many people outside.
"Bonasera, we know each other for years, but this is the first time you come to me for help. I don't remember the last time you invited me to your house for coffee...even though our wives are friends."
2 hours, 55 minutes went flying as people stared at the movie
The final scene played out, Michael Corleone standing in his office, the door slowly closing on his wife, Kay, as he is accepted as the new Don. The screen went black.
For a long second, there was no sound. No one moved. Then, it started.
Within ten seconds, most of the Loew's State Theatre was on its feet clapping. People were cheering, whistling, and shouting.
Duke stood up, his face breaking into a grin.
Duke looked toward the front of the theater. He saw Coppola being hugged by the cast. The director looked dazed, like he couldn't believe what was happening.
Duke felt a profound sense of peace. He had fought for this moment for a long time, even going as far as signing with Paramount cause of how much he wanted this project and now it was paying off.
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