It's June 1960 outside a private men's club in New York City.

Forty-year-old businesswoman Ruth Handler steps out of the club's grand doorway,

a look of puzzled irritation painted on her face.

She only arrived at this prestigious club a few moments ago, but she's already been shown the door.

Ruth has been invited here today to address some of Wall Street's most powerful brokers.

Her company, Motel, is about to go public, and she hopes to raise $3.5 million from wealthy investors.

But as a woman, she's just been told she's not allowed in the building's public spaces.

If she wants to speak to the businessman, she'll have to come in through the side entrance.

One of the club's stewards follows Ruth outside and guides her down a narrow alley.

She squeezes past foul-smelling trash cans, lifting her pastel pink skirt just enough to keep it out of the grime. The steward then

opens a side door. Ruth's high heels clatter against bare concrete as she follows him up a back

staircase and along a hallway. Paint is peeling off the walls, the lights flicker overhead.

At the end of the hall, the steward opens another door,

and Ruth suddenly finds herself in a warm, wood-paneled room filled with cigar smoke and low voices.

Men in dark suits lounge with brandy glasses in hand.

Ruth glances back and realizes she's just entered through a hidden door

the kind normally used only by serving staff.

Her mouth tightens with embarrassment.

Still, she can't allow herself to be rattled by the club's bad manners.

She sets her handbag on a table and then smooths her jacket.

Then she lifts her chin, flashes a dazzling smile, and does what she does best.

Selling.

...