Inside Studio 6B at Rockefeller Center. It was Thursday, March 16, 1972. The clock on the wall of the cramped room read 11:15 PM.
Connor Hauser sat in a surprisingly uncomfortable vinyl chair, holding a glass of club soda with a slice of lime.
The building around him was filled with the chaos of live television production. Anxious Production assistants rushed past the open door holding clipboards.
Duke, by contrast, was in absolute calm, he didn't want to spike his cortisol.
Today, the New York papers had been filled with positive reviews.
The Godfather was hailed by critics as a masterpiece and a landmark in American cinema, praised for its Shakespearean depth, the rich Italian-American cultural details, and the performances, from Marlon Brando and Al Pacino.
"Mr. Hauser?" a young redhead woman with a headset popped her head into the room smiling. "We're two minutes to air. Mr. Carson is finishing his monologue. We need you at the curtain."
"Call me Duke, please," he said, offering her a warm, easy smile. He stood up, smoothing the front of his jacket.
He had chosen his wardrobe carefully for this.
The executives of the old studio system always wore stiff, formal suits with thick ties.
Duke wanted to look different. He wore a tailored navy blue blazer over a crisp, light blue dress shirt with the top two buttons undone with no tie alongside charcoal trousers. to seem casual
He followed the assistant down the narrow hallway. The sound of the studio audience grew louder with every step.
He stopped just behind the heavy, multi-colored curtain. A burly stage manager held up his hand, fingers extended, silently counting down.
Through the fabric, Duke heard the booming, unmistakable voice of Ed McMahon.
"And now, our first guest tonight! He is a decorated veteran, the bestselling author of Jaws, Cujo, Misery, and Big Fish. He directed the massive hit Hacksaw Ridge, and won an Oscar for his work on Love Story. Oh, and if that wasn't enough, he is the new owner of Paramount Pictures! Please welcome... Connor 'Duke' Hauser!"
The stage manager pointed a finger right at Duke's chest. The curtain flew open.
The wall of sound hit him instantly. The band launched into a lively, upbeat jazz number. The applause from the studio audience was deafening.
Duke stepped out into the brilliant, blinding glare of the studio lights. It was surprinsingly hot on the stage, the heavy RCA television cameras tracking his movemen.
Duke waved to the audience, his smile genuine and bright. He walked across the glossy floor.
Johnny Carson stood up behind the desk. Johnny offered his hand. Duke shook it firmly.
"Have a seat, Duke," Johnny said, gesturing to the guest chair next to the couch.
Duke sat down, adjusting his jacket, and looked out at the audience. The applause finally began to die down as Johnny settled into his chair.
"Well," Johnny started, looking at his index cards with a timed smirk. "I was reading over your resume in the dressing room today, Duke. And I have to be honest, I was going to ask what you do in your spare time, but I realized you clearly don't sleep."
The audience laughed. Duke chuckled, leaning comfortably in the chair.
"I sleep, Johnny," Duke said, his voice smooth. "I just sleep... little."
"Your accomplishment are incredible," Johnny said, turning slightly serious, leaning forward on his elbows.
"They really are. You're twenty-five years old. You served your country, came back, and suddenly you are writing books that keep the entire country awake at night. Jaws ruined the beach for me. Misery ruined typewriters for me. And Cujo... well, I look at Ed's dog differently now."
Ed McMahon let out a booming laugh from the couch. "Hey now!"
"But I want to talk about this one," Johnny said. He reached under his desk and pulled out a hardcover book.
It was a copy of Big Fish. But it wasn't a pristine, unread copy, was completely battered. The dust jacket was missing. The spine was crackedin several parts. The corners of the pages were dog-eared and softened from use.
Johnny held it up to the camera. "My youngest son gave me this book two years ago for my birthday. And I have to tell you, Duke... I've read it three times. Front to back. It is one of the only pieces of literature I've ever read that i have admired in a long time. It's a masterpiece about fathers and sons."
The studio was completely silent. It was a rare, deeply genuine moment for the King of Late Night. Johnny didn't hand out fake praise and normally keep his personal life private.
Duke felt a genuine pang of emotion. He leaned forward. "That means the world to me, Johnny. Truly. That book... that book was a very personal one to write. It was about trying to figure out what is real, and what is just a story we tell ourselves to make the reality a little better."
Johnny slid the battered book across the desk, along with a black marker. "Would you mind? He'd kill me if I didn't ask."
"It would be an honor," Duke said. He took the cap off the pen and opened the cover. He wrote a quick, heartfelt note to Carson, signed his name, and slid it back.
The audience let out a warm, collective "Awww," followed by a solid round of applause.
"Alright," Johnny said, carefully putting the book away. "Let's talk about the movie business. Because before you bought the whole mountain over at Paramount, you were just a kid that had to fight to get his movie made."
"Your directorial debut. Love Story. 1968. Massive hit. People- Women brought boxes of tissues to the theater. But getting it made wasn't exactly a walk in the park, was it?"
Duke laughed, shaking his head. The memories of that first film were still there. "I had this script, and I knew it would work, but nobody wanted to give a twenty-one-year-old kid a camera. Finally, I got a meeting with Joseph E. Levine over at Embassy Pictures."
"Joe Levine," Johnny nodded following the story.
"A great man," Duke agreed. "I sat in his office, and he said, 'Kid, i'll give you some money, 800 thousand dollars and if you go over budget, I'm taking the cameras back mid-scene.'"
The audience chuckled.
"800 thousand dollars," Johnny said, doing the math. "Even in 1968, that's not exactly a blockbuster budget for a film."
"It was pocket change," Duke said. "But I took it. We didn't have money for sets. We didn't have money for permits. So we had to shoot it at Harvard University using what we called 'guerrilla filmmaking.' Which is just a fancy Hollywood term for trespassing."
The audience roared with laughter. Johnny grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Trespassing at Harvard?"
"Oh, absolutely," Duke smiled, his eyes shining with the memory of the hustle. "We couldn't afford to shut down the campus. So we bought a used, beat-up white panel van and we threw the camera gear in the back."
"We bought our wardrobe at local thrift stores, I think Blythe Danner's famous winter coat cost us eleven dollars."
"We'd pull the van up to a snowy location, throw the doors open, and I'd yell 'Action!' Ford and Blythe would run out, say their lines, and right as we saw the campus security guards running toward us, I'd yell 'Cut!' and we would all run to get in the van!'"
Johnny was laughing hard now, slapping the desk. Ed McMahon was wiping a tear from his eye.
"I swear to you, Johnny," Duke continued, riding the wave of laughter perfectly, "that movie is lit all by natural sunlight, cause we couldnt afford lighting equipment. We lived on fifteen-cent hamburgers. We slept on motels. It was fun."
"And it grossed over a hundred million dollars," Johnny pointed out. "Not a bad return on a eleven-dollar coat and a white van."
"Joe Levine said he would sent me a very nice bottle of scotch after the opening weekend," Duke smiled. "Never did."
Johnny shifted in his seat, looking at his cards. "And now, you're the boss. You bought Paramount Pictures. And the turnaround has been unbelievable. It seems like every single year, Paramount is dropping a massive cultural event."
"You had Hacksaw Ridge, now The Godfather, which, by the way, if you haven't seen it, go see it. It is an absolute masterpiece. But it wasn't always like this. The guy who owned it before you, Charles Bluhdorn at Gulf+Western... he had a different approach."
Duke nodded, maintaining a respectful but amused tone. "Charlie Bluhdorn is a brilliant businessman. But Gulf+Western is a conglomerate. They make everything."
"When Charlie ran the studio, he treated movies like they were just another product line on a spreadsheet. I told him once, 'Charlie, let me take Paramount off your hands.'"
"And he actually sold it to you," Johnny marveled.
"I made him an offer he couldn't refuse," Duke said, deadpan.
It took the audience a few seconds to catch the Godfather reference, and then people were clapping and cheering. Johnny actually stood up from his chair, laughing.
"Oh, that's good," Johnny said, sitting back down. "That is very good. We're going to take a quick commercial break. When we come back, we're going to talk about Duke's Oscar, his music, and something he brought with him tonight that he claims is going to change television forever. Don't go away!"
The band kicked in. The red tally lights on the cameras snapped off.
The stage manager rushed over with a glass of water for Johnny. Duke took a sip of his club soda.
"You're a natural, kid," Johnny said during the break, his TV smile still manteined. "The white van story was great."
"Just telling the truth, Johnny," Duke said.
"Two minutes!" the stage manager yelled.
Duke took a deep breath to regulate his emotions and relax again
The red lights clicked back on. The band faded out.
"And we are back with Connor 'Duke' Hauser," Johnny said to the camera. "Duke, we talked about your writing and directing. But we didn't mention that you won an Academy Award when you were twenty-two years old for Best Original Score."
"I did," Duke nodded, not really knowing how to respond.
"Now, a lot of people don't know this," Johnny said, "but you didn't hire a composer. You actually wrote the music. You have this incredible ear. Do you still play?"
Duke smiled, thinking of his morning with Jane Seymour buying sunglasses a few days ago. "I dabble in the piano, Johnny. I always have melodies stuck in my head."
Duke leaned slightly toward the desk microphone. He pursed his lips and whistled the hook to Flo Rida's "Whistle."
It was totally out of place for a 1970s talk show, but the audience instantly liked it.
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "That's catchy. What is that?"
"It's a work in progress," Duke joked. "It doesn't have a name."
"Well, it's good," Johnny said. "But we happen to have a piano right over there. The boys graciously gave up the stage. Would you mind playing something for us? Just a little something?"
The audience applauded, encouraging him.
Duke didn't hesitate. He unbuttoned his jacket, stood up, and walked across to the piano.
He sat down on the bench, and adjusted the microphone stand.
Duke placed his hands on thekeys. He closed his eyes.
He played the opening notes of "City of Stars" from La La Land.
He didn't sing the lyrics. He just played the piano. For a full minute, he played the arrangement.
He opened his eyes and lifted his hands from the keys.
For a moment, there was no applause. Then, the applause appeared.
Duke stood up, buttoned his jacket, and walked back to the couch.
"That was beautiful," Johnny said softly, his voice full of respect. "What is the name of that piece?"
"I call it 'City of Stars'," Duke said, sitting back down. "It's about Los Angeles. About the people who come here looking for magic, and the price they sometimes pay to find it."
"Well, you definitely found the magic," Johnny said. He cleared his throat, shifting gears back to the upbeat tempo of late-night TV.
"Now, speaking of magic. You told my producers you wanted to bring something on the show tonight. Something you've been building in secret to give people a surprise"
"That's right, Johnny. We've talked about movies, books, and music. Those are the ways we've always told stories and entertained ourselves. You sit, and you watch as a passive experience."
"Passive," Johnny repeated.
"Exactly," Duke said. "But what if you didn't just watch the television? What if you could control what was happening on the screen? Interact with it?"
Johnny looked skeptical, playing the perfect everyman for the audience. "Control the television? Duke, how do you control the television?"
"Let me show you," Duke said.
He looked off-stage and nodded. Two stagehands wheeled out a heavy, wooden cart.
On top of it sat a massive, twenty-five-inch Zenith color television set with a thick wooden veneer frame.
The television was turned on, but instead of a broadcast signal, the screen was black, with a dotted white line down the middle and two small white rectangles on either side.
A single white square, and a ball bounced back and forth between them.
Connected to the television by a thick black cable was a small, wooden sleek box with the word ATARI printed on it. Two separate controllers, each with a single rotary dial, were plugged into the box.
A third RCA broadcast camera was wheeled right up to the Zenith TV, zooming in tight so the television screen filled the broadcast monitors in the studio, and millions of living rooms across America.
"Johnny, I'd like to introduce you, and the world, to the Atari Pong Console," Duke said. He stood up and walked over to the TV. Johnny followed him, looking at the screen with intense curiosity.
Duke handed Johnny one of the controllers with the rotary dial. "Hold this. Now, look at the screen. You see the white paddle on the right side?"
"I see it," Johnny said.
"Turn the dial," Duke instructed. Pong was very popular across the west coast and some parts of america but he didn't know if Carson had ever played.
Johnny twisted the knod. On the television screen, the right white rectangle moved smoothly up and down.
Johnny actually gasped. He looked at the dial in his hand, then back at the screen. He moved it again. The paddle moved.
"I'll be damned," he whispered, breaking his own rule about swearing on television, but the sheer shock justified it.
The studio audience began to murmur. They were watching the live feed on the overhead monitors.
"It's a game of electronic table tennis," Duke explained, picking up his own controller. "I control the left paddle. You control the right. The machine serves the ball. Our goal is to hit it past each other. First one to eleven wins. You ready?"
"I am ready," Johnny said, gripping the dial, his competitive instincts instantly kicking in.
Duke pressed a button on the console. The score appeared at the top of the screen. 0-0.
A harsh, electronic Bep echoed through the studio's sound system as the ball shot toward Johnny's side of the screen.
Johnny frantically twisted the dial. He got his paddle in the way just in time.
The ball bounced off Johnny's paddle and shot back toward Duke.
Duke returned it.
The audience watched the screens in silence. Most family adults had never really seen an arcade, they were a demographic that was difficult to advertise to unless it was on TV.
The ball moved faster. Johnny gritted his teeth, spinning the dial wildly. He missed. The ball flew off the screen.
The score changed. 1 - 0. Duke was winning.
The audience groaned and cheered at the same time.
"Oh, you set me up!" Johnny laughed, completely absorbed in the game. "Serve it again! Give me another shot!"
They played for two straight minutes on live television. The sound of the blip... blip... blip... became the heartbeat of the broadcast.
It was a total paradigm shift. In living rooms across the United States, fifteen million people were staring at their own television sets, desperately wanting to reach through the screen and twist that dial.
Duke let Johnny score a few points, making it a close game. Finally, Duke hit a sharp angle shot that bounced off the top of the screen and slipped right past Johnny's paddle.
BUZZ.
The game ended.
Johnny Carson let out a massive breath and dropped his hands to his sides. He looked at the Atari console, then looked at Duke. His eyes were wide.
"Duke," Johnny said, pointing at the TV. "That... is the most addictive thing I have ever experienced in my life. I want to cancel the rest of the show and play this for an hour."
The audience roared in agreement.
"That's Atari," Duke smiled, turning to the camera. "We're putting the future right in your living room."
Johnny walked back to his desk, shaking his head in disbelief. Duke followed him, taking his seat on the couch.
"Incredible," Johnny said, sitting down. "Absolutely incredible. I guarantee you, every kid in America is going to want one of those in their house. We are almost out of time, Duke. But I know you have one more thing on the horizon. Not a game. A new movie. You are stepping back into the director's chair."
"I am," Duke nodded. "It's coming out in March of 1973. It's called Annie Hall."
"Now, after Hacksaw Ridge, and after Love Story, what can we expect from Annie Hall?" Johnny asked.
"It's different," Duke explained. "It's not a tragic melodrama. I call it a New York romance comedy. It's about how absurd, painful, and absolutely necessary it is to fall in love."
"Well, if your track record holds up," Johnny smiled, looking at the camera, "it's going to be the biggest movie of the year. Connor 'Duke' Hauser, ladies and gentlemen!"
The audience erupted into applause. The NBC band launched into a swinging exit theme. Johnny leaned over the desk and shook Duke's hand vigorously.
"Thank you, Duke," Johnny shouted over the music. "Seriously. Best segment we've had in a while."
"Thank you, Johnny," Duke smiled.
The red lights on the cameras blinked off. The show was over.
Duke stood up from the couch. He unbuttoned his jacket. He could hear the stagehands already talking excitedly about the Atari machine.
Of course, he knew that tv broadcast companies would not support consoles after it's success. So he was trying to use this opportunitty before their relationship soured.
___
Sort of chill chapter
Was doing a uni project yesterday and couldnt publish.