The morning sun over the Holmby Hills did not care that Duke owned a movie studio. It only cared about shining brightly.
Sunday, March 19, 1972. It was ten-thirty in the morning.
Duke sat in a white wicker chair that Barbara had bought. He stared at a glass of water on the glass table in front of him. He did not want to drink the water.
He just wanted to look at it, his head still pounding with a steady rhymth.
Across the table, Dario Argento looked significantly worse.
The Italian director was slumped deep into the cushions. He wore a pair of dark, heavy sunglasses indoors. He held a cold cup of espresso in his right hand. His hand was shaking slightly.
"Duke," Dario whispered. His voice was hoarse. "You Americans drink a lot."
Duke let out a short, dry laugh. The laugh hurt his ribs. "You drank half a bottle, you were giving a toast to a ghost at one point."
"I don't remember that," Dario muttered, taking a tiny sip of the terrible espresso.
The party last night had been a big. Duke asked for help, and Diller said he knew how to throw a party.
Duke remembered the legendary Hollywood stories from his past life. Duke even did the Di craprio dance from the wolf of Wall Street.
"I remember a girl," Dario said, rubbing his forehead. "She cornered me by the ice sculpture. She pitched me a movie."
"Did you give her a part?" Duke asked, finally picking up his water.
"I left and hid in your pool until I meet the male lead of your first film," Dario admitted. He leaned his head back against the wicker chair. "I am going to sleep for the rest of the day. If the studio calls, tell them I have died. It was tragic."
"Rest up," Duke smiled. "I got things to do still."
Dario slowly stood up. He walked out of the room, dragging his feet heading back toward the sprawling guest wing of the estate.
Duke sat alone for a moment. He closed his eyes and focused. He needed to get moving.
He had an empire to run, he relied on a trick from his past life.
He went to the kitchen and mixed a glass of water with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon. He drank it fast.
Then, he walked to his master suite and stood under a freezing cold shower for a few minutes. In his past life he always used to drink gatorade with alcohol to alliviate hangovers.
When he stepped out and dried off, the fog in his brain had lifted. The headache was fading to a dull ache.
He dressed simply. A crisp white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and slacks. He did not need to wear a suit in his own home.
He walked down the wide, curved staircase of the Owlwood mansion and headed toward his private study.
The study was a massive room lined with wood bookshelves.
Don Simpson, his assistant and Marilyn Stewart, Paramount's head of Publicity were waiting for him, Duke had woken up later than normal.
Marilyn sat perfectly upright and held a thick manila folder in her lap.
Don Simpson was pacing. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers, taking short quick drags.
"Morning, Boss," Don said, stopping his pacing to gesture with his cigarette. "Great party last night. I think I saw Peter Bogdanovich arguing with Polansky around two in the morning."
"Good morning, Don. Morning, Marilyn," Duke said. He walked around his large mahogany desk and sat down. "Let's get right into it. What's the crisis of the day?"
Marilyn opened her folder. "Not a crisis, Duke. The 44th Academy Awards are exactly three weeks away. April 10th in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. We need to finalize your logistics."
Duke let out a long sigh. He leaned back in his leather chair. "I hate the Oscars, Marilyn. It's a four-hour television broadcast of people patting themselves on the back. The speeches are too long. I'd rather stay home and read a book, since they clearly want to pat themselves on the back and not me."
Marilyn did not smile. "You don't have the luxury of staying home, Duke. You are the sole owner of Paramount Pictures. You are twenty-five years old. You are the youngest mogul in the history of this industry, not to mention that The Godfather and Cabaret are dominating the cultural conversation. You are the story."
"She's right," Don chimed in, taking another drag of his cigarette. "The press is obsessed with you right now. The Carson interview put you over the top. The public wants to see you."
"Furthermore," Marilyn added, looking at her notes, "the Academy specifically requested you to present the award for Best Original Screenplay. You are a writer. You have an Oscar yourself. It fits perfectly. You have to be on that stage."
Duke rubbed his chin. He understood the logic. The business of Hollywood was not just making movies. It was making noise. The red carpet was the best free advertising in the world.
"Fine," Duke agreed. "I'll go. I'll hand out the statue. Who else is going to be there?"
Don smirked, tapping ash into a crystal ashtray on the edge of the desk. "Everyone. It's the biggest room of the year. Coppola will be there too. Oh, and they invited Bruce Lee."
Duke stopped. His eyes locked onto Don. "Bruce Lee?"
"Yeah," Don nodded. "He was invited. Big deal for him."
A massive smile spread across Duke's face. Bruce Lee. The Dragon. Duke had grown up watching his movies in his past life.
He respected the man's philosophy, his work ethic, and his sheer screen presence. Bruce was on the verge of exploding into global superstardom with Enter the Dragon.
"Okay," Duke said, his energy completely shifting. "I'm in. I'm definitely going. At the very least, I'm getting a photograph with Bruce Lee. That alone is worth putting on a tuxedo."
Marilyn looked relieved, but she didn't lose her focus. "Excellent. Now for the primary item on the agenda. The red carpet. You cannot walk the red carpet alone. You need a date."
"A date," Duke repeated flatly.
"A companion," Marilyn corrected smoothly. "This is not about romance, Duke. This is a branding issue. The girl on your arm sends a message to the public and to the industry. The image must be success, youth, and sophistication."
Duke leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He looked at both of his assistants. He needed to make a boundary very clear right now.
"Listen to me very carefully," Duke said. "I am setting one hard rule. No married women."
Don frowned slightly. "Duke, half the starlets in this town are technically married or in the middle of a messy divorce. It's Hollywood. People love a little danger and you have dated married women before."
"No," Duke cut him off. "I want a clean, aspirational image. We stay out of the gossip rags and we stay in the business section. Do you understand? I don't to publicly look like that"
Marilyn nodded approvingly. "I agree completely. It's smart risk management. We keep the focus on the product, not your personal life."
Marilyn reached into her manila folder and pulled out a stack of glossy eight-by-ten photographs. She spread them out across the surface of Duke's desk.
"I have compiled a list of rising stars," Marilyn explained. "These are women who are currently unattached, highly photogenic, and have projects in development that we could benefit from associating with."
Duke looked down at the photos. This was exactly how the machine worked. You didn't leave millions of dollars of free publicity to chance.
He pointed to a photo of a young, striking blonde woman with wide eyes and a rebellious smile. "Candy Clark."
"Good eye," Don said, stepping closer to the desk. "She's fresh. She's currently shooting a movie called American Graffiti directed by George Lucas that is a Paramount Production."
"Bringing Candy gives her early exposure to the media," Duke mused aloud. "Put her in the maybe pile."
Marilyn tapped another photo. A beautiful young woman with long, dark hair and a wholesome, girl-next-door face. "Susan Dey. Stanley Jaffe strongly recommended her. She's starring on The Partridge Family right now. Massive television audience. Incredible demographics. She brings the midwestern, family-friendly viewers to our door."
Duke nodded. Stanley was smart.But bringing a sitcom star to the Oscars felt a little safe.
"She's great although she looks like a kid," Duke said.
Marilyn smiled. She had saved her best card for last. She pulled one final photograph from the folder and slid it to the center of the desk.
Duke looked down. It was a headshot of a young woman with breathtaking, classic features, blue eyes, dark hair, and a smile.
"Lynda Carter," Marilyn said quietly.
Duke stared at the photo. He knew exactly who she was.
"She just won Miss Arizona" Don chimed in, leaning over the desk. "She's a musician and she's smart."
"Where are we on her television contract?" Duke asked.
Marilyn opened a notebook. "Business Affairs is finalizing the paperwork this week. We are locking her in for the pilot of the Wonder Woman television series. It's a joint production with ABC. She is basically officially part of the Paramount family."
Duke leaned back and smiled.
"This is it," Duke said, tapping Lynda Carter's photo. "This is the play. We bring Lynda to the Oscars. We put her in a custom gown, the press will go crazy trying to figure out who she is. And two weeks later, we announce that she is starring in our new flagship television show."
"Vertical integration at its finest," Don grinned, crushing his cigarette out in the ashtray. "I'll get her agents on the phone today and set up a casual lunch for the two of you this week. Just to make sure the chemistry works for the cameras."
"Make it happen, Don," Duke said. "Marilyn, coordinate with wardrobe. Maybe a deep, rich red or a bold blue. Let's start building the visual association early."
"Understood," Marilyn said, gathering the rejected photos and slipping them back into her folder. "I will have a preliminary schedule for Oscar day on your desk by Tuesday."
"Thank you both," Duke said.
Don and Marilyn turned and left the study, their footsteps echoing lightly on the hardwood floor.
Duke sat alone for a moment. He looked at the photograph of Lynda Carter.
Thinking about DC Comics reminded him of something. He looked at his gold watch. It was past noon. He picked up the heavy black rotary phone on his desk and dialed a private number.
The phone rang twice before it was answered.
"Katzenberg," a fast voice barked through the receiver.
Jeffrey Katzenberg never stopped working. It was Sunday, and Duke knew Jeffrey was sitting in his office on the Paramount lot, surrounded by storyboards and budget sheets.
"Jeff. It's Duke."
"Boss! Good morning. Or good afternoon. Whatever it is," Jeffrey said, "I saw the Carson numbers. Unbelievable. We're getting calls from toy companies who want to license the Atari brand, but Mattel has first refusal right to anything."
"Good. Keep them waiting," Duke said. "Listen, I'm calling about the animation pipeline. Where are we on the Blue Beetle project?"
"We're in deep pre-production," Jeffrey reported rapidly. "We've got a team of writers breaking the first arc. But Duke, I have to be honest with you. The budget you approved... it's huge. It's unheard of for a Saturday morning slot. The networks aren't going to pay us a licensing fee high enough to cover the negative cost."
"I don't care about the network licensing fee, Jeff," Duke stated calmly. "That's short-term thinking. We aren't making a cartoon. We are making a permanent IP asset."
Duke stood up and began to pace behind his desk, holding the phone tight to his ear. "Look at the Disney vault. They release Snow White every seven years, and it prints money every single time because the quality is timeless. I want our television animation to be the same way. If we make it cheap, it looks cheap, and it dies after one broadcast. If we spend the money now, we create a piece of art that we can syndicate globally for the next decade."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.
"Global syndication," Jeffrey repeated softly. "We own the IP. We own the production. We own a part of the distribution. We keep a larger share of the back-end."
"Exactly," Duke said. "Don't cut corners on the animation, Jeff. Push the medium forward. If the network balks at the price, tell them to take a hike. We will syndicate it directly to independent local stations ourselves if we have to."
"I love it," Katzenberg's voice surged with renewed energy. "We'll have a fully animated Pilot for you to look at by the end of the next month."
"Keep pushing, Jeff," Duke said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Duke hung up the phone and yawned.
He walked out of his study and headed toward the back of the house. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped out onto the massive stone patio overlooking the swimming pool.
He sat down at a wrought-iron patio table, enjoying the heat of the sun. He needed to prepare for his next meeting.
Thirty minutes later, the housekeeper escorted William Friedkin out to the pool.
Friedkin did not look like a Hollywood director. He wore a simple t-shirt and jeans. He didn't carry a script or a notebook. He carried everything in his head.
"Billy," Duke said, standing up and offering his hand.
"Duke," Friedkin said, shaking it firmly. "Nice place. A little quiet for my taste."
Duke laughed and gestured to the chair across from him. "Have a seat. Do you want something to drink?"
"Just black coffee," Friedkin said, sitting down. "Let's talk about the script."
In his past life, Duke knew that The Exorcist was a cultural phenomenon. It wasn't just a movie, it was an event that terrified a generation.
Even before he took over Paramount, he had actively hunted down the rights to Peter Blatty's novel before the ink on the manuscript was even dry.
"How is pre-production?" Duke asked as the housekeeper brought a silver pot of coffee to the table.
"It's a nightmare," Friedkin said, pouring himself a cup. He didn't sound upset. "The Georgetown house set is complicated. We're building the entire bedroom on rockers so we can shake the room violently. And the refrigeration units are a massive pain. I'm freezing the soundstage down to twenty degrees below zero."
"Why?" Duke asked, pouring his own coffee. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Friedkin's process.
"Because fake breath looks terrible," Friedkin said bluntly. "I want the audience to see the actors actually freezing. I want to see real condensation when they speak. It makes the possession feel tactile."
"I love it," Duke nodded approvingly. "Spend whatever you need on the refrigeration. The realism is the entire selling point. How is the makeup testing?"
Friedkin took a sip of his coffee. He leaned in, his eyes wide with joy. "Dick Smith is a genius. The appliance he built for the girl... Duke, it is horrifying. We did a test with the contact lenses and the scarring yesterday. Half the crew had to leave the room."
Duke set his coffee cup down.
"Billy, I need you to understand what is going to happen when we release this movie next year," Duke said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "This isn't Dracula. This isn't a monster movie."
"You are taking the core beliefs of the Catholic Church and you are weaponizing them on a fifty-foot screen. People are going to lose their minds."
Friedkin nodded slowly. "I know. Blatty is worried about it. He thinks the church is going to condemn the film."
"They absolutely will," Duke confirmed as if it were an established historical fact. "There will be protests. There will be priests standing outside the theaters with picket signs. There will be articles calling you a degenerate. The backlash is going to be massive."
Friedkin looked at Duke, trying to gauge Duke's thoughs. "Are you asking me to tone it down? Cut some of the more extreme scenes? Because if you want me to compromise the material, we should stop right now cau-"
Duke let out a sharp, genuine laugh. "Billy, look at me. Do I look like a man who wants to compromise?"
Friedkin relaxed slightly. "No. You don't."
"I don't want you to tone it down," Duke said, leaning across the table. "I want you to lean into it, make the most terrifying piece of cinema people have ever seen."
Duke tapped his index finger on the table to emphasize his point. "I want you to understand the marketing mechanics of controversy. You cannot buy the kind of publicity the Church is going to give us for free."
"When a priest tells a teenager not to go see a movie because it is dangerous, what is that teenager going to do? He is going to buy a ticket. The protests and outrage are our billboards."
Friedkin broke into a wide, dangerous grin. He understood perfectly. "You're a sick man, Duke. You know that?"
"I'm a businessman, Billy," Duke smiled back. "We live in an era of anxiety. The Vietnam War. The Manson Family. People are looking for a physical manifestation of evil that they can point a finger at. We are going to give them a demon in a bedroom."
"I'll deliver my film," Friedkin promised. "This advertisement that you are talking about reminds a lot of that gay cowboys movie where one of them dies at the end."
"Midnight Cowboy," Duke said after a second of hesitation, mistakenly remembering 'Brokeback Mountain'. "Yeah both relied on outrage to sell."
"Well, we'll meet, Boss," Friedkin said. He finished his coffee in one gulp and stood up. He didn't linger. He had a movie to build
Duke watched the director walk back into the house.
The patio was quiet again, Duke picked up his coffee cup and wondered whether to go back to sleep.