The viewing room at Paramount was twelve chairs arranged in two rows, wrapped in a plush fabric, and a projection booth at the back with a window
It was April 10, 1972.
Two o'clock and in five hours, Duke would be standing on the red carpet at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in a midnight-blue tuxedo for the Oscars.
But right now, in this moment, he was sitting in the dark wearing casual wear.
Jeffrey Katzenberg sat two seats to his left, leaning forward. Barry Diller occupied the seat to Duke's right, one leg crossed over the other.
Stanley Jaffe's usual seat was empty. His grand transition toward Columbia had begun in earnest, he was in New York this week, having warm lunches with his father's people.
On the screen, Blue Beetle came alive.
It started in the police headquarters of Hub City, full of classic brick and bright lighting.
There were colorful hero photos pinned to the walls, drawn with detail.
The analog tech adorned every surface, rotary phones, reel-to-reel tape recorders, etc.
And in the middle of it all, Ted Kord. Seventeen years old, varsity jacket soldering a signal-booster for a police radio.
Officer Dan Garrett entered carrying two sodas, and Duke realized the animators had done something wonderful with Garrett, the First Generation Blue Bettle.
He was sixty-something, big, with a kind smile. He looked at Ted, when he handed the kid a soda and stood there watching him work.
"Your dad is looking for you, Ted. The Commissioner doesn't like his son staying past curfew, even if you are fixing our tech."
"Dad thinks 'tech' means a rotary phone, Dan. I'm just playing around."
The dialogue was natural and calm.
Then the parking lot turned bright and a dark purple almost black light appeared onthe night and Black Beetle landed on a superhero landing into the pavement crushing a squad car.
The Black Beetle was spectacular, black armor, imposing figure, and a voice that resonated.
Black Beetle yelled into the precint while Ted and Dan looked at it. "Garrett. The Reach is done waiting. Return the Khaji."
Ted stunned looked at it. "Dan? What is that thing? Is that... a robot?"
Dan yelled running outside of the building. "Ted, run! Get out of the area!"
Dan's transformation was beautifully designed. The blue light erupted from the scarab. The armor weaving itself over his body like liquid metal.
The translucent wings unfurling from his back. MadHouse had animated it at full animation, no shortcuts, no recycled cels, every frame drawn and painted by hand and the fluidity of the movement was noticeable.
This wasn't the stiff, cost-cutting animation that American audiences had been trained to accept by Hanna-Barbera and Filmation.
The fight was glorious. Sonic pulses versus energy shields. Mid-air grappling that looked like a Hong Kong martial arts film.
And then the bright beam, point-blank into Dan's chest, and the brave man falling through the roof of a warehouse, as the sirens approached, and the injured Black Beetle took his retreat.
Duke's smile was wide from recognition. He was watching something that the rest of the world wouldn't have seen for decades, High quality animation.
The warehouse was quiet. The battle was over. What remained was Ted, a kid, finding his friend in the rubble.
"Ted... listen. This thing... it's not from here. It gave me strength, but it never... spoke to me. It didn't think I was the right fit."
"Don't talk, Dan. There's bound to be a medic here soon."
"I don't know if it will like you... or if you'll like it. But Hub City needs a protector someone with a heart... like yours."
Dan's hand went soft. The scarab latched onto Ted's spine.
Ted got taken by police, as they wondered who attacked the precint.
And then the convenience store.
Ted crashed through the ceiling and landed on a display of potato chips. The tonal shift was fast. One minute, genuine emotion and heartfelt drama.
The next, a teenager in shiny battle armor standing ankle-deep in a crushed potato chip bags, trying to figure out which way was up.
"What the heck is that?! Get him! Is that Blue Beetle?"
'Projectile weapons detected. Host is in danger. Suggestion: Deploy thermal pulse. Neutralize all biological targets within ten meters.' A voice sounded inside of Ted Kork mind.
"WAIT, WHAT?! No! Don't neutralize them! They're just kids!"
"Efficiency is paramount. Ashes cannot violate the law a second time."
Duke watched Ted wrestle with his own arm as it morphed into a plasma cannon.
Finally the Scarab relented, an energy shield was formed and the thugs went flying through the glass window of the store.
And then the scene cut to Overthrow, a red robot, watching from the rooftop.
And finally a cut to Ted's father, the Commissioner announcing on television that he would personally lead the police search and investigation for the Blue Beetle and his accomplice, the Black Beetle, who were both wanted for the murder of Officer Dan Garrett.
The screen went bright as it ended
Everyone smiled for several seconds.
Diller uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. "The tone is brilliant. The stakes are real. This could play for teenagers and their parents too."
"The scarab alone is a toy line," Katzenberg said. "The armor variants. The weapon configurations. Every time the suit generates a new tool, that's a new action figure or attachment at least."
"The plasma cannon. The energy shield. The wings. We're looking at twelve to fifteen unique attachments, and that's before we introduce the villains."
Duke said everything. He sat in the bright screening room and let the other two men talk.
DC First Hero of the modern superhero boom was born here.
"It was great," Duke said happily. "No notes."
Duke left Paramount, and soon found himself in his dressing room at the Owlwood Estate wearing a Dark blue tuxedo.
On his wrist, a Heuer Monaco 'McQueen' that Mcqueen himself had sent him for his birthday.
The limousine arrived at six. The driver opened the rear door, and Lynda Carter stepped in.
She was twenty-one years old and she was breathtaking. The gown was gold fabric with deep red and blue accents at the shoulders and waist, subtle enough to read as fashion, specific enough to read as something else entirely if you knew what you were looking at.
"You look amazing," Duke said.
Lynda smiled. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's a beautiful assessment. Every camera on that carpet is going to point at you. They're going to forget what they were doing and just look."
"And what about you? What are you going to be doing while they're looking at me?"
"Whatever I want. Nobody watches the magician. They watch the assistant."
She laughed, and the sound of it filled the limousine.
"Ready to charm the media?" Duke asked.
Her smile was blinding. "Born ready."
Duke stepped out of the limousine and straightened his jacket.
Then he turned and offered his hand, and Lynda Carter emerged from the car, the gold gown catching the lights, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her posture perfect and her expression serene.
The camera started rapid-fire as she came out.
Duke let her have the moment. He stood slightly behind and to the left, close enough to be clearly with her, far enough to give her the frame.
They moved down the carpet, and Duke worked the press with a relaxed, easy charm that he was pretending to have. He answered questions without holding back. He smiled without performing.
He complimented other people's work without diminishing his own.
Duke's eyes were scanning the crowd. He was looking for someone. A specific person.
He saw him near the entrance. Black suit, perfectly fitted.
Bruce Lee.
Duke navigated through the crowd with purpose, bypassing the clusters of old Hollywood people who wanted to shake his hand or pitch him a project or simply be seen in proximity to the youngest studio head in the industry.
He moved toward Lee directly.
"Mr. Lee," Duke said, extending his hand. "Connor Hauser, everyone calls me Duke. I run Paramount."
Bruce Lee shook his hand. "I know who you are, Mr. Hauser," Lee said. His voice was accented but clear, "You're the one who made Dirty Harry."
"I'm the one who released it. Clint made it."
"But you chose to release it. A film about a man who trusts his instincts over the system. It was a succes."
"A big one."
"Beauty and philosophy aren't mutually exclusive." The faintest smile. "I learned that from my father."
Duke talked about The Big Boss. Bruce Lee first major film in a lead role released last year.
He talked about the specific quality of the fight choreography, and how Paramount could need that kind of action.
"I've seen footage from Hong Kong," Duke said. "The work you're doing is extraordinary. And I think that American audiences are ready for it. They just need someone to show them."
"Hollywood doesn't think so."
"Most of Hollywood doesn't think. Hollywood reacts. And when the audience shows up and the receipts start climbing, Hollywood will react to that."
Duke paused. "I'd like to talk to you about working together. Maybe a cameo or a small role on my film while we prepare something that uses everything you can do, the fighting, the philosophy, the charisma, all of it."
Lee studied him for a long moment. "I'm listening," Lee said.
Duke signaled a Paramount photographer who had been hovering at a distance to take the picture.
The Youngest Mogul and The Dragon, captured in Kodak film, a photograph that would end up decades later, in historic retrospective articles.
The ceremony itself was a joy. Duke sat in the fourth row, close enough to the stage to be visible on camera, and enjoyed three hours of speeches, musical numbers, and the particular brand of entertainment-industry self-congratulation that the Academy Awards had refined.
Lynda Carter sat beside him, her posture firm, her expression engaged, her ability to project fascination with a proceedings she found mildly boring a testament to her natural acting talent.
Duke was privately amused that Dirty Harry had been snubbed. The film was a masterpiece. He knew it. The audience knew it. The box office knew it.
But the Academy didn't appreciated it cause of politics.
He played his part. He applauded when he was supposed to applaud. He laughed at the host's jokes. He was, in every visible respect, a model attendee.
And then they called his name.
"To present the award for Best Story and Screenplay, please welcome the head of Paramount Pictures, Duke Hauser"
He stood, buttoned his jacket and walked to the stage from the back. The applause was generous.
Duke looked down at the teleprompter, the blue-white text scrolling uselessly past his field of vision. He let a small, knowing smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, then looked directly into the camera, ignoring the script entirely.
"You know," he began, "these scripts are written months in advance. They're vetted, polished, and scrubbed until they lose their personality. A lot of people are terrified of saying the wrong thing, so they end up saying nothing at all."
"But each of these films managed to survive while keeping a strong personality"
He picked up the list of nominees.
"The nominees for Best Story and Screenplay are:"
The Hospital– Paddy Chayefsky
Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion– Elio Petri and Ugo Pirro
Klute– Andy Lewis and Dave Lewis
Summer of '42– Herman Raucher
Sunday Bloody Sunday– Penelope Gilliatt
Duke didn't reach for the envelope immediately. He let the silence hang for a beat, and finally broke the seal on the envelope.
He pulled the card out, glanced at it, and gave a sharp, appreciative nod despite never watching this film.
"And the Oscar goes to Paddy Chayefsky for The Hospital."
Applause followed.
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Surprisingly difficut to write this chapter