The Beverly Hilton's International Ballroom hosted the Governor's Ball. For Duke Hauser, it was his first time walking into this particular Oscar after party but Paramount needed someone high up here.
Paramount Pictures had just won several of the 44th Academy Awards.
The French Connection had swept the awards, taking Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Film Editing.
The gritty energy of Duke's studio had entirely overpowered the sanitized prestige the Academy usually favored.
Isaac Hayes had taken Best Original Song for Shaft.
Yes, Dirty Harry had been snubbed by the voters.
The Academy was still too cowardly, to hand a statue to a movie about a cop who bypassed the Miranda rights with a .44 Magnum. But Duke didn't care.
The box office receipts for Dirty Harry were currently still piling up on the Paramount lot. He had the money, and tonight, he had the gold, too.
Lynda Carter walked beside him, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.
"They're staring again," Lynda murmured, her eyes scanning the room.
"Let them," Duke replied, his voice low and reassuring "In this town, attention is currency. Just keep smiling, and remember most of these people are trying to figure out how to put you in a picture."
"Duke! Duke, my boy!"
The voice, slightly nasal belonged to Peter Bogdanovich. The director was talking near a towering ice sculpture, The Last Picture Show had done brilliantly, and Peter was riding the New Hollywood wave fame.
Clinging to Peter's arm was Cybill Shepherd.
Duke paused, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Time was a funny thing in life.
Just a year ago, at the 1971 Oscars, Cybill had been his date. They had walked the carpet together.
Now, here she was with Bogdanovich. Duke knew the real history where Peter left his brilliant wife and collaborator, Polly Platt, for his young starlet.
It was a scandal that was currently going around the columns of every gossip rag in Los Angeles. And it was also a sign that after Paper Moon, Paramount shouldnt hire him again since his wife, the creative genius had left his creative team.
"Peter," Duke said, extending a hand. "Congratulations on the nominations. It's a beautiful film."
"Thank you, Duke. And look at you! Paramount is practically printing its own money this year," Peter said, shaking Duke's hand vigorously. He glanced at Lynda, for a moment, before looking back at Duke. "And Cybill, of course, you remember Duke."
"Hello, Duke," Cybill said, her smile the same than it had been a year ago.
Duke gave her a warm, genuine smile. "Cybill. You look stunning tonight. I'm glad to see you both doing so well."
Peter puffed his chest out slightly. "We're gearing up for the next one. Taking a little time to make the adaptation justice, you know? You can't rush art."
Duke chuckled, "Well, don't wait too long, Peter. The audience gets restless. But I have a hope that Paper Moon will surprise us all come next awards season. Sue already told me you adapted the script."
"Well, Sue is just an agent, she doesn-" Peter stammered.
Duke just offered a friendly wink. "I run a studio, Peter so lets not wait too long. Also give my best wishes to Polly."
He didn't wait for a response. He placed his hand over Lynda's and guided her smoothly away, leaving Bogdanovich staring after him.
"What was that about?" Lynda asked, glancing over her shoulder.
"Just reminding the talent who owns the stage," Duke said mildly when he noticed something.
Charlie Chaplin was holding court.
The legendary man had returned to America after two decades of self-imposed exile in Switzerland to accept his Honorary Academy Award.
At eighty-two, he was frail, leaning heavily on a cane, his white hair a stark contrast to his iconic, youthful silhouette.
Several people were around as he spoke about his time in Hollywood.
Duke had intended to walk right past.
To the rest of the room, Chaplin was a god of cinema. To Duke, who possessed a deep, unshakeable pro-labor ethos forged in the fires of pro union advocacy in his past life, Chaplin was something else entirely.
Duke knew the history the industry tried to ignore.
He knew about Chaplin's legendary penny-pinching, his notorious wage theft during the United Artists days, and his habit of preaching anti-poverty socialism while ruthlessly squeezing the crew members and below-the-line workers who built his sets and lit his scenes.
Duke despised hypocrites, and he despised men who got rich by stepping on the necks of the working class while claiming to support them.
At least Jeff Bezos exploits you to your face, instead of hiding behind some socialist speech.
But Chaplin, spotted the young Paramount mogul and raised a hand, waving him over as the crowd parted.
Duke stopped. He didn't approach. He waited, forcing a man to guide the frail Chaplin the last few steps toward him.
"Mr. Hauser," Chaplin said, his voice a whisper of its former self, "I have been hearing quite a lot about you tonight. The young man who has turned Paramount into a big studio once more."
"Mr. Chaplin," Duke replied. His tone was perfectly polite, "Congratulations on your honorary award."
Chaplin smiled, "We must break bread, young man. We should have dinner sometime soon. Discuss the philosophy of moving pictures. I would enjoy picking your brain."
It was a famous Chaplin tactic. The dinner invitation where, inevitably, the honored guest would end up picking up the exorbitant tab because the great man 'forgot his wallet' or felt his presence was payment enough.
Well, not this time.
The executives surrounding them leaned in, smiling, waiting for Duke to accept the invitation.
"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Chaplin," Duke said, "But I'm afraid I'll have to decline."
The people around smiling froze.
Chaplin's smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Decline? My boy, I am not accustomed to being turned down for a meal."
"Well, better get accostumed Mr. Chaplin," Duke said.
Duke held Chaplin's gaze, unblinking. "I also don't think we'd have much in common to talk about over dinner. Have a pleasant evening, and safe travels back to Switzerland."
Duke gave a polite nod, turned, and walked away with Lynda.
Behind him, the silence was deafening. Jack Valenti smiled before changing his face to a neutral expression as he decided to stop asking Duke to come to the Governors Ball.
"That was the most interesting thing I have seen in this whole night."
Duke turned. Leaning against the brass railing of the bar, holding a scotch and looking at Duke was Paddy Chayefsky.
The writer had his Oscar for The Hospital tucked casually under his arm like a newspaper.
"Mr. Chayefsky," Duke said, accepting the whiskeys from the bartender and handing one to Lynda. "Congratulations on the win. You earned it."
"And you, Mr. Hauser, earned my undying respect," Chayefsky said, taking a sip of his scotch. "First, you hijack the teleprompter to tell the Academy their scripts are written by cowards. And then, you publicly insult Chaplin over his labor practices. You got quite a spine."
Duke laughed. "I find a spine very useful for dealing with people like Chaplin."
Chayefsky's eyes gleamed. "You meant what you said up there. About films needing a personality. About the world being a messy place."
"I did," Duke said, "People are tired of being anesthetized, Paddy. They go to the movies, they turn on their televisions, and they're fed sanitized garbage while the real world burns outside their windows. They are angry. That's why our slate worked so much"
"The television networks," Chayefsky murmured, "They're turning news into entertainment and commodifying the anger of the common man."
"Exactly, well, If you have a script like that, bring it to Paramount. I won't ask you to soften it..."
"I just might take you up on that, Duke," Chayefsky said, "I just might."
Duke and Chayefsky spoke for a while about the idea, with Chayefsky saying he would write a script to present to Duke soon, Duke knew that film would be 'Network', the 1976 film that Duke loved.
Duke excused himself from Chayefsky, he found Bruce Lee standing near the terrace doors, away from the dance floor.
Standing next to Lee was a man with sharp eyes and a intelligent demeanor. Raymond Chow, the founder of Golden Harvest.
"Bruce," Duke said, approaching with a warm smile.
"Duke," Lee nodded respectfully. "I would like you to meet my partner. Raymond Chow of Concord Production Inc. and Golden Harvest."
"Mr. Chow," Duke said, extending his hand. "It is a genuine pleasure. I've been following your moves in Hong Kong. You're building something extraordinary."
Chow shook his hand, his grip firm. "Thank you, Mr. Hauser. Bruce has told me about your conversation on the red carpet. It is rare for a major American studio head to show such a specific interest in our cinema."
"Most studio heads don't look past europe when it comes to films," Duke said bluntly. "I think the action cinema you are producing in Hong Kong has a action energy, that American films lack."
"Bruce and I have just formed Concord. We are currently in post-production on our first feature, The Way of the Dragon. Bruce directed it, wrote it, and stars in it."
"And he fought Chuck Norris in the Colosseum," Duke added, pulling the detail effortlessly from his future knowledge.
Lee blinked, surprised. "How did you know about the Colosseum? We kept the location shoots very quiet."
Lee seems to have forgot to even mention that the shoot was illegal.
He joked in his mind that for his debut he stole shoots in Harvard, meanwhile for Bruce Lee debut he stole shoots in the Rome Colliseum
Duke smiled easily. "I have good scouts, Bruce." He looked directly at Chow. "Paramount would like to distribute The Way of the Dragon in America, Raymond."
Chow was silent for a long moment. This wasn't a tentative offer from an indie distributor, this was the head of a big studio in Hollywood offering a bridge to the mainstream American audience.
"You are very confident in our movie, Mr. Hauser. Will your board dislike this decision?" Chow noted.
"I'm the sole owner of Paramount, Mr. Chow," Duke stated calmly. "I don't have a board of directors to ask for permission. If I want to distribute a movie, then Paramount follows my orders."
Chow glanced at Lee. Lee gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
"We should schedule a formal meeting next week, Mr. Hauser," Chow said, a slight, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "I believe we have much to discuss."
"My office will call yours tomorrow," Duke said.
The heavy lifting of the business done, Duke looked at Lee, his demeanor shifting from mogul to a man with a personal inquiry.
"You know, Bruce," Duke said, leaning against the terrace frame, "I've been pondering the idea of starting some training myself. Nothing for the cameras. Just for discipline and body training."
Lee's eyes lit up with interest. "That is an excellent idea, Duke. Martial arts is not about violence, it's about self-knowledge. I can find you a highly qualified Kung Fu instructor here in Los Angeles."
Duke gave a slow, self-deprecating shake of his head. "I appreciate that, Bruce. But I have to pass on the hard styles. I left a piece of my leg in a jungle in Vietnam a few years back."
Duke patted his thigh lightly. "The bone healed, but the joints complain if I push the pressure too hard. I can't be doing high kicks or heavy stances. I need something... calmer. I was thinking maybe Tai Chi, or perhaps Wing Chun. Something that relies on structure and hand techniques rather than putting torque on my legs."
Lee knew about physical limitations, he had severely injured his own back a few years prior and had to rebuild his entire philosophy of movement around the pain.
"Tai Chi is excellent for taking care of the body," Lee said softly, his voice resonant and serious. "But Wing Chun... It doesn't require you to leap. It is perfect for a man who cant move much."
"Sounds like exactly what I need." Duke smiled.
"Do not hire a trainer," Bruce said decisively. "When our schedules align, come to my home. We will drink tea. We will talk then."
"I'd be honored, Bruce," Duke said sincerely.
Duke stepped back into the ballroom, Lynda sliding her hand perfectly back into his. The orchestra was playing an upbeat jazz standard as Duke enjoyed the rest of the party
___
I personally dislike anti-Union socialist since im extremely Pro-Union.
Also, thoughs on Duke doing some small impact martial arts.