The mahogany doors of Duke's Paramount office clicked shut.
Duke sat behind his massive desk, relaxed in his suit, savoring the aroma of his fresh coffee and reading box office analytics.
Sitting across from Duke were Barry Diller and Robert Evans.
Diller leaned forward, his eyes darting across columns of numbers, focused on distribution windows, marketing success, and long-tail revenue.
Evans, by contrast, slumped into the leather guest chair, looking theatrically exhausted. He still hadn't been liberated from the post-production trenches of Chinatown.
Diller spread a folder across the desk, tapping the bottom line.
"Four weeks of American Graffiti in wide release, gentlemen," Diller announced in satisfaction. "Twenty-five million in domestic box office, word-of-mouth is stellar, and we haven't even opened in Europe yet."
Evans leaned his head back, rubbing his eyes, then let out an appreciative sigh. "That Locarno play actually worked. The festival buzz carried us right through the dead late-summer weeks, you were right about the strategy, Duke."
Duke allowed a warm smile, "I usually am, Robert, but I appreciate the validation. However, let's not get complacent, American Graffiti is a hit, but our real heavyhitter this year is The Exorcist."
Diller pulled out a second set of projections from his briefcase, "William Friedkin is still tweaking the final sound mix. He's been locked in the editing bay for fourteen hours a day. The man is possessed."
Evans let out a chuckle. "Appropriate choice of words, Barry."
Duke chuckled, but quickly brought the room back to strategy. He leaned forward, tapping the new folder.
"So the plan is to open on November 26, but only in a restricted number of theaters. Build scarcity. Then expand into wide release in late December, right when holiday crowds are looking for entertainment."
"I want the marketing to remain mysterious. No monster reveals in the trailers. Let the audience's imagination do the work."
Diller nodded, scribbling notes.
Duke tapped the folders one final time. "Excellent. I need the final budget reconciliation for both pictures on my desk by Friday. I want to know exactly where we stand before we greenlight next year's slate."
Evans slowly pushed himself up from the deep leather chair, stretching with a dramatic groan. "You know, Duke, when you first took over this studio, I honestly thought you were just another delusional rich kid. I should have guessed you knew what you were doing, when you decided to keep me."
Duke looked up at him, noticing his sarcasm. "I have been handling this studio for 3 years and we are one of the top studios already. Wasn't Bludhorn going to fire you before i bought Paramount?"
Evans let out a laugh, entirely unbothered. "Bludhorn would never fire me! I was the only reason Paramount didn't go bankrupt back in those dark times."
Duke smiled, shaking his head.
Shortly after Diller and Evans departed, the intercom buzzed.
His assistant announced an unexpected visitor, Gary Kurtz, George Lucas's producing partner.
Duke pressed the button without hesitation. "Send him in."
Kurtz stepped in, looking exhausted. He carried a manila folder, his shoulders slumped.
Duke stood immediately, walking across the plush carpet to greet his friend with a smile. Kurtz shook his hand with a firm grip. "Thanks for seeing me without an appointment, Duke."
Duke waved him to the comfortable seating area. "Gary, you and George are foundational to my position on this industry. Sit down and tell me what's keeping you awake."
Kurtz collapsed onto the sofa, dropping the folder onto the glass coffee table.
He let out a long sigh. "It's about Jaws, Duke. Pre-production is hitting brick walls. Permits, mostly. Massachusetts is eager to have us, but the environmental impact reviews are taking forever. We can't start shooting in October like we planned."
Duke frowned, leaning forward. "Walk me through it. What's the delay?"
Kurtz ran through the exhausting list.
Coastal commission hearings, public beach access restrictions, conservation groups worried about the mechanical shark disrupting wildlife. Duke listened with attention.
When Kurtz finally finished, Duke slowly nodded.
"Alright. Push it to March 1974."
Kurtz blinked, his eyes widening. "March? Duke, that gives us six months of slack. Are you sure?"
Duke leaned back, crossing his arms. "Completely sure. We have The Exorcist launching in November. American Graffiti has barely released. Our slate is robust."
"I'd rather you take the time to do it right than rush and end up with a bad movie."
Kurtz let out a breath, visibly deflating as stress visibly left his body. "Thank you, Duke. I was honestly worried you were going to tell me to just figure it out."
Duke chuckled softly, nostalgic. "Gary, I remember eating cold burgers out of a greasy paper bag with you and George in a freezing rented van. Remember, when we were shooting Love Story with two broken cameras and no legal permits. You figured it out back then. I trust you to figure it out now."
A nostalgic grin broke across Kurtz's exhausted face. "God, that whole shoot was a mess. No money, no real crew, no idea what we were doing."
Duke laughed. "Speak for yourself. I knew what I was doing creatively. I just didn't have the faintest idea how we were going to pay for things."
Kurtz leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Do you remember that day we were illegally shooting on the snow field, and those two angry guards tried to detain us? Even with those crutches under your arms, you started hauling ass toward the van!"
Duke threw his head back and roared. "I remember you almost closing the sliding door on my injured leg while I was diving inside!"
Kurtz held up his hands defensively. "I had the film rolls in my jacket! I had to protect the investment! Plus, I'm too attractive to be arrested. Pretty boys like me or Harrison don't last a day in prison."
Duke wiped a tear from his eye. "You remember how Harrison Ford and Blythe Danner were the first ones into the back of the van? Those two were hauling ass faster than anyone."
Kurtz nodded, laughing hard. "George still tells that story at dinner parties. But he always leaves out the parts of that production where you almost got us all arrested."
Duke smirked. "Almost arrested and actually arrested are two very different categories."
He stood, warmly clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Tell George I said hello. And tell him to call me sometime. We don't talk enough. And Gary... just do your job producing this movie camly."
___
By late afternoon, Duke found himself in a cramped, unpretentious Jewish deli in West Hollywood. Mel Brooks's choice, not his.
Duke would have preferred a quiet steakhouse, but Mel had passionately insisted on somewhere with authentic Jewish food, Duke didn't know to politely reject the idea of tasting Jewish food.
He had already tried it before and he hated it, Gefilte fish or Ptcha were not made for humans to eat.
Duke sat in the narrow booth, wearing his tailored suit, looking entirely out of place among the bustling waiters, waiting for Mel to arrive.
Mel burst through the front doors ten minutes late, instantly apologizing while frantically waving an absurdly thick binder.
The spine featured masking tape with "Young Frankenstein – DO NOT STEAL (Seriously)" scrawled in black marker. He slid into the booth opposite Duke.
"Traffic on California is a crime against humanity, Duke! I'm deeply sorry."
Duke ordered a classic pastrami sandwich.
Mel ordered a plate of pasta with extra garlic. "I'm being Italian for lunch today, Duke. Tomorrow I'll be Jewish again. You have to keep your stomach guessing."
With the food ordered, Mel tore open the binder, spreading his proposal across the table.
A budget breakdown, shooting schedule, casting wishlist, and a single notebook page with "IT'S ALIVE!" violently scrawled in red marker.
The plan was shoot it in black and white, using original 1931 Frankenstein laboratory equipment, soundstages in England sonce its cheaper. Total budget: $2.8 million.
Duke scanned the numbers. "You're cutting these margins close, Mel."
Mel waved a hand dismissively. "Gene Wilder and I don't waste money, Duke. We might waste time laughing on set between takes, but never money."
Duke moved to the next element. "Casting?"
Mel rattled off the names.
Gene Wilder as Frederick Frankenstein, Marty Feldman as Igor, Cloris Leachman as Frau Blücher, Teri Garr as Inga, then he paused, locking his eyes onto Duke's. "And you."
Duke raised an eyebrow, slowly lowering his coffee cup. "Me?"
Mel nodded aggressively, tapping the table. "Yeah. You're six-foot-five, two hundred something pounds. You have the shoulders, but you will have to gain some fat."
Duke let out a laugh, he had actively decided not to audition to Young Frankenstein cause of how busy he was. "Mel, I'm running a studio."
Mel leaned back, crossing his arms with a smug expression. "And you're running out of excuses. Look at your schedule for early 1974. What projects do you have?"
Duke opened his mouth to argue, then paused. As he calculated.
The Exorcis would be out. American Graffiti was done. He'd just pushed Jaws to March. He did indeed had a small gap.
Mel grinned, sensing victory. "See? Nothing. You're free. 3 to 6 weeks in England, tops and you'll be back in your fancy chair."
Duke let out a sigh, realizing he was being brilliantly cornered. He changed the subject. "Marty Feldman as Igor?"
Mel nodded enthusiastically. "He said yes before I finished pitching. The man has been waiting his whole life to play a hunchback."
Duke smirked. "That's because he barely needs a costume department."
Mel burst out laughing. "That sounds anti-Semitic, Duke, but given the context, I'll allow it. Have you ever wanted to play something or make like a certain very specific movie?"
"I always wanted to do a theater play of midgets playing The Merchant of Venice. There's a guy who did a fully midget casted movie already in germany, Werner Herzog, 'Even Dwarfs Started Small'"
Mel nodded in bewilderment, as he wrote the name of the movie in a side of a page to check it out later. "Well not what i had in mind but ok."
Duke laughed, shaking his head as he looked at Mel who he had finally left spechless. "Alright, Mel. Get me a final shooting schedule and signed contracts."
Mel clutched the binder to his chest. "You will never regret this decision! It's going to be the funniest movie about grave robbing ever made!"
Duke raised an eyebrow. "That's a remarkably specific category."
Mel shrugged. "Hey, someone has to own it."
___
By the time the sun began to set over, Duke found himself in a sterile, brightly lit physical therapy clinic in Beverly Hills.
He arrived straight from the office, still in his suit, though he'd loosened his tie. He was exhausted but committed.
Sitting in a plastic chair in the corner was Lynda. She looked significantly more rested, having brought a thick book and a large water bottle.
Duke walked into the clinical space, a slight, ingrained limp altering his stride.
"You didn't have to wait for me," Duke said softly.
Lynda shrugged. "The Wonder Woman pilot is done. We're stuck in the waiting phase. I have nothing better to do right now."
Duke smiled dryly. "Lovely."
"I brought moral support," Lynda continued playfully. "And a water bottle for you."
Duke chuckled and moved to the changing room, swapping his trousers for athletic shorts and a t-shirt.
When he emerged, he was introduced to the head physical therapist, Diane, she immediately began leading him through a series of targeted exercises to retrain his gait.
"Your leg is structurally sound," Diane explained, monitoring his stance. "Now we need to remind your brain about it."
"And how do we do that?"
Diane smiled. "We make you walk funny until you remember how to walk normal."
From her corner, Lynda chimed in "He's already pretty good at walking funny."
Duke shot her a glare, Lynda merely smiled.
"You're enjoying this," Duke noted.
"Immensely," she replied.
Diane wasted no time. She instructed Duke to walk back and forth across the mirrored room, following closely behind, constantly correcting his posture.
"Stop leaning your weight to the right. You're inclining."
Duke paused mid-stride. "Im not inclining."
Diane pointed at his reflection. "You are undeniably inclining to rely more on your left leg."
From her vantage point, Lynda offered her observation, "He's definitely inclining, it's severe."
Duke glared at his entertained girlfriend. She offered an adorable, supportive little wave.
Having identified the issue, Diane introduced a rubber resistance band. "We're going to strengthen the stabilizer muscles around the joint. This is going to feel uncomfortable for the first few weeks."
Duke braced himself. "How uncomfortable?"
Diane smiled, offering no comfort. "Remember the worst leg cramp you've ever had? Worse than that."
When the grueling forty-five-minute session finally concluded, Duke collapsed into the plastic chair next to Lynda.
He was breathing hard, his right leg visibly trembling from the exertion. He looked entirely spent.
Lynda leaned over, offering the cold water bottle with a gentle smile. "So, how do you feel?"
Duke took a long pull of the ice-cold water before letting out an exhausted breath. "I feel horrible."