Inside the thick, soundproofed walls of Stage Sixteen, an artificial reality had been constructed by an army of craftsmen.
This was the chaotic set of Mel Brooks's Young Frankenstein, a unhinged comedic homage to the classic Universal monster movies of the 1930's.
Inside, a brightly lit makeup trailer parked just outside the soundstage doors, Duke sat perfectly still in a worn, uncomfortable brown leather barber's chair.
Hovering over him was William Tuttle, the legendary special effects makeup artist temporarily borrowed from the fading MGM empire specifically to design the iconic creature.
Tuttle carefully applied thick layers of hot foam latex directly over Duke's eyebrows, entirely flattening his forehead into a smooth, unnatural brow ridge.
Next came the restrictive foam collar, secured around his throat, complete with metallic neck bolts screwed into the rigid material.
Following the changes, Tuttle caked Duke's entire face, neck, and hands with a layer of sickly green-gray foundation, a heavy, grease-based paint that clogged his pores and neutralized his natural, healthy complexion.
Finally, Duke was forced to shove his feet into stiff platform boots that laced all the way up his muscular calves, easily adding four agonizing inches to his already large height.
Through the entire three-hour ordeal, Duke endured the process in silence, his eyes staring blankly at his own reflection in the vanity mirror.
An overly eager, young production assistant nervously knocked on the trailer door, offering him a fresh cup of hot coffee. Duke mouthed no. since he could really drink without a straw with this makeup on.
The silence of the makeup trailer was ended by the entrance of Teri Garr, the actress was fully dressed in her 19th century Bavarian peasant costume.
"You know, Duke," Garr chirped cheerfully, taking a slow sip of her hot coffee, "I genuinely think the neck bolts make you look more handsome. It brings out the green undertones in your eyes."
Despite the latex, and the exhausting three hours in the chair, a small smile slowly broke through the green greasepaint on Duke's face.
Out on the soundstage, Mel Brooks was directing the production.
The laboratory set was a masterpiece. Mel Brooks utilized the actual electrical laboratory equipment built by Kenneth Strickfaden for the original 1931 Universal Pictures classic.
Brooks tracked down Strickfaden, who had kept the historic, functioning props stored in his garage.
The scene being filmed was the legendary "It's Alive" sequence.
Gene Wilder, playing the neurotic Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, stood anxiously beside Garr and Marty Feldman, who was leaning heavily on his prop cane in his Igor costume.
The soundstage lights darkened, simulating a midnight thunderstorm, while a dedicated stagehand shook a large sheet of metal to simulate rolling thunder.
Lying flat on his heavy back atop the elevated gurney, covered by a white medical sheet, was Duke.
Brooks loudly yelled "Action!" and the comedic machinery immediately sprang to life.
Outside Castle Frankenstein, a fierce lightning storm rages. Inside the cavernous laboratory, Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, Inga, and Igor prepare for the experiment.
The Monster lies on a operating table, covered in a medical shroud.
Frederick is intense and focused, wearing a dark apron and rubber gloves. He instructs Igor to prepare the electrical apparatus, and the table is mechanically hoisted up toward the skylight into the heart of the lightning storm, surrounded by buzzing electrical machinery.
Frederick delivers a dramatic, passionate monologue, shouting into the storm, demanding that the elements give his creation life. Lightning flashes, sparks fly, and the table is lowered back down.
Frederick rushes over, checks the pulse, listens for a heartbeat, and looks for any sign of movement.
Nothing happens.
The gothic horror atmosphere shatters.
Instead of maintaining his dignified, scientific composure, Frederick falls apart. He tries to act casual for a brief second, checking the monster pulse several times before bursting into a hysterical temper tantrum. He screams, "Give him some life!" before being dragged by Igor and Inga, entirely defeated.
As Frederick laments his failure, Igor looks at the camera and hints toward his sobbing boss, "Quite dignity and grace." while Frederick shouts for his momma.
Brooks yelled "Cut!" through a it of laughter.
However, the comforting time on the comedy set was temporary.
Following the successful completion of the filming schedule for the day, Duke slowly retreated alone directly back to his private executive trailer.
He sat down in an uncomfortable chair, slowly peeling off the prosthetic forehead with careful movements.
He scrubbed his face with wipes, slowly revealing his actual human features directly underneath the greasepaint. He stared intently at his own direct reflection in the brightly lit mirror.
He slowly picked up the heavy black rotary telephone sitting on the small table, hesitating for a long moment, before finally dialing the familiar number for Lynda's arizona house.
The telephone loudly rang six entirely separate times, there was no answer.
The depressing aura of the small trailer was shattered as Barry Diller burst directly through the door without bothering to issue a single polite knock.
Diller clutched a crumpled afternoon edition of the local newspaper tightly in his sweaty hand. "We have a entirely unprecedented political situation rapidly developing in Washington," Diller announced rapidly, his voice highly pitched with stress.
"The House Judiciary Committee has just officially, formally opened a public impeachment inquiry directly against Richard Nixon."
It was an historical moment; the government had officially authorized the committee to investigate the President.
Duke, currently still sitting casually in his simple white undershirt, having only partially removed the monster makeup, listened calmly, getting the Lynda stuff from his mind.
Duke recognied the long-term strategic implications of the breaking political news.
He looked directly at Diller, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any specific emotion.
"We immediately need to start entirely dialing back the obvious pro-Republican slant currently being authored on the ANE network," Duke ordered firmly, formulating a corporate pivot in real-time.
"Absolutely no abrupt overnight shift. Just slowly, move the overall network tone entirely toward a centrist, branded 'fair and balanced' journalistic perspective. As this impeachment unfolds, we need to look exactly like totally objective, trusted journalists, not like sinking partisan loyalists entirely tied to a doomed administration."
"And Barry, immediately, quietly identify exactly which prominent Democrats are likely to successfully run and actually win. We need to start backing the right horses." Diller immediately nodded, quickly scribbling notes directly onto his expensive white shirt cuff.
Diller's professional demeanor suddenly darkened. He slowly folded the newspaper, taking a deep breath.
"The political collapse of the President of the United States is unfortunately not the bad news I needed to bring you today, Duke," Diller stated.
Diller quickly explained the unfolding corporate nightmare currently engulfing their lucrative music division.
David Wynshaw, a powerful, entrenched senior executive actively working directly underneath Clive Davis at Paramount Records, had just been unceremoniously fired.
A secret federal wiretap had successfully caught Wynshaw's private office telephone explicitly discussing highly illegal financial deals directly with a known dangerous East Coast heroin trafficker.
The grim details rapidly poured entirely out of Diller's mouth.
The federal investigators suspected organized interstate heroin smuggling actively combined with illegal "payola" connections, essentially utilizing illegal narcotics to bribe influential radio DJs across the country to force them to play Paramount records on the air.
Furthermore, numerous industry insiders were calling a specific executive currently at the label the "house pimp," claiming this executive routinely, illegally procured prostitutes, large amounts of marijuana, and various other highly illegal substances specifically to keep highly demanding, difficult touring rock musicians entirely happy.
Duke slowly lifted his hand, palming his tired face in completedisbelief.
"Are you actually, seriously telling me," Duke asked slowly, entirely emphasizing every single word, "that these complete morons were using a division of Paramount Pictures to distribute illegal heroin?"
Diller grimly, confirmed the worst-case scenario. But the corporate headache actually got significantly, exponentially worse.
Diller explained that Clive Davis had furiously protested the firing of Wynshaw. Davis had aggressively marched directly into his office and loudly threatened to resign his position if his trusted junior executive was actually terminated.
Diller had immediately called the bluff. Davis had subsequently resigned.
As a direct disastrous result, Paramount Records currently had no acting president, almost no senior management structure, and was facing a federal criminal investigation.
Duke rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling a migraine blooming directly behind his tired eyes. He took a slow breath, "We need to retain our perspective on this situation, Barry," Duke stated calmly, his voice steady.
"The music division is certainly profitable, but it is not our fundamental core business. We are, entirely first and foremost, a film and television production studio. We can survive a massive hit to the label."
During Clive Davis's earlier, 1973 scandal regarding his son's bar mitzva, Duke had strictly, instructed Diller to force the immediate renegotiation and long-term extension of every single major artist contract sitting at Paramount.
Because of that move, Davis was currently legally unable to poach their highly lucrative musical talent to a rival label.
Duke issued his corporate marching orders.
"I want you to quietly headhunt a new label president immediately, I want you to look outside the corrupt standard New York and Los Angeles executive circles. Find me a hungryexecutive currently working at a smaller independent label who knows how to run a mostly clean label."
"And get our corporate lawyers completely ready for federal interviews. We are going to cooperate to a certain extend with the federal government, and we are going to throw Wynshaw and Clive and anyone else involved to the wolves."
Diller nodded his understanding and quickly turned toward the narrow trailer door to leave.
Roughly an hour later, the door to the trailer flew open once again, announcing the highly flamboyant arrival of Robert Evans.
He wore tight trousers, a brightly colored silk shirt unbuttoned dangerously low to reveal multiple heavy gold chains resting against his tanned chest, and he was casually holding a bottle of vintage French champagne in his hand.
"The entire studio knows exactly what is happening, Duke," Evans stated smoothly, popping the cork.
"You have been sleeping in your office for weeks." Evans was not sympathetic, he was if anything relieved. "A powerful man exactly like you should not be tied down. Lynda is a lovely girl, but she is a traditional wife type. You need an exciting girl to live out your youth."
Before Duke could throw the arrogant producer out of his private trailer, Evans smoothly shifted the conversation directly back to high-stakes Hollywood business.
Dino De Laurentiis, the incredibly powerful, highly aggressive independent Italian producer, had optioned th film rights to the classic Flash Gordon property.
However, Evans explained that De Laurentiis was open to negotiating a co-production deal with a major studio, or even entirely selling the rights outright.
The leverage entirely belonging to Paramount was that George Lucas had already officially signed a binding letter of intent to direct the Flash Gordon project entirely for them, contingent on actually securing the underlying rights.
"You must open immediate negotiations directly with De Laurentiis," Duke said firmly. "Remember we must keep George Lucas happy and entirely under the Paramount umbrella."
With the sci-fi business officially settled, Evans, currently sipping the expensive champagne directly from the bottle, smoothly,pivoted directly back to Duke's love life.
Evans slid a glossy article of a New York magazine across the table, right over Duke's discarded makeup wipes.
The picture framed the striking, high-cheekboned face of Margaux Hemingway beneath a single headline, THE NEW BEAUTY.
"From a strictly PR standpoint, Duke, standing next to Hemingway's granddaughter on a red carpet is solid gold," Evans said. He waved his tanned hand, his heavy gold chains clinking around.
"The international press loves her. You're a bestselling author, a director, a self-made studio head. The two of you together would- It's a front-page waiting to happen."
Duke leaned forward over the vanity mirror as he keep passing wipes over his ear. "I am not shopping for a replacement, Robert. Me and Lynda thing it's just a small break."
Evans let out a laugh. "And that right there is exactly why you're sleeping on an office, babe. You're still thinking like a passive man holding hands at a supermarket. Sit down, shut up, and let me tell you how life actually works."
Evans leaned over the back of the barber's chair, his eyes narrowing.
"You own the keys to your kingdom, Duke. You don't need A woman, you need a rooster."
"Here's the play they don't map out for you, If you give a beautiful woman total loyalty, she gets bored. She starts testing your boundaries. She waits for a single crack in the armor and she'll tear the house down from the inside out."
Evans took a slow sip straight from the champagne bottle.
"But you introduce a little public competition? You let her know there's a line of starlets wrapped around the block waiting for her seat? The dynamic flips overnight. Suddenly, she's showing up twenty minutes early to dinner."
"She's wearing the black dress she knows you like. She's laughing at jokes that aren't even funny. She accommodates, Duke, because suddenly she's terrified of losing the title belt to the contender."
Evans tapped a manicured fingernail right on Margaux's flawless forehead.
"You don't have to yell at Lynda. You don't even have to call her. You just let the paparazzo spot you in a dark corner at the Beverly Hills Hotel with this girl."
"Let the photographers do the heavy lifting. By the time those images hit the newsstands in Phoenix, Lynda will be packing her bags. I guarantee you, on my life, you can fire me if she doesnt, she'll be back in your bed before the end of the week, and you'll never hear another word about her politics."
"Also, these kind of women, arent political, I'm anti a lot of stuff yet I sleep with a lot of Left and Right women here in Hollywood. The fact of the matter is that women dont care about politics and neither should we." Silence fell over the trailer.
Duke stared at the producer smile.
"Robert," Duke said, "That is the most profoundly cynical, piece of garbage that has ever left your mouth."
Evans's grin widened.
"And it's wrong for me. Take your bottle and get out of my trailer."
Evans's smile vanished, replaced by a casual shrug. He tipped the bottle back, and sauntered toward the narrow door.
"Suit your boring self, Duke," Evans called back over his shoulder as the door clicked open. "But the offer stands. Whenever you decide you want to stop punishing yourself, I've got Margaux's service number right here."