Inside his private office, Duke sat behind his desk, a can of Dr Pepper sat near his right hand at 5 am in the morning.
On the desk lay a stack of Hollywood trade papers.
Duke picked up the document, scanning the official nominations for the upcoming 46th Academy Awards, scheduled to take place on April 2nd.
Paramount's creative bets over the past year had paid off.
Under the heading for Best Picture, the studio held two of the five spots.
William Friedkin's cultural phenomenon The Exorcist, and George Lucas's nostalgic film American Graffiti.
The director category offered an measure of validation for Paramount's executive vision.
The Exorcist, alongside American Graffiti once more appeared.
The remaining slots were populated by international titans and heavy hitters, including Bernardo Bertolucci for Last Tango in Paris, Ingmar Bergman for the haunting Swedish drama Cries and Whispers, and The Sting which was almost a Paramount Production.
The acting categories were similarly littered with Paramount talent, featuring nods for Jack Nicholson's performance in The Last Detail, Al Pacino's in Serpico, young Tatum O'Neal's turn in Paper Moon, and the dual performances of Ellen Burstyn and Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
Even the international feature Day for Night, directed by François Truffaut, had broken through into the Best Foreign Language Film category.
Duke leaned back in his chair, as he picked up a sleek fountain pen. He made a small checkmark next to The Exorcist in each of its ten separate categories.
"Ten nominations total," he murmured to the empty room, "Not bad for a year like 1973."
He reached forward and pressed the plastic button on his desktop intercom, the small machine buzzing to life. "Send a case of good French alcohol to Friedkin's office with compliments," Duke instructed his assistant. "And track down Lucas. Tell him he's getting a production bonus added to his contract, regardless of what happens on Oscar night."
The lingering satisfaction from the morning's awards data carried Duke back out onto the bustling floor of Stage Sixteen later that afternoon, where the creative energy of the Young Frankenstein set continued.
Of course he had to arrive on set at 6 pm to start doing the monster makeup with Tuttle before.
The production had moved into the scene where the monster, portrayed by Duke layed on the operating gurney, demonstrating basic, controlled motor skills that signaled the triumph of the experiment. Gene Wilder, clad in a laboratory apron, his arms raised slightly as if to bless his own creation.
Then came the classic comedic element Marty Feldman, who was supposed to be leaning casually on his wooden prop cane in his tattered Igor costume, but did not have a can for some reason reached into his vest pocket.
He struck a wooden match to light a cigarette. The bright burst of flame flickered in the dim laboratory light, triggering a hardwired terror within the reanimated monster.
In a fraction of a second, the docile medical miracle vanished, replaced by a panicked wall of muscle. Duke lunged forward, his green-painted hands locking around Frederick's throat.
The comedic choreography of the scene shone, turning a potentially terrifying moment into scene filled with physical humor.
On one level, the reality was grim, Frederick was being choked by a seven-foot-tall reanimated corpse(High boots).
On the other level, the comedic tone took over as his eccentric assistants proved to be completely unhelpful, transforming a life-or-death medical crisis into a bizarre misunderstanding.
As the giant's fingers squeezed tighter, Frederick'sbooming voice was reduced to a pathetic squeak that barely carried across the room.
"Give... him... a... sed..." Frederick gasped out, his face turning a shade of crimson like he was really being choked, as his wide eyes darted toward his assistant.
Igor merely leaned in closer, "What? Give him the what?"
Frederick stops fighting the grip for a split second to raise his hands, holding up fingers to indicate syllables or words, adopting the mechanics of a game of Charades.
With his oxygen rapidly depleting, Frederick uses his arms to act out the solution.
He raises one fist high in the air, holding an imaginary, massive syringe.
With his other hand, he slaps his forearm to pretend he's finding a vein.
He then drives the imaginary needle down into his arm with an exaggerated wincing as if he's actually injecting himself.
He repeats this stabbing motion over and over, his face contorting in absolute exasperation at his assistants.
As Frederick wildly stabs at his own arm in mock-agony, the comedy peaks because of Igor's lack of urgency.
Instead of panicking that his employer is turning blue, Igor calmly shouts out terrible, wildly off-base guesses, misinterpreting the stabbing motion.
Frederick's gestures become faster and more violent as he begins to black out. He points aggressively at the Monster, then stabs the air again.
Finally, the movement clicks for Inga. Watching Frederick mimic the plunge of a syringe, she gasps, her face lighting up with the joy of winning a party game.
Inga says. "A sedative! Give him a sedative!"
The moment she guesses correctly, even while being choked to death, Frederick gives a desperate, wide-eyed nod of validation before pointing frantically toward the medical supplies.
Inga scrambled across the laboratory floor, grabbing acomically oversized hypodermic needle from a nearby metal tray.
She lunged forward and plunged the needle directly into the monster's ass cheek. The reaction was instantaneous, the Monster's eyes rolled back into his head, his grip relaxed, and he collapsed onto the bed guided by Frederick who laid on top of the monster.
"Cut!" Mel Brooks bellowed from behind the cameras, his laughter echoing off the stage.
Following the successful completion of the day's filming schedule, he slowly walked back to his executive office suite on the other side of the lot.
As he was looking at his monster appearance on the mirror of his office, Barry Diller ushered a small man into the room. The visitor wore an expensive but slightly rumpled suit that seemed to not be tailored for him, Dino De Laurentiis.
Duke knew the legendary Italian producer's history.
Born in Torre Annunziata near Naples in 1919, the son of a humble pasta maker had started his cinematic journey as a film extra before rising to become a dominant producer of sweeping Italian films like Bitter Rice, La Strada, and War and Peace.
In the mid-1960s, he had constructed Dinocittà, a massive, state-of-the-art studio complex just outside Rome, intending to position Italy as the Hollywood of Europe. But the political climate had shifted dramatically, tearing a hole through his ambitions.
The Italian Socialist government of the late 1960s and early 1970s had passed highly restrictive cinematic laws, strictly limiting what could officially be classified as an "Italian movie" eligible for state funding.
International crews were suddenly limited, and foreign directors faced heavy punitive taxes that made large-scale co-productions nearly impossible.
The government subsidies that De Laurentiis relied upon to finance his films evaporated almost overnight.
Fed up with endless union disputes, unfavorable production regulations, and constant legal battles with local artists and politicians, Dino had publicly condemned the Italian cinema bureaucracy.
"They are strangling the golden goose," he had famously told Variety in a scathing 1972 interview. By 1973, he had locked the gates of Dinocittà for good and moved his entire operation across the Atlantic to the United States.
One of the biggest 'what if's' of the film industry is whether De Laurentiis would have been able to actually turn Italy into the Hollywood of Europe, after all, no country's film industry has ever truly given Hollywood a run for it's money, but Italy has aproached the closest.
His American reinvention was already bearing fruit, as evidenced by the trade sheets sitting on Duke's desk.
Serpico, distributed by Paramount, was currently enjoying massive critical and commercial success across the country. Dino had also produced the lucrative crime drama The Valachi Papers and was actively developing the political thriller Three Days of the Condor.
Yet, behind the roaring success and the expensive suits, Duke knew that the Italian producer was facing a severe cash flow problem.
Rebuilding an entire production empire from scratch in a foreign country required an immense amount of liquid capital, and the current economic recession had sent bank interest rates skyrocketing across Wall Street.
De Laurentiis stepped into the office with a confident stride, extending a thick hand that gripped Duke's green hand with force.
"Hauser," Dino boomed, his Italian accent filling the room with warmth. "You look like if a... french man went through the Battle of Verdun. Did a blind tailor sew you together?"
Duke smiled, the platform boots making him tower even higher over the producer as he gestured toward the leather chairs in front of his desk. "Dino. Sit down."
Coffee was poure by an assistant, the aroma drifting through the room.
Duke didn't waste time on standard industry pleasantries, preferring to cut straight to the core of the meeting. "You hold the exclusive film rights to Flash Gordon," Duke stated clearly, leaning forward.
"I want them. George Lucas wants to direct it for Paramount. Name your price."
De Laurentiis leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands wide in a theatrical gesture.
"Duke, Duke, Duke," Dino said, "Flash Gordon is a crown jewel of science fiction. I could easily make this picture myself. I already have the international connections, special effects, incredible costume designers, a musical score planned by..."
Duke interrupted him. "You have Fellini lawsuits, Dino. Don't waste my time."
The smile on De Laurentiis's face froze instantly, his hands suspended in mid-air.
"Federico Fellini," Duke continued calmly, "has been suing your production company for years over unpaid profit participation on La Strada, Nights of Cabiria, and half a dozen other pictures."
"The courts in Rome keep ruling against you, and the appeals are running out. You've already paid millions in legal fees and settlements, and your cash flow is bleeding out through a thousand tiny cuts."
De Laurentiis said nothing, his jaw tightening as he slowly lowered his hands to the armrests of the chair.
"I know you closed down Dinocittà," Duke said, laying out the financial reality of the situation. "You moved everything to America to rebuild your whole film empire. But you need liquid capital right now to finance your upcoming films, and you won't want to go to the New York banks to borrow money at twenty percent interest during an inflation crisis."
Duke reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a single sheet of white paper, and slid it across the polished wood surface toward the Italian producer.
"1.5 million dollars cash. A direct wire transfer into your account within twenty-four hours. In exchange, you receive a producer credit on the film and nothing else. No backend profit participation. No sequel rights. Paramount owns Flash Gordon outright completely."
De Laurentiis stared at the single sheet of paper for a minute, his fingers drummed a rhythmic pattern against the armrest of the chair as he weighed the immediate financial relief against the loss of a media property.
"You know Hauser, in Italy we call men like you 'Tirchio', it means an ambitious person who looks out in bussiness for win-win situation." Dino said, his voice quiet but intense. "You know this?"
Duke leaned back. "Thank you for the compliment, Dino."
"One million. Producer credit. No backend," Dino repeated, shaking his head.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a fountain pen, and unscrewed the cap. "You drive a hard bargain, Duke. But I respect a man who takes the time to do his homework properly. Have you ever heard the term 'Jew me down'."
He leaned over the desk and scrawled hi signature across the bottom of the contract. "The Flash Gordon deal is officially done. It belongs to Paramount. But I have a counter-offer for you now."
Duke raised an eyebrow, gesturing for the producer to continue. "I want to sign a long-term producing deal with Paramount Pictures," De Laurentiis stated, leaning forward with renewed energy.
"Seven years. Ten pictures total. Your studio provides the financing, and my company produces the films. We split the net profits fifty-fifty down the middle. My production banner becomes your exclusive first-look producer for all international projects."
Duke listened quietly, considering the scope of the proposition, not wanting to accept directly. "Why come to me with this, Dino?" Duke asked frankly. "Why not take a deal like this to Universal, or Warner Brothers? They have deep pockets."
De Laurentiis shrugged his broad shoulders, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "You are a man who is not afraid of a little creative risk."
"You gave William Friedkin the green light for The Exorcist when every other studio boss in this town though it was blasphemous garbage that would ruin the company. You backed young Lucas on American Graffiti despite his last movie being hot garbage."
"Not to mention i heard Paramount has a toilet underdog film in pre production" He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You are crazy, Duke. Just like me. We belong in business together."
Duke extended his hand across the desk, his grip firm. "Draw up the formal proposal, Dino. I'll have Diller look over things first."
De Laurentiis shook his hand with a powerful grip. "We will make beautiful movies together, Duke."
Duke didn't answer the words, he simply offered a knowing smile as the Italian mogul stood up to leave.
After the office doors closed behind De Laurentiis and Barry Diller, the room returned to its quiet state.
Duke sat alone for a moment, and picked up his desktop telephone and dialed a familiar Northern California number. The line clicked through the long-distance relays, ringing twice before a youthful voice answered on the other end.
"Hello?" George Lucas said, the background noise of an editing bay faint but audible through the receiver.
"George. It's Duke," Hauser said, leaning back in his chair.
"Duke!" Lucas exclaimed, his excitement radiating through the wire. "I was just standing in the middle of the editing bay with the sound designers! Did you see the morning trade papers? Did you see the Oscar nominations? American Graffiti secured Best Picture and Best Director! I honestly can't believe it, Duke. It feels surreal."
Duke smiled, picturing the young director's typical messy hair and flannel shirt. "You earned every bit of it, George. The work speaks for itself. But that's not the reason I'm calling you."
A sudden, curious pause hung on the line. "Oh?" Lucas asked, his tone shifting.
"Flash Gordon," Duke said simply, letting the two words hang in the quiet air between them. "The rights are officially signed, George. De Laurentiis took the deal today. The property belongs to Paramount now. It's entirely yours. You have your big science fiction picture."
Silence followed on the other end of the line. Then, Lucas's voice cracking slightly with the intensity of his emotion.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" the young director yelled, his reserved demeanor vanishing. "Duke, I- don't even know what to say to you right now. I've been dreaming about making this movie since I was a little kid reading the comics. The rocket ships, futuristic cities, Ming... it's everything I've wanted to do."
"I know, George. I know," Duke said softly.
"I'm going to call Kurtz immediately," Lucas gabbled on, his words rushing out in a unstoppable torrent of creative energy. "We're going to start the initial pre-production work, hiring concept artists, drafting the first script outlines, putting together the model storyboards-"
Duke interrupted him with a low laugh, "Hold your horses, George, Kurtz is already working with me on Jaws."
"Let's at least finish the entire American Graffiti awards run and attend the ceremony before you disappear into pre-production, Kurtz will be mostly free by then."
"Right. Right. Of course. You're right, Duke," Lucas said, taking a breath and trying to calm his thoughts. "But thank you. Thank you for believing in my vision when nobody else in this town would even look at my scripts."
Duke leaned back in his heavy leather chair, his eyes drifting across the office to where the Monster costume hung silently on a rack in the corner.
"Get some sleep, George. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He placed the receiver back on its cradle, the quiet of the office returning once more.
He started checking some items from movies he's been involved in and he liked to keep on the office, Oliver's Harvard Scarf from Love Story, the Suede jacket from Midnight Cowboy, Doss's Pocket Bible from Hacksaw Ridge, One of Leatherface's Mask and the Chainsaw too.
He even turned around to check his own desk chair which was a prop too, Don Vito Corleone's Chair from the Godfather.
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This last part is cause he will later create a film museum, but way later, but i do wanted to show he does keep a lot of props or souvernirs