On a Santa Monica dance studio that smelled of old sweat, and the salt air drifting in from the Pacific.
Duke sat on a folding chair, his cane resting across his knees.
He checked his watch. 10:00 am exactly.
The door swung open, and Harrison Ford walked in.
He wasn't wearing an actor's attire, no tailored blazer. He wore a denim shirt with sawdust in the cuffs and heavy work boots.
He carried a motorcycle helmet under one arm and looked around the room.
"Morning," Harrison rumbled.
"Morning, Harrison," Duke said. "Coffee on the table if you want it."
"I'm good." Harrison set his helmet down and stood there, hands in his pockets, perfectly still, seemly a little nervous.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again. This time, the energy shifted instantly.
Blythe Danner breezed in, carrying a large tote bag and a paperback copy of The New York Review of Books.
She wore a simple dress that somehow looked like couture, and her hair was tied back in a messy knot.
"Sorry, sorry," she said, though she wasn't late.
"The traffic on the 405 is a problem." She stopped, looking at Harrison. "Oh. Hello."
"Blythe, this is Harrison," Duke said. "Harrison, Blythe."
Harrison nodded. "Hi."
Blythe tilted her head, looking at him, up and down. "You're tall, but your attire doesnt fit the preppy style i was expecting."
"Yeah, I came straight from work," Harrison said, his face betraying nothing.
"Good, but i would appreciate a better attire next time. It gives me something to adjust my performance with when I'm acting."
Harrison cracked a smile and nodded.
"Alright," Duke said, standing up. "I don't want a performance today. I don't want 'acting.' I just want to see you two existing in the same room."
"Harrison, lean against that barre. You're Oliver Barrett IV. You own the world, but you don't particularly like it."
"Blythe, you're Jenny. You're smarter than him, you're poorer than him, and you know exactly who he is."
He handed them two pages of sides, the library scene.
"Don't project your voice," Duke instructed since the walks were quite thin. "Just talk. If I can't hear you, I'll move closer."
They began.
Blythe sat on a bench, pretending to read her book. Harrison approached.
"I'm looking for a book," Harrison said. The line was simple, but he delivered it with a kind of arrogant hesitation.
"You have your own library, preppy." Blythe shot back, not looking up.
"Would you answer my question please?"
The banter flowed.
Blythe was good, her hands moving, her eyes flashing, her posture shifting.
Harrison was more calm. He took her quips and absorbed them, his stillness making her energy pop even more.
"Okay, cut," Duke said quietly.
They stopped. The tension in the room evaporated, replaced by a comfortable silence.
"How was that?" Harrison asked, looking at his boots.
"It was okayish," Duke lied, a smile touching his lips. "I think we're going to make a fortune."
That evening, the Ithaca Productions war meeting convened in Duke's living room.
The furniture had been pushed against the walls to make room for storyboards, maps of Cambridge, and a pile of budget sheets that looked more like a ransom note than a financial plan.
Gary Kurtz sat on the floor, cross-legged, eating Chinese takeout from a carton.
Next to him sat George Lucas, fiddling with a 16mm lens he'd unscrewed from a camera body.
"We have a problem with the Harvard Yard scenes," Gary said, tapping a map of the campus with a chopstick.
"I called the city. A permit to shoot on the street, close down traffic, and bring in a generator truck is five thousand dollars a day. Plus police detail."
"We don't have five thousand dollars a day," Duke said from the couch, icing his knee. "We could pay five thousand dollars for the month if they want to."
"Exactly," Gary said. "So it's best if we don't get a permit."
George looked up, "We steal the shoots?."
"How?" Duke asked.
"I still have my USC student ID," George said, pulling a laminated card from his wallet. It was slightly bent at the corner.
"It doesn't expire until next year. If anyone asks, campus security, local cops, we aren't making a Hollywood movie."
"We're just students. And we're doing a documentary on 'Architecture and Emotion' on Massachusets for our thesis."
Duke laughed. "Architecture and Emotion?"
"It sounds boring enough that nobody will ask follow-up questions," George reasoned.
"People love students, they think we're harmless. They hate Hollywood crews because crews block traffic and yell at locals."
"If we look like kids, they'll leave us alone. If anything you could take your military ID to get some mercy and take the film cannisters with you if we ever get detained"
Gary nodded, shifting into his Corman mode, the skills he'd learned working for Roger Corman, the king of the B-movies, where a budget was a suggestion and safety was a luxury.
"Here's the plan," Gary said. "We rent a single, nondescript Ford Econoline van. No logos. No nothing on the side. Just a unicolor van. We black out the back windows."
He used a dumpling to simulate the van on the map.
"Duke, you, George, and the sound guy get in the back.
"Harrison and Blythe are in a chase car, just a regular sedan. We pull up to the curb at Harvard Square. The side door slides open."
"George, you're handheld. You jump out. The actors jump out. We get the shot, walking, talking, buying a coffee. Two takes, max."
"Then everyone dives back into the van and we peel out before the meter maid even looks up."
"What about lighting?" Duke asked.
"God is our gaffer," George said simply.
"We shoot available light. We push the film stock Tri-X reversal if we have to. It's grainy, but it's real. It looks like life, not a set."
"If we need fill light, we use a bounce board. A piece of white foam core. It costs fifty cents."
Duke looked at the two of them. This was the "New Hollywood." It wasn't about the gloss, it was about the hunger.
(The hunger is the most difficult- CR7)
"And the interiors?" Duke asked. "The dorm rooms? The lecture halls?"
"We don't use Harvard," Gary said. "I found a defunct majestic building in Toronto that looks more like Harvard and we'll spend very little."
"Or we find a professor's house in Cambridge and offer him two hundred bucks and a bottle of scotch to use his study for three hours. It's called Guerilla FIlmaking for a reason.'"
"By the way, does Levine knows about this?" George asked, screwing the lens back onto the camera.
"He has an 'understanding,'" Kurtz said. "Which means if we pull it off, he's a genius for hiring us. If we get arrested, he's never met us."
"I like those odds," George grinned.
"Just make sure they don't impound the camera," Duke muttered.
Two days later, the atmosphere changed drastically.
The smell of chinese takeout was replaced by the scent of imported cigars and expensive leather.
Duke and Jeffrey stood in the foyer of a Bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. A butler had just taken their coats.
"Remember," Jeffrey whispered, adjusting his tie. "He's going to bully you. He's going to tell you the script is trash and you're lucky to be in the room. It's theater. Don't blink."
"I don't blink," Duke said.
The doors to the main suite opened.
Joe Levine was sitting in a velvet armchair that looked like a throne, wearing a silk bathrobe that was open enough to reveal a forest of grey chest hair and a heavy gold chain.
He was holding a phone in one hand and a tv remote in the other.
"No, tell him to go to hell!" Levine screamed into the receiver. "I don't care who he is! If he goes over budget, I'll burn the negatives myself!"
He slammed the phone down and looked up at Duke and Jeffrey.
His face transformed instantly from rage to an smile.
"Jeffrey! And Hauser come in. Sit. Don't mind the noise, I'm just surrounded by idiots."
They sat. The coffee table was littered with variety trades and empty glasses.
"So," Levine said, lighting a cigar that was thick as a baby's arm.
"The budget is eight hundred thousand. That's a lot of money for a movie where nobody gets shot."
"It's a bargain for a movie that everyone will see," Duke said calmly.
Levine puffed smoke into the air. "Everyone? You're arrogant. I like that. Now let's talk turkey."
He snapped his fingers, and a silent man in a grey suit materialized from the corner of the room, placing a contract on the table.
"Here's the deal," Levine said. "I put up the eight hundred cash. You get your Director spot. But I don't pay for your education. You get DGA minimum. Twenty-five grand."
Jeffrey started to object. "Joe, come on, he's the writer of Jaws—"
"I don't care if he wrote the Bible!" Levine barked. "He's never directed traffic, let alone a feature. Twenty-five grand. Take it or leave it."
"Sign it, kid. Before I realize I'm being hustled."
Duke took the pen, but he didn't lower it to the paper. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out a single, crisp slip of paper.
He placed it on top of the contract, covering the signature line.
It was a cashier's check for two hundred thousand dollars.
Levine squinted, leaning forward until his nose almost touched the ink.
The room went silent, the only sound the distant splashing of a fountain in the hotel courtyard.
Levine picked up the check, snapped it taut between his fingers, and looked at Duke with a mixture of confusion and sudden alertness.
"What is this?" Levine asked, his voice low.
"That's my skin in the game, Joe," Duke said, his voice level and cool.
"You were offering eight hundred thousand. This makes it a clean million. I'm not just the director you're hiring to stay under budget."
"I'm a co-financier. I'm putting up twenty percent of the capital. It's my royalties from Jaws money."
Jeffrey's jaw practically hit his chest. "Duke, are you insane? We didn't discuss—"
"I'm discussing it now," Duke said, eyes locked on Levine.
"This changes the math, Joe."
Levine leaned back, the check still fluttering in his hand.
He respected money, real, liquid cash more than he respected talent, scripts, or even stars.
Seeing a kid willing to bet a fortune on his own romance changed the temperature in the room.
"A million-dollar budget," Levine mused, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"And what do you want for your two hundred grand? Besides a heart attack if it flops?"
"I want the terms of a partner," Duke said, ticking them off on his fingers.
"First: 25% ownership of the film. Ithaca Productions and Embassy Pictures are co-owners of the copyright."
"Second: I don't want Net points. Since I'm a financier, I want fifteen percent of the First-Dollar Gross after 5 million. I get paid when the box office first starts to get paid."
"And third: Absolute Creative Control. No money man looking over my shoulder. If I'm spending my own money to steal shots in Boston, I also don't want to hear about the liability from your lawyers."
Levine chewed on his cigar, his eyes darting between the check and the contract. To him, the deal looked lopsided in his favor he was getting a million-dollar production value for an $800k investment, and his risk was mitigated by Duke's cash.
He still didn't believe the movie would do more than five million. He thought Duke was buying an expensive vanity project.
"Ownership of the film," Levine repeated. "You're a shark, Hauser. You know that's where the real money is if this thing ever hits television."
"I'm betting it will," Duke said.
Levine looked at the check one last time, then laughed, a loud, barking sound that filled the bungalow.
He grabbed a fresh copy of the contract, scribbled out the old terms in heavy ink, and wrote the new figures in the margin with a jagged shorthand.
"Fine. You want to be a partner? You got it. You lose your shirt, don't come crying to me for a plane ticket back to New York. You're a producer now. That means you're the one who pays for the mistakes."
He spun the modified contract toward Duke.
"Sign it. Before I regret letting you invest."
Duke took the pen and signed.
Connor Hauser.
"Welcome to the deep end, Duke," Levine grinned, snatching the check and tucking it into his robe pocket like a trophy.
"Now get the hell out of here. You've got a million-dollar movie to shoot. Don't waste a cent of it."
In the hallway, Jeffrey was white as a sheet.
He leaned against the stucco wall, looking like he might be sick.
"You realize what you just did?" Jeffrey whispered.
"That was your entire nest egg. Your Jaws royalties. If that movie doesn't clear the box office hurdles, you've just paid two hundred thousand dollars to gain some experience as a director with Kurtz and Lucas."
Duke leaned on his cane, watching the sun hit the palm fronds. He felt a strange, cold clarity. He wasn't worried about the money.
"It won't fail, Jeff," Duke said, putting on his sunglasses. "And now, nobody can tell me how to shoot it."
He started walking toward the valet stand, his cane clicking rhythmically on the pavement.
"Pack your coat," Duke called back over his shoulder. "We're going to Cambridge."
Duke walked toward his car, his cane clicking rhythmically on the pavement. He felt light. The deal was done. The actors were cast. The crew was ready.
Now, all he had to do was focus pn the production.
He drove back to his house, where the War Room was still active. Gary and George were arguing about film stocks.
"We got it?" Gary asked as Duke walked in.
"We got it," Duke said, tossing the contract onto the coffee table. "We start shooting in three weeks. Cambridge first. Then New York. Then the studio."
"Did you get the gross points?" Gary asked, looking at the document.
"Fifteen percent after five million," Duke said.
George whistled. "You really think it's going to make even five million?"
Duke looked at the young filmmaker, the man who would one day change the entire industry with his own space opera.
"George," Duke said, "I think five million is just the opening weekend."
The room went silent. Then, Gary cracked a grin.
"Well," Gary said, picking up the map of Harvard Square. "If we're going to be rich, we better figure out how not to get arrested on day one."
"I'll practice my confused student face," George said.
Duke sat down and looked at the map.
The little red circles Gary had drawn represented their stolen locations.
"Pack your things, boys," Duke said. "It's going to be a cold massachusets."
----
They're in October 1967.
I just saw a tiktok of a guy making flamingo wings, is there no humanity left in this world? What's next Pekinese Penguin?