Duke sat on the player's bench of the Hockey ring, his leg thumping with a rhythmic, dull ache brought on by the damp Boston cold.
He watched through a viewfinder as Harrison Ford, looking leaner in a Harvard hockey jersey, carved a path across the ice.
This was the biggest spend they had planned.
Even for a guerrilla production, you couldn't just steal an ice rink.
They had rented the arena for six hours, and every tick of the clock was money being bleeding out of the budget.
Gary Kurtz had managed to round up thirty local kids from a nearby community college skaters who were happy to be paid in burgers and the promise of appearing in the background of a movie.
"George, how are we doing on the tracking?" Duke called out.
George Lucas was currently strapped into a wooden wheelchair.
It was a ridiculous-looking rig, the wheelchair was being pushed at high speed by a varsity skater while George held the camera, trying to stay low to the ice to capture the scene.
"It's shaky, but it's fast!" George yelled back, his glasses fogging up.
"That's exactly what I want," Duke said.
Harrison was a natural.
He wasn't a polished skater, but he had a grit to him, a way of leaning into the hits that looked painful and authentic.
When he got checked into the boards right in front of the lens, the sound of the impact echoed through the empty arena.
"Cut!" Duke shouted. He stood up, leaning heavily on his cane, and limped toward the edge of the ice. "Harrison, you okay?"
Harrison wiped a spray of ice from his face and gave a grim nod. "My ribs are going to hate you tomorrow, Duke. But as of now, im okay."
"It looked right," Duke said. "Take ten. We need to move the crowd."
Gary Kurtz was already directing the thirty extras.
To make thirty people look like a sold-out Ivy League crowd, they were moving them section by section for every shot.
"Alright, everyone! Move to the left of the goal! Put your scarves on, look excited! You're watching the greatest game of the season!"
It was the most professional set they had been on the whole production.
But the clock was the enemy.
By the time the fourth hour hit, the ice was getting soft, the extras were getting tired, and Duke's leg felt like it was being gnawed on by a frozen dog.
By three in the afternoon, they were packed into the van, smelling like sweat and cold dampness.
The transition from the loud, echoing rink to the next location was a jarring shift into silence.
"We have to be very quiet," Gary warned as they pulled onto a narrow, cobblestone street in a grittier corner of Cambridge.
"I found this place through a guy who knows a guy. The landlord is a bit... unconventional. He took payment in cash, no receipt. But me and George checked it out and it fits our needs."
"He doesn't want to know our names, and he definitely doesn't want the neighbors calling the cops about movie. Im pretty sure, he thinks we're a porn crew"
The apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up. For Duke, the stairs were a mountain.
He took them one at a time, jaw clenched, the wood groaning under his weight.
The space was tiny. It was a one-bedroom flat with peeling wallpaper and a kitchen the size of a closet. It was perfect.
It looked exactly like the kind of place two students would live when they had been cut off from a millionaire's inheritance.
"We can't use the big lights," George whispered, looking at the ancient fuse box in the hallway.
"If we pull more than ten amps, the whole floor will go dark. And we can't make noise. The woman downstairs works the night shift and she's got a temper."
"Adapt and survive," Duke said.
They pivoted.
George and the lighting tech began stringing up China Balls, simple paper lanterns with low-wattage bulbs.
It created a soft, warm, amber glow that made the tiny apartment feel even more intimate.
To handle the camera noise, they wrapped the Eclair in a couple of heavy wool winter coats.
It muffled the mechanical whirring so they could record Harrison and Blythe whispering their dialogue.
"It's better this way," Duke whispered to Gary as they huddled in the cramped bathroom, watching the scene through the open door.
"The smallness... it forces them together. They have to touch. They have to be close."
Later that evening, as the crew was packing up the silent "heist" of the apartment, Duke sat on a milk crate in the kitchen, icing his knee with a bag of frozen peas.
Blythe Danner sat on the counter across from him, sipping a lukewarm tea.
"You look roughed up Duke," she said softly.
"Thanks for the worry, butsome cold air, isn't going to affect me," he grunted.
"Look, i was thinking about the script," Blythe said. "The scene coming up with Oliver's father. Oliver Barrett III. You haven't cast him yet, have you?"
Duke shook his head. "I need someone who feels like an Old timer. Someone who can stand in a room and make Harrison look inexperienced just by existing. I've looked at a dozen character actors, but they all feel too... theatrical."
Blythe tilted her head. "So, I know this guy. He's been doing a lot of stage work, but he's looking to transition more into film. He's intense, but he's quiet. Have you ever heard of Jason Robards."
Duke froze, the bag of peas slipping slightly.
Jason Robards.
In his memory of the future, Robards was an icon.
The man who would win back-to-back Oscars.
"You think he'd do it?" Duke asked, trying to keep his voice casual. "It's a small role. And we aren't exactly paying high rates."
"Jason likes good writing," Blythe said. "And he likes people who take risks. I could give him a call. He's in New York right now."
"Call him," Duke said. "Tell him we're shooting a love story with a great script. Get me at least a meeting with him, please."
Blythe smiled. "I'll talk to him."
As she walked away, Duke leaned his head back against the cold, peeling wallpaper.
He thought about the hockey rink, the "stolen" apartment, and the million-dollar gamble he had made in Joe Levine's office.
The cold in his bones felt a little less biting, the pain in his leg felt like a fair trade.
He closed his eyes and could almost hear the music, the piano theme he knew would eventually break the world's heart.
"I'm going to make it," he whispered to the empty, quiet kitchen.
They quickly transitioned from the salt-crusted streets of Cambridge to the neon-and-steam grit of midtown Manhattan.
Duke and Gary Kurtz arrived at a dinner around midnight, their coats still smelling of Boston and the cramped van they'd lived in for the last week.
Jason Robards sat in a corner booth, a glass of scotch in front of him and a well-thumbed script for a Broadway play splayed open on the table.
He looked up as they approached, his face a map of deep-set lines and weariness.
"Blythe said you were coming," Robards said. His voice was like gravel being stirred in a velvet bag. "She also said you were a tall man. She wasn't lying."
Duke slid into the booth, his cane clicking against the brass rail. "Mr. Robards. Thanks for taking the time. I know you're in the middle of a production."
"I'm always in the middle of something," Robards said, closing his script. "Gary, good to see you. Blythe told me you were out in the cold playing at being a student."
Gary Kurtz grinned, waving over the waiter. "The student disguise is remarkably effective, Mr. Robards. It's amazing what people will let you do if they think you're too young to know any better."
"So," Robards said, turning his gaze back to Duke.
"A love story. It's1967, everyone out there is burning bras and protesting the war, and you want to make a movie about an Ivy League boy and a working class girl who gets sick. Why?"
"Because the war ends eventually," Duke said, leaning forward. "People will naturally want to watch things that will take their minds and help them avoid the current situation."
Duke took a breath, ignoring the ache in his leg. "In my script, Oliver Barrett III isn't a villain, he truly wants his son to follow what he believes is the correct path"
"Although he's a very class-consious man, he does it for the family. Meanwhile his son despises him and tries to seek freedom from the Barrett family formula for success."
Robards took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving Duke's.
"I read the pages Blythe sent," Robards said after a long silence. "It's dangerously sentimental. In the wrong hands, it's a soap opera."
"That's why I'm using the right hands," Duke countered. "I'm trying to make people feel a conection to the story and draw them in while they watch it."
Robards cracked a small, weary smile.
"I have the matinee on Wednesdays and the evening shows," Robards mused. "But my mornings are clear, and I have Mondays off."
"If you can get your crew down to the city and shoot around my theater schedule, I might be able to participate. I have always believed in supporting newcomers in the industry."
"We'll make it work," Gary said, already reaching for his notebook to check the logistics. "We're becoming very good at making impossible things look possible."
"One condition," Robards said, pointing a finger at Duke. "If we're stealing shoots, we steal them right. I arrive, we do the work, I go back to the theater. Understood?"
"Understood," Duke said, extending a hand.
Robards shook it. His grip was firm, and calloused. "Blythe told me you were good, Hauser. Don't prove her wrong."
An hour later, Duke and Gary walked out of the bar and into the biting New York air. The city was alive in a way Cambridge wasn't—a restless, electric energy that hummed in the pavement.
"We got him," Gary said, his voice hushed with excitement.
"Duke, we just got Jason Robards for a million-dollar indie. Do you have any idea what that does for our credibility in the scene?"
"It means our movie is great." Duke said, watching the yellow cabs streak past.
Robards was a guy who hasn't been much in film but he was a close collaborator to a lot of people that were well known in film.
As they walked toward their hotel, Duke felt amazing just thinking about it.
"Gary," Duke said as they reached the hotel.
"Call George. Tell him we're shooting the New York street scenes starting at dawn."
---
Some people may know Jason Robards from a 1990 PBS documentary about The Civil War that Shane Gillis loves.