It was silent inside the car thanks to the profound exhaustion that comes after a marathon.
Duke sat in the corner of the backseat, watching the palm trees of Sunset Boulevard blur past the tinted window.
His tuxedo collar felt tight against his neck,something that he had been enduring since three in the afternoon.
It was April 13, 1969. The night before of the 41st Academy Awards.
For the last six weeks, Duke had been running a campaign that would have exhausted a political candidate.
The Oscar campaing was a brutal, repetitive grinder of luncheons, cocktail parties, screenings, and interviews.
He had been shaken hands with men from the silent era and women who had been starlets before the Great Depression.
He had smiled until his facial muscles spasmed. He had answered the same question "How did a young man write such a sad story?" too many times already.
On the passenger side, Blythe Danner had kicked off her shoes. She was massaging the arch of her foot, her emerald gown pooling around her.
"You're clenching your jaw," Blythe said softly, not looking up from her foot.
"Am I?" Duke asked, unclamping his jaw.
"Yeah." She looked up then, offering him a small, sympathetic smile. "It's almost over, Duke. One more day, we walk the carpet, we sit in our chairs, and we clap, and then we go home."
"It feels like too much. And Harrison is also not collaborating" Duke muttered.
Blythe laughed, a warm sound that broke the silent of the car. "You're terrible. You're about to walk into the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion with the most talked about movie of the year, and you're complaining."
"I'm not complaining. I'm just... managing expectations."
"You're tired," she corrected. "Look, I'm tired too. My face hurts from smiling. My feet are numb. But i mean, think about the alternative."
Duke looked at her before turning to keep staring at the road.
"I could be back in New York," she said, "I could be tired from waiting tables. I could be tired from sitting by the phone, praying my agent calls to tell me I got a callback for a detergent commercial."
"I would rather be tired in a limousine, wondering if I'm going to win a gold statue, than that."
Duke nodded slowly.
"You deserve to win, Blythe," Duke said. "More than anyone."
"We all do," she said. "Even Harrison. Though I think he might actually punch someone at the ceremony."
After sleeping, he took a drive in the morning, Duke needed to take a meeting.
"I dont know what to do, Duke," Nolan's voice had been frantic. "I talked to the distributor in Oakland. The coin-op guys. They say it's too complicated. They asked if we do pinball. They can help us sell pinball."
Duke rubbed his temples in front of Nolan in a warehouse, he still had his unfinished acceptance speech on his jacket
"Nolan, stop trying to sell it to them," Duke said.
"Then where?" Nolan demanded. "If the guys selling pinball machines won't take it, where do we put the cabinets?"
Duke closed his eyes and recalled a memory from the future. He thought of greasy pizza, and creepy animatronic animals blinking.
"Kids," Duke said.
"Kids?"
"Families, Nolan. Think about where families go. They go to pizza parlors. They go to burger joints. Places where the parents are stuck eating and the kids are bored out of their minds."
"You put a Pong machine in the corner of a pizza place and it would do numbers."
"Pizza places," Nolan mused. "Are you sure, what if a kid damages the machine?"
"We'll seal the cabinets," Duke ordered.
"Listen to me. Let's make a plan, I want to target every family restaurant in the Bay Area. Tell the owners we split the coin drop 50/50 or that we'll sell them the machine directly after showing them that it's profitable"
"Alright," Nolan said, sounding calmer. "I can try that. But Duke... I was thinking. If we go for kids... maybe the cabinets shouldn't look so industrial. Maybe we need a mascot? Something friendly?"
Duke chuckled. "Not yet, Nolan. Let's establish the technology first."
(What should be the mascot of this Atari? Sonic, Spiro or give ideas)
"Look, we'll work something out to sell the machines. I have to go put on a tuxedo and pretend I care about Oliver!."
The red carpet was a disaster.
Flashbulbs popped in a fast rhythm that left white spots dancing in Duke's vision.
The roar of the crowd was huge.
Screaming fans pressed against the barricades, holding signs that said 'LOVE MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY' and 'WE LOVE YOU HARRISON'.
Duke stepped out of the limo, offering his hand to Blythe. As she emerged, the screaming intensified.
She worked the line like a pro, waving, smiling, turning just enough to let the photographers get her best sides.
Duke scanned the crowd until he found Harrison Ford.
Harrison looked surprisingly good. The tuxedo fit him, Duke had made sure of that, hiring the best tailor in Beverly Hills to construct it.
He was holding onto the arm of his date.
His date was a young actress named Cybill Shepherd, a rising model Duke had introduced him to a week prior, mostly to ensure Harrison didn't walk the carpet alone and look like a loner.
She was beaming, soaking up the attention, It's not easy for a model to appear at the Oscars.
"He looks like he's going to the gallows," Blythe whispered to Duke, keeping her smile fixed for the cameras.
"He looks mysterious," Duke tried to correct, he needed to defends his hero someway. "The press loves mysterious. Look at him, he's an anti-hero."
They merged groups near the entrance.
"Duke," Harrison grunted, loosening his tie a little. "How long does this take?"
"Just follow the motion, Harrison," Duke said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Smile at the people who shout your name and sign stuff."
"Okay then," Harrison muttered, as he let Cybill pull him toward a reporter from NBC.
Inside the theater, the air changed. It was cold, quiet, and smelled of velvet.
Duke took his seat. He was in the fourth row, great postion to watch everything. To his left sat Joseph Levine, the Love Story distributor.
"We got a good spot, Duke," Levine hissed, sweating profusely. "Fourth row means they expect us to walk. They don't put losers in the fourth row."
"Relax, Joe," Duke said, though his own stomach was tightening from nervousness.
The ceremony began. It was the usual parade of song and dance numbers, bad jokes from the host, and long-winded speeches about cinema.
Duke watched the audience.
He saw the faces of the attendees. They were old, the average age in the room seemed to be around sixty-five.
The categories began to be awarded.
Best Supporting Actor went to Jack Albertson. Best Supporting Actress went to Ruth Gordon for Rosemary's Baby a win for the new hollywood films, which gave Duke a flicker of hope.
Then came Best Original Score.
The presenter, a legendary composer from the golden age, opened the envelope.
"And the winner is... Connor Hauser, for Love Story."
The rush was instantaneous. The applause was polite but loud. Duke stood up, buttoning his jacket.
He kissed Blythe on the cheek, shook Harrison's hand who looked genuinely relieved that they had won something, and walked up the stairs.
He took the statue.
"Thank you," Duke said, leaning into the microphone. "Thank you to the Academy, and thank you to Blythe and Harrison, who gave the notes to my movie."
He walked off stage to thunderous applause. He had done it. He was an Oscar winner.
But the night wasn't over.
Best Director.
Duke sat rigid. This was the one he wanted.
"The winner is... Carol Reed, for Oliver!"
Duke felt the air leave his lungs. He forced a smile, clapping rhythmically as the British director walked to the stage. Beside him, Blythe squeezed his hand.
Then, the big one. Best Picture.
"The winner is... Oliver!"
The room erupted.
Duke sat there, the gold statue for Score sitting in his lap like a consolation prize. He watched the producers of Oliver! crowd the stage, thanking everyone for supporting the film, 'Fcking orphans...'
He felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
In the original timeline, Love Story had been a phenomenon, but it hadn't won Best Picture either.
Duke had hoped that with his changes, by casting Harrison Ford instead of a TV actor, by elevating the direction, he could change the outcome.
But he couldn't change the demographics.
He couldn't change the fact that the Academy still saw him as a newcomer.
The Governor's Ball was the traditional stop after the ceremony.
"Driver," Duke said as they stepped out of the theater, the cool night air hitting their faces. "Skip the party."
Blythe looked at him, surprised. "Duke? You can't skip the Governor's Ball, It's... it's the party."
"I don't feel so good," Duke said, loosening his bowtie and undoing the top button of his shirt. "I'm not going in there to congratulate Carol Reed for exploiting orphans. I want a burger."
"A burger?"
"A double-double and fries."
Harrison had already bailed, disappearing into the night with Cybill and a flask of whiskey he'd been hiding. It was just Duke, Blythe and their driver.
Twenty minutes later, the limousine pulled into an In-N-Out Burger.
A thirty-foot black limousine idling next to a lineup of muscle cars and beat-up station wagons. Duke rolled down the window. The kid taking the order, wearing a paper hat and a red apron, looked at the tuxedo, then at Blythe in her dress and jewelry, and his jaw practically hit the pavement.
"Two Double-Doubles, Animal Style fries," Duke ordered. "Chocolate shakes. And do you have any mustard?"
"Uh... no, sir," the kid stammered.
"Ketchup will do."
They parked in a street. Duke laid the Oscar statue on a side.
Duke took a massive bite of the burger, grease immediately threatening his tuxedo shirt. He chewed aggressively.
"It's a joke," Duke said, swallowing. "A complete joke. Oliver!? Really? We have the war, the assassinations, we have the world burning down. And they vote for a kid asking for more gruel."
Blythe picked at a fry, careful not to drip on her dress. "It's a good movie, Duke."
"It's a play," Duke countered.
He gestured with his burger toward the Oscar on the dashboard.
"Look at that thing, Best Score."
"You're twenty-two, Duke," Blythe said quietly.
"I know how old I am."
"Do you?" She turned to face him, her eyes serious. "Because you talk like you're fifty. We're just starting, you won an Oscar on your debut film."
"Yeah, that's right," Duke said. "But there's so much to do. The 70s are coming and i want to establish myself before that."
Blythe reached over and took the burger out of his hand. She placed it on the wrapper.
"Duke, hear me for a moment."
He looked at her.
"You took a carpenter and turned him into a movie star. You took a theater girl and got her on the cover of Life magazine. You made a movie for a million dollars that's on it's way to make a hundred million and you even won an Academy Award."
She picked up the statue from the dashboard and shoved it into his hands.
"You won. Maybe you didn't win everything you wanted, but you make them look at you."
"Besides," Blythe said, picking up her milkshake. "If you had won everything tonight, you would have been insufferable."
Duke let out a short, dry laugh. He took a sip of his shake.
"You're right," Duke admitted. "I would have been a nightmare."
"A total nightmare," she agreed. "Now let's finish eating. We have to figure out how to get ketchup out of silk before I return this dress."
Duke looked out the window at the teenagers eating in the car next to them. They were laughing, listening to the radio.
They didn't care about the Academy Awards. They didn't care about Carol Reed or Joseph E. Levine.
They were the audience he needed to aim for.
"Blythe," Duke said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Do you like pizza?"
"I hate pizza. Why?"
"You're weird."
"Pass me my fries."
___
Next Film:
Rocky(1976)
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre(1974)
The Sting(1973)
A Few Good Men(1992)
Speed(1994)
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