February 23, 1971
The morning broke clean over Los Angeles.
Duke Hauser was already on his second cup of espresso coffee by the time the trades came.
He was sitting in his office, waiting for his yearly habit.
Gary Kurtz slid into the opposite side of the desk with a rolled-up copy of the Hollywood Reporter tucked under his armpit.
"Morning," Kurtz said, unrolling the paper and smoothing it flat on the table between them.
"Morning." Duke didn't look up from his own copy of Variety. "You see it?"
"I saw it."
"Eight."
"Eight." Kurtz couldn't quite suppress the grin. He was a reserved man, but even he couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. "Eight nominations. Best Picture. Best Director. Best Actor for De Niro."
Duke set down his coffee cup with a deliberate thud. He looked at Kurtz across the table, and for a moment neither of them said anything.
"Hacksaw Ridge," Duke said slowly, letting the words sit in the air. "Eight Academy Award nominations."
"Including Film Editing and Sound," Kurtz added. "And Original Score which you probably already expected it."
Duke allowed himself a small smile. "What's the competition look like?"
Kurtz flipped to the full nomination list. "Patton is the big dog. Ten nominations."
"George C. Scott's already said publicly he'll refuse if he wins Best Actor, so that's going to be a circus."
"Airport pulled five, which is generous for what's basically a soap opera. MASH got five. Five Easy Pieces got four."
Duke nodded, processing. "Here's what I need you to understand, Gary. And I need you to really hear me on this."
Kurtz leaned forward slightly.
"These nominations aren't trophies," Duke said. "I mean, they are. And we're going to campaign hard, and if we win, we're going to celebrate like we just won the superbowl. But that's not what they are."
"What are they?"
"Leverage." Duke took a sip of coffee. "You know what Lehman Brothers sees when they look at eight Oscar nominations? They see a reduced risk. They see a studio that isn't making movies that are bombing."
"It makes the next conversation a lot more pleasant."
"It makes the next conversation a different conversation."
Kurtz sat back and studied Duke's face. There was no arrogance in it, which was the remarkable thing.
"The old guard is falling," Duke continued, gesturing at the nomination list with his espresso. "Patton is a great film. But it's the last of its kind. It's a monument to the one star, one director, one massive set piece, and pray to God the public shows up method."
"And Hacksaw?"
"Hacksaw is what comes next. It cost us a fraction of what Patton cost Fox. And it's sitting right there in the same category, toe to toe." Duke's eyes were bright.
A young woman from the publicity department appeared at the edge of their booth, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mr. Hauser? The phones are ringing off the hook. Los Angeles Times, New York Times, NBC, CBS, they're asking for a comment."
"Tell them I'm deeply honored and grateful to the Academy," Duke said. "And tell them we can schedule something later."
She hurried away, and Kurtz let out a low chuckle. "You know, most studio heads would be doing backflips right now."
"Most studio heads aren't movie directors," Duke said. "I don't celebrate the planting, I celebrate the harvest." He paused. "But between you and me? This feels pretty good."
Kurtz raised his coffee cup. Duke raised his. They clinked ceramic.
---
They stayed in the booth for another hour, long after the coffee had been refilled twice. The nominations were the headline, but the real work, the work that would determine whether Paramount was a one-year wonder or a several year dynasty was the future slate.
Kurtz pulled a manila folder from his satchel and laid it open.
Inside were production summaries, budget projections, and director bios, all organized with the meticulous care of a man who'd learned his craft in the trenches of B-tier filmmaking, where every dollar was accounted for
"Alright," Kurtz said. "The Slate. 1972 releases, current status."
"Start with the big one."
Kurtz didn't need to ask which one. There was only one "big one," and it had been the gravitational center of every conversation at Paramount for the past six months.
"The Godfather," Kurtz said. "Al Ruddy's got pre-production locked. Coppola's been holed up in his office in San Francisco for three weeks straight, rewriting the screenplay with Puzo. They're on the fourth draft. It's..."
He paused, searching for the right word. "It's extraordinary, Duke. I've read a lot of scripts. This one is different."
"Different how?"
"It reads like a novel. Not like an adaptation of a novel, like a novel itself. The dialogue, the pacing, the way it moves. Coppola's seems to be desperate for that payment."
Duke nodded. He'd read the third draft himself and had felt the same thing. But he also knew that great scripts were only the beginning. Great scripts died every day in this town, strangled by budgets and studio interference.
"Here's my concern," Duke said. "Francis is a genius. I believe that completely. But he's risky and could ask for more money during production. We cannot let him do too many reshoots."
"Ruddy's on it. He's good at budgets. Tough when he needs to be, and Francis respects him."
"Good. Also I don't want some suit wandering onto Francis's set and telling him to cut the wedding scene or speed up the pacing. That is not going to happen."
"But I also need efficiency. We bring it in on time, on budget, and if Francis needs something, a location, a piece of casting, an extra week on a particular sequence, he comes to Ruddy, and Ruddy comes to us, and we figure it out like adults. No tantrums. No ultimatums. No walking off the picture."
"Understood."
"This movie is going to change everything, Gary. And I will not let it get screwed up by the same bureaucratic stupidity that's been killing movies at this studio for twenty years."
Kurtz made a note in the margin of his production summary.
"Next," Duke said. "The art house play."
"Aguirre, the Wrath of God. Werner Herzog directing, Klaus Kinski starring. They're set to shoot in Peru this spring."
"The budget is modest, Herzog works lean, which is one of his virtues. The other virtue is that he's certifiably insane, which means the footage is going to be unlike anything anyone's ever seen."
Duke laughed, a real one, the kind that came from the belly. "I love that you said that like it's an asset."
"I meet this Kinski guy, the lead actor, I don't know if i want to be on set since I cant be sure I won't murder him" Evans said. "Although Herzog did assured me, he has him situation under control."
"That is not a remotely reassuring thing to say. But alright. I trust Werner. God help us." Duke leaned back and stretched. "What about Evans?"
Kurtz's expression shifted into something warmer.
Robert Evans was one of the few people in the Ajax orbit who inspired genuine affection in everyone who worked with him.
"Ithaca Productions is humming," Kurtz said. "Evans's first feature under the banner is Cabaret. They're moving into production next month. Bob Fosse directing. Liza Minnelli starring."
"Fosse." Duke's eyebrows went up. "That's a hell of a get."
"Evans has an eye for talent. Always has. Cabaret is set in Weimar Berlin, it's about the rise of fascism told through a cabaret singer."
"That's the point," Duke said. "Robert makes the films I wouldn't greenlight for the main slate, not because they're not great, but because they serve a different purpose. To court critics and small budgets films."
"Prestige movies," Kurtz repeated, writing it down.
"Make sure Bob knows we're behind him a hundred percent. Whatever he needs for Cabaret, he gets."
---
Three thousand miles away and two days later, Duke Hauser walked into the corner office of the Pulse Comics headquarters in Connecticut, with Archie Goodwin a half-step behind him.
The office was functional and sitting in the chair on the visitor's side of the desk was a young man who looked like he'd been dressed for a job interview at a law firm.
The suit was at least one size too big, the shoulders hung past his own by a good inch on each side, and the sleeves had been crudely cuffed to keep them from swallowing his hands.
"Chris Claremont?" Duke said, extending his hand.
Claremont stood up so fast he nearly knocked the chair over. "Yes, sir. Mr. Hauser. Sir. It's a pleasure I mean, thank you for — yes."
Duke shook his hand with a firm, steady grip and gestured for him to sit back down. "Relax, Chris. We're just talking."
"Right. Talking. Of course." Claremont sat. Then he adjusted his tie.
Archie Goodwin settled into the chair beside Claremont.
"Archie tells me you've got something special," Duke said, settling into the chair behind the desk.
Claremont blinked. "He said that?"
Goodwin nodded but he was lying, in reality Duke had told him. "I said that."
"Wow. Okay." Claremont took a breath. Then another.
Then he opened the battered leather satchel at his feet and pulled out a stack of papers, typed pages, hand-drawn character sketches, a copy of a previous X-Men issue with Post-it notes sticking out of it.
"So," Claremont began, and something shifted in his posture.
"The X-Men," Claremont said, "aren't a superhero team."
Duke raised an eyebrow. "They're not?"
"No. I mean, yes, technically, they have powers, they fight villains, they wear costumes. But that's not what they are. Not at the core."
He spread his hands, sketches fanning out across the desk. "They're a family. A family of outcasts. People who were born different, who didn't choose to be different, who can't stop being different, and who are hated for it."
"And they find each other, and they build something together. Not because they want to save the world. Because they want to survive it.".
"Mutants as a minority," Claremont continued, his voice gaining strength. "That's the engine. That's what makes this book different from every other superhero comic on the stands. The X-Men just want to exist and the world won't let them."
He pulled out a character sketch, a tall woman with white hair and dark skin, lightning crackling from her fingertips.
"Storm. Ororo Munroe. Kenyan. Worshipped as a goddess, then ripped away from her home and thrown into a world that sees her as a freak. Created by my friend, Dave Cockrum."
Another sketch. A massive man covered in organic steel. "Colossus. Piotr Rasputin. Russian farm boy. Gentle but can bench-press a tank. Terrified of what he is."
Another. A small, feral-looking man with a cigar clamped between his teeth and blades extending from his fists.
"We are still working on this guy's backstory."
Claremont looked up from his sketches.
"These people are every kid who ever felt like they didn't belong" Claremont said. "Every person who ever looked in the mirror and saw something the world told them was wrong. That's who the X-Men are for. in my opinion-"
The silence that followed lasted a few seconds.
Duke looked at Goodwin. Goodwin gave a barely perceptible nod.
"I like it," Duke said simply.
Claremont exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for a while.
"I like it a lot, actually. The minority metaphor is strong. The characters feel real, they've got weight."
"And the international roster is smart. Global audience, global team. That's good thinking." Duke paused, tapping his finger on the desk. "But I want to add something."
"Anything."
"The PULSE hero universe is a shared world. You know that. Blue Beetle, Captain Atom, the Question they all breathe the same air. But, I don't want crossovers with the X-Men. Not yet at least."
Claremont nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. A self-contained mythology. Its own rules, its own —"
"But," Duke continued, holding up a finger, "I want references. I want a newspaper headline in the background of a panel that mentions Blue Beetle. I want a character watching TV and you catch a half-second glimpse of a Captain Atom news report. I want the readers to feel that these worlds exist in the same reality."
"Mr. Hauser, that is-" Claremont caught himself. "That's brilliant. It rewards the attentive reader.."
"Call me Duke." He stood and extended his hand again. "Welcome aboard, Chris. Don't let me down."
Claremont shook his hand while nodding with his head. "I won't. I promise you, I won't."
As Claremont gathered his sketches and headed for the door, practically flying, Goodwin leaned over to Duke and murmured, "Kid's got it."
"Kid's got it," Duke agreed. "Make sure he has everything he needs."
---
Back in Los Angeles, Stanley Jaffe walked into Duke's office carrying a leather-bound ledger and wearing an expression that Duke had never seen on his face before.
He was smiling.
Not the tight, professional smile that Jaffe deployed when the numbers were "acceptable."
An actual, genuine, teeth-visible smile.
"Stanley," Duke said, looking up from a production memo. "You look like a man who just found oil in his backyard."
"Better." Jaffe sat down, opened the ledger, and turned it so Duke could read the paper. "Eight thousand machines."
Duke leaned forward. The numbers were written in Jaffe's writing, neat rows of figures that told the story of Atari's last year more eloquently than any narrative could.
"Eight thousand units shipped and operational," Jaffe continued. "Revenue for the quarter is three times what we projected."
"Three times."
"Three times. And that's with conservative accounting. If I used the aggressive method, it would be closer to three and a half."
Duke sat back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath. "Tell me where the money's coming from."
Jaffe turned to a breakdown page. "Three revenue streams, each one healthier than the last."
He pointed to the first column. "Bars and bowling alleys. This is the bread and butter. The original market. We've got machines in over four thousand venues across the country."
"Average weekly revenue per machine is holding steady at seventy-five dollars. Some of the high-traffic locations in New York and Chicago are pulling eighty, ninety."
"That's coin-op alone?"
"Coin-op alone. The operators love us because the machines don't break down. Bushnell's engineering team built these things like tanks. The maintenance costs are negligible compared to pinball machines, which need servicing every other week."
Duke nodded. He'd always believed that the secret to Atari's success wouldn't be the flashiest technology, it would be reliability.
A machine that worked every time a quarter went in was worth more than a machine that dazzled but spent half its life with an "Out of Order" sign taped to the screen.(F YOU MCDONALDS)
"Second stream," Jaffe continued, pointing to the next column. "Restaurants. This is the growth sector, and it's growing faster than we anticipated. We've placed machines in over two thousand restaurants, diners, family spots, pizza parlors."
"The key insight is that the machines don't just generate direct revenue. They increase dwell time. Families stay longer. They order more food. The restaurant owners are seeing a bump in their food and beverage sales that they directly attribute to the game machines. We've got a waiting list."
"How long?"
"Six months. We literally cannot manufacture the units fast enough to meet demand."
Duke felt something warm spread through his chest. The deep, quiet satisfaction of a bet paying off. He'd seen this coming, or at least he'd hoped he'd seen it coming, and here it was in black ink on white paper.
"Third stream," Jaffe said, and here his voice dropped slightly.
"The grey market."
Duke's expression didn't change. "Go on."
"Under the shell company, entirely separate from Atari's books, separate branding, separate distribution — we've moved approximately one thousand machines into non-traditional venues. Card rooms. Private clubs. Establishments where the primary entertainment is... let's call it wagering-adjacent."
"Gambling dens."
"I prefer 'grey market entertainment venues,' but yes." Jaffe adjusted his glasses. "The margins on these placements are significantly higher than the legitimate channels.
The operators pay a premium for discretion, and they pay in cash. This stream alone is generating enough revenue to fund the entirety of Atari's R&D division."
Duke allowed himself a quiet chuckle.
"Now," Jaffe said, reaching into his briefcase and producing something wrapped in cloth. "I saved the best for last."
He unwrapped the cloth and set the object on Duke's desk.
It was ugly. There was no other word for it. A beige plastic box, roughly the size of a large hardcover book, with two dial controllers attached by coiled cables.
The controllers looked like oversized doorknobs.
The casing had visible seam lines where the two halves of the shell met, and there was a small sticker on the back that read "PROTOTYPE — NOT FOR SALE" in red block letters.
A single cable snaked out the back, ending in an adapter that would connect to a television.
Duke picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, solid, dense, with some reassuring weight.
He turned it over in his hands, examining it with wonder and a certain amount of disbelief that something so small could contain so much potential.
"Home Pong," Jaffe said.
"Home Pong," Duke repeated.
The first videogame console.
"The engineers finished the prototype last week. It connects to any standard television set. Two players. One game. The paddles, the ball, the score. That's it."
"That's enough." Duke set it down on the desk and stared at it. "You know what this is, Stanley?"
"A home gaming console."
"It's our big break. Right now, Atari lives in bars and restaurants and bowling alleys. Public spaces. That's good. That's profitable. But it's a ceiling. There are only so many bars in America."
He tapped the plastic casing. "There are sixty million homes with television sets. Sixty. Million. And every single one of them is a potential Atari customer."
"We're projecting a retail price point of a hundred dollars."
"When can we have it ready for market?"
"If we push, holiday season 1972. More realistically, spring of '73."
"Push. I want it for Christmas '72."
"One more thing," Jaffe said. "The licensing question. Any decisions?"
Duke leaned back. "Kinney."
Duke was quiet for a moment, thinking it through. Kinney National owned Warner Bros., and owned DC Comics and the Looney Tunes library.
They were competitors in the entertainment space, broadly speaking. Under normal circumstances, Duke's instinct would be to keep them at arm's length.
But these weren't normal circumstances. He wanted the Looney Toones for a Theme Park and DC for games and movies.
"Here's how I see it," Duke said slowly. "The arcade market is not the war. The arcade market is a skirmish. It's profitable, it's growing, and I love it. But it's not where we win the future. We win the future in the living room."
He pointed at the Home Pong prototype. "That is where we win. The console. And eventually, a console that plays multiple games, cartridges, software, a whole library."
"When that day comes, and it's coming sooner than anyone thinks, we will be the company that controls the console controls the ecosystem. Let's set a new meeting with Steve Ross, i'll license the arcade patents to him."
"And the consoles?"
"The consoles are ours. Exclusively. But the arcades?" Duke waved his hand. "The arcades are the public square. Everyone's welcome in the public square. We can license to several operators even."
Jaffe nodded, making notes. "So I should contact Kinney's people to let them know we're open to the conversation."
"Tell them we're enthusiastic about the conversation. Be warm. Be generous. Make them feel like they're getting a good deal, because they are."
___
Long chapter
Dairy Queen food(not the soft serve) is overated and too expensive