The invitation had come from Gary Kurtz, a man who seemed to be very involved in the low-budget margins of the industry.
Gary was the one who had finally coaxed Duke out of his Hillside place.
"You can't just stay in your house, Duke," Gary had told him over a greasy breakfast in Silver Lake.
"If you want to stay in this town, you have to let people see you."
The party was held at an Oscar nominated man estate in the Hollywood Hills, a place of soaring glass walls, kidney-shaped pools.
It was now early 1967, and Duke stood leaning near a mahogany bookshelf. He held a glass of ginger ale, the ice clinking softly as he watched the room.
His success with Jaws had given him an aceess into these rooms, but his silence made him a strange anomaly.
Gary Kurtz drifted over, looking slightly out of place in his utilitarian jacket amidst the sea of silk and velvet. "Doing okay, man? You want to head out?"
"I'm fine, Gary," Duke said, leaning slightly on his cane. "Just checking out the cultural temperature of the room." (I love Succession)
Gary chuckled. "Well, let me introduce you to someone, he's been asking and loved your book."
Gary led him toward a secluded corner sofa where a man was perched, looking intensely focused.
He was younger than most of the power players in the room, with a sharp, thoughtful face.
"Duke, this is Mike Nichols," Gary said, before slipping back into the crowd.
The man stood up, extending a hand. "So, you're the shark guy," Nichols said, his voice dry and intelligent.
"I'm Mike. I'm a director of sorts. That book of yours scared the hell out of me. I can't even venture to the pool at night anymore."
Duke shook his hand, feeling the spark of a genuine intellect. "A pleasure to meet you, I'm Connor Hauser. Most people just call me Duke."
"Connor. Or Duke. Whichever. I directed a small film called Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? last year," Mike mentioned with a casual, self-deprecating smile. "It did okay. Enough that now i have to throw parties like this now."
Duke almost choked on his ginger ale. He knew Virginia Woolf. "Wait, are you the owner of this house?"
"God, no," Mike laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "I rent, Duke. Most people in this town don't have as much money as they seem to have."
They fell into an easy conversation, the kind that only happens when two people realize they aren't interested in the standard industry.
They bypassed the box office numbers and the gossip, drifting instead toward the mechanics of storytelling.
Duke found himself speaking with a clarity that even surprised himself.
"The way Billy Wilder builds a tragedy, it's like watchmaking," Nichols said, gesturing with his drink. "Every little thing has a purpose. Some Like It Hot is just perfect."
"I've always preferred Double Indemnity," Duke countered. "The narration, the lighting... the way the story unfolds is inevitable. How you know he's going to fail, but you can't look away."
Nichols leaned back, his eyes narrowing in appreciation. "What's your absolute favorite, then? If you had to pick one."
"The Apartment," Duke said without a second's hesitation.
Nichols raised an eyebrow. "Really? Not Sunset Boulevard?"
"The Apartment is his best film," Duke repeated, his voice firm.
"It's a quiet tragedy sold as a comedy. It's about the cost of belonging."
"Baxter isn't just climbing a ladder; he's renting out his soul for a key to the executive washroom. He pimping out his own home, the one place that should be sacred, for a shot at a promotion."
Nichols stared at him for a long beat, the party noise fading into the background. "I haven't heard anyone describe it quite like that."
"I just like analizing films, Mike," Duke said simply.
Nichols took a sip of his drink, his expression turning more serious. "Have you read Charles Webb's book, The Graduate?"
Duke nodded immediately.
In his previous life, he'd read it during a college course on the transition to New Hollywood. "Yeah. It's sparse. Not that interesting. It feels like someone trying to tell a story that he doesnt really understand."
(I dislike the Graduate book, i dropped it halfway through)
"Exactly," Nichols said, his eyes lighting up. "Embassy Pictures has the distribution rights, with Joseph E. Levine being the money man. But the script... it's a problem."
"My screenwritter is doing a hell of a job, but it needs something more. Could you maybe check it out?"
Nichols leaned in closer. "I'm not asking for money, Duke. Come down to the production office. Help me with the screenwriting. Look at what Buck and I are doing and tell me where we're being too hard and where we're being too soft."
"You want me to consult?" Duke asked.
"I want you to be a part of it. I want to make something that will reflect my language of cinema, I need a second opinion that hasn't been too involved with the studio system."
Duke felt a surge of adrenaline. This was an opening to getting involved with one of the greatest American films. "I'll be there, Mike."
The next few weeks were a blur of motion.
Duke spent his mornings at his new house in the Hollywood Hills, the quiet of the canyon broken only by the rhythmic sound of his Royal typewriter.
He was working on his own project now, a script he had chosen after careful consideration.
He had considered adapting The Godfather, but Puzo hadn't even finished the book yet, and the rights would be a nightmare.
He'd thought about a sci-fi epic, but the tech wasn't ready.
No, he needed something that would be a financial juggernaut, something that required almost no budget and would bring a studio a large amount of capital.
He chose Love Story.
"What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?"
(BEAUTIFUL FILM)
He typed the line and felt a shiver.
Instead of stripping away the sentimentality, Duke leaned into it.
He knew exactly what the 1970s audience would want. He kept the unapologetic, heart-wrenching sap that made the original story a cultural phenomenon.
He recapped the story in his head as he typed, Oliver Barrett IV, a wealthy Harvard jock, falls for Jenny Cavilleri, a sharp-tongued, working-class Radcliffe College girl.
It was a classic Star-crossed lovers trope, but with a modern, Ivy League coat of paint.
They marry against his father's wishes, living in a cramped apartment, struggling and happy, until an inevitable tragedy ocurss.
And then a line comes on, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."
Duke didn't try to make it "edgy."
He kept the sentimentality of the 1960s intact, but he polished the dialogue to make it snappy, a bit cynical, and deeply heartbreaking.
Between drafting scenes of Oliver and Jenny, he would drive down to the Embassy Pictures lot.
He worked alongside Buck Henry, the two of them debating the rhythm of Benjamin Braddock's existential crisis.
Duke suggested the use of long, suffocating lenses and the focus on the "plastic" nature of the world.
(The graduate started shooting in 1966 but it till late 1967 cause of changes and problems in production)
He also sugested the ending, the one on the bus where the adrenaline of the escape fades and the terrifying silence of the future sets in.
In his past life he made the mistake of going to a theatrical re-release of 500 days of Summer and then he also watched The Graduate to understand the movie as a whole.
So he knew how The Graduate was supposed to look from head to toe.
One afternoon, a week into his "consulting," Duke was interrupted at home by a knock at the door.
It was Mr. Aldrich from Doubleday, looking out of place in his New York suit amidst the California greenery.
"Hauser," Aldrich panted, accepting a glass of water. "I heard whispers. Jeffrey, your agent, he's a talkative man when he wants to be."
"What whispers, Mr. Aldrich?" Duke asked, sitting back in his Eames chair.
"About your new manuscript, the one with the dog."
Duke suppressed a smile.
He'd finished the draft of Cujo months ago, a brutal, visceral horror story.
He'd planned to wait until Jaws had finished its run at the top of the charts to release again.
"It's... a side project for now," Duke said.
"I read the first fifty pages Jeffrey accidentally left on his desk," Aldrich said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My God, Duke, the way you describe the dog's state... I haven't looked at my own golden retriever the same way since. It's great."
Aldrich leaned forward, his professional mask slipping. "We want it. We'll make it the literary event of 1968. A woman and a kid trapped in a car by a rabid St. Bernard? It's genius."
Duke looked out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling, sun-drenched city below. He had a bestseller dominating the best seller list.
He was working on a cinematic masterpiece with Mike Nichols. And now, his publisher was begging for a book he was planning on holding.
"The terms can't remain the same as Jaws, Jeffrey will negotiate my contract," Duke stated, his voice calm and leaving no room for negotiation.
"Of course, Ithaca Productions retains one hundred percent of all film, television, and dramatic rights."
Aldrich didn't even flinch. To a man like him, in an era before the blockbuster, the film rights to a story about a rabid dog were a footnote.
Aldrich planned to come find Duke alone to see if he could get him to agree to publish on the same terms than with Jaws.
"Done. I'll negotiate the specifics with Jeffrey, we could have a signed contract by Friday."
After Aldrich left, the house was silent again, save for the distant sound of a lawnmower on the distance.
Duke walked over to his desk. He picked up a pen and looked at the notepad where he tracked his various fronts.
Under Film, he wrote: The Graduate (Consulting/Writing) and Love Story (First Draft Complete).
Under Books, he wrote: Jaws (Bestseller), and Cujo (First Draft completed).
He sat back down at the Royal typewriter and began to type the next page of Cujo.
After some time, he looked at the card Gary Kurtz had given him, resting on the corner of the desk.
George Lucas.
Duke smiled. He had a feeling his next meeting was going to be even more interesting than the last.
He picked up the phone and started to dial. It was time to find out what the most famous alumni at USC was really up to.