The air in the private dining room of the Savoy in London was thick with the scent of expensive cigars.
Robert Shaw sat across from Duke. He was a novelist, a playwright, and an actor who treated every role wih seriousnes.
In this timeline, Duke wasn't just a producer, he was the man who had produced Midnight Cowboy and the sensation story, Love Story.
He was one of the great new directors of the American screen, and even a man like Shaw acknowledged his results.
"It's a marvelous bit of writing, Duke," Shaw said, his voice a low, melodic growl. He tapped the black-bound script of Hacksaw Ridge that lay between them.
"I usually have to spend the first week of rehearsal rewriting the director's drivel. But this... there's a cadence to it."
"I wanted it to feel like a tragedy but also as test," Duke said, leaning back. "I want the audience to understand that for Desmond Doss, this war is something he must go through."
Shaw nodded, pouring himself a generous amount of scotch. He didn't offer Duke any.
"The Sergeant. Howell," Shaw mused, tasting the name. "He's a bastard. Most directors would make him a villain. You wrote him as a man who is simply terrified that Desmond will get his men killed."
"That's the conflict," Duke said. "Howell isn't evil. He's pragmatic. He's the physical manifestation of the Army's logic. And Doss is a glitch in the system."
Shaw leaned forward, his eyes boring into Duke's. "And you want me to play him."
"I need someone that can guide the audience," Duke said. "Someone that can make them respect him by the third act."
Shaw smiled, a slow, predatory baring of teeth. "I'll do it. On one condition."
"Name it."
"The boy," Shaw said. "This Harrison Ford guy. If he's just a pretty face in a sweater with low acting skills, he needs to be fired. I won't hold back, Duke."
"He has the skills," Duke said, his voice steady. "I'm counting on you to act as great as you can."
Shaw raised his glass in a silent toast. The deal was struck.
A week later, Duke was back in the dust and the dry heat of the San Fernando Valley.
He found Harrison Ford exactly where he expected to find him, on his knees and assembling a desk, his face covered in a fine layer of sawdust, his hands stained with oil.
He looked up as Duke's car pulled into the driveway, his expression a mix of irritation and a strange, hidden relief.
"I thought you were in London," Harrison called out, wiping his forehead with a rag.
"I was," Duke said, stepping out of the car. "I went to find you a drill sergeant."
Harrison moved wearing some baggy work clothes. "And?"
"Robert Shaw is in," Duke said.
Harrison paused, his hand frozen on a piece of cloth. "That's the british guy from A Man for All Seasons? The one who played Henry VIII?"
"The same," Duke said. "He's seen your work. He's ready to meet you. But I should warn you, Harry. He doesn't seem to like you."
Harrison's jaw tightened. "I don't care, Duke. I've dealt with a lot of stuff, I'm not scared of some british guy."
Duke handed him the script.
"Read the scene where you confront him in the barracks," Duke said. "You aren't a villain."
Harrison took the script, his calloused fingers brushing the cover. He looked at it for a long moment, then back at Duke.
"Why me?" Harrison asked. "Evans wants a star. You could get anyone."
"Harrison you're literally one of the biggest male leads right now, Evans is actually happy you're joining us." Duke said.
Harrison grunted, tucking the script under his arm. "I'll read it."
"Read it," Duke said, walking back to his car. "And start thinking about how you're going to act with Robert Shaw on set."
The sun began to set over the Hollywood Hills, Duke went home.
He sat down at his typewriter.
He inserted a fresh sheet of paper.
He began to write his first draft of Big Fish.
Duke's fingers moved across the keys with a newfound lightness. This wasn't the gritty realism of Midnight Cowboy or the historical weight of Hacksaw. This was magical realism.
"A man tells his stories so many times that he becomes the stories," Duke typed. "They live on after him, and in that way, he becomes immortal."
He wrote about the witch with the glass eye. He wrote about the giant who just wanted to be seen. He wrote about the secret town of Spectre, where everyone was happy but nobody ever left.
He wrote for six hours straight, the pile of pages growing beside the Typewriter. The prose was different from his normal writing. It was lush, whimsical, and deeply emotional.
Around 3:00 AM, Duke stopped.
He leaned back, his eyes burning from the glow of the desk lamp. He looked at the two stacks of paper on his desk.
On the left, Hacksaw Ridge, a war movie about faith, valor, conviction.
And on the right, Big Fish, a drama about storytelling, and embracing life's wonders.
He stood up and walked to the window.
Duke smiled. He picked up a pen and wrote a note to himself on the top of the Big Fish manuscript.
Publication by spring 1970.
Duke sat back, with the manuscript of Big Fish cooling on his desk, his mind had drifted back to Hacksaw Ridge.
He had the sergeant. He had the captain, but he was missing his Desmond.
He pulled a stack of headshots from his drawer. In 1969, the "leading man" archetype was shifting. The era of the square-jawed, untouchable hero was dying.
His fingers hovered over a photo of Jon Voight.
Duke had just seen what Voight could do in Midnight Cowboy. The man was a great actor.
But there was a problem. Voight carried a certain weight now, after playing Joe Buck.
Could the audience look at him and see a Seventh-day Adventist from Virginia, or would they just see a hustler in a different costume?
Voight was an actor who became the role, but sometimes the performance was so strong it could affect your future performances.
Duke moved Voight's photo to the side and picked up the next one, Peter Fonda.
Easy Rider was the talk of the town, and Fonda was a big actor now.
Fonda has the pacifism down, Duke mused. He hoped the audience would follow him, if he became Desmond. He has that 'Cool' factor too.
But Fonda felt too different. Desmond Doss wasn't a hippie, if anything he was a traditionalist.
He wasn't rebelling against the system because he hated the government, he was following a higher law because he loved God.
Duke leaned back, the chair creaking in the quiet room.
"Neither," he whispered to the empty air.
Voight was too seasoned. Fonda was too contemporary.
Desmond Doss needed to be someone who looked like he had stepped out of a black-and-white photograph from 1920.
Duke thought about the future. He thought about Andrew Garfield's performance in the 2016 version.
He looked at the empty space on his desk between the headshots of the stars.
"I need a newcomer," Duke muttered.
He made a mental note to call a few boutique agencies in New York. He wanted to look at the theater kids.
Duke pushed the photos of Voight and Fonda away. They were great actors yet not necesarilly good for this project.
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