On a screening room in London's West End lined with thick red velvet. Duke sat alone in the center row, the darkness of the room broken only by the flickering beam of the projector overhead. It was February 20, 1972.
On the screen, Liza Minnelli was singing her heart out. And there was Joel Grey, the Master of Ceremonies, moving like a ghost through the shadows of Weimar-era Berlin.
Duke took a sip of his Scotch. The film was Cabaret, directed by Bob Fosse, and it was absolutely brilliant.
In his previous life, Duke knew Cabaret as the masterpiece that redefined the movie musical. It was the film that finally took the genre out of the bright, cheerful, bubblegum aesthetic of the 1950s and 1960s and dragged it into the cynical, complicated reality of the 1970s.
Watching it now, knowing that Paramount held the keys to its release under the Ithaca Pictures banner, Duke felt a profound sense of validation.
The film ended, and the lights in the screening room flickered on, and Duke let out a slow breath.
His London liaison, a sharp-suited executive named Simpson, stepped into the room holding a telex printout.
"The early numbers from the States, Mr. Hauser," Simpson said, handing over the paper.
Duke scanned the figures. The box office reports were exactly what he had hoped for. Cabaret had only been out for a week back home, but the critical raves were great.
High-income, urban audiences in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago were lining up around the block. It was exactly the kind of prestige brand Duke wanted to establish for Ithaca Pictures before the massive blockbuster summer era began.
"Tell New York to double the print run for the second week," Duke said, handing the paper back. "And give Fosse whatever he wants for his premiere parties."
Duke stood up and adjusted his coat. He had business to attend to. The future of comedy was waiting for him in a pub across town.
The pub was just a short walk from the BBC Television Centre, smelled like damp wool, and cigarette smoke.
Duke navigated through a crowd of off-duty cameramen and grip workers to reach a large, battered wooden table in the back corner.
Sitting around it, looking thoroughly exhausted and nursing various pints of dark beer, were six men.
John Cleese, Eric Idle, Graham Chapman, Terry Jones, Michael Palin, and Terry Gilliam. The members of Monty Python.
They were currently in the middle of filming the third season of Monty Python's Flying Circus, and the wear was visible on their faces.
They were fighting a two-front war, writing and performing, while simultaneously battling a BBC that barely understood their jokes and treated them like a minor nuisance.
Cleese looked up as Duke approached. At six foot five, even sitting down, Cleese had a looming presence. But Duke matched him in height.
He took in Duke's tailored coat and American demeanor with a look of skepticism. He was clearly expecting a typical studio suit, someone who would talk loudly about demographics and synergy.
"Mr. Hauser, I presume," Cleese said, "The man from Paramount."
"Call me Duke," he said, pulling up a wooden stool.
"Right. Duke," Idle chimed in, leaning forward with a quick grin. "We were just discussing how much we love Americans who buy us drinks. It's our second favorite thing, right after complaining about the BBC."
Duke flagged down a barmaid and ordered a round for the table.
"I saw the 'Dead Parrot' sketch," Duke said.
The table went slightly quiet. Palin blinked. "Did you?"
"I did. And what fascinated me was," Duke turned his attention to the only other American at the table, "the animation. It was brilliant, Terry."
Terry Gilliam looked up, genuinely surprised. Cleese raised an eyebrow.
"Well, we don't really get much compliments." Chapman said, taking a slow sip of his pint. "Usually, the executives just ask us when the punchline is coming."
"That's because the BBC pays you pennies and buries your tapes," Duke said, leaning in. "They don't know what they have. They think you're a quirky late-night filler. I think you're an important part of the future of comedy."
Duke laid his hands flat on the sticky wooden table.
"Paramount wants to give you a global stage. I'm not talking about syndicating a few episodes to PBS in the States so college kids can watch you at two in the morning. I'm talking about a massive marketing push."
The Pythons exchanged glances. Used to the BBC's notoriously tight budgets, where they often had to beg for an extra prop or a few feet of film, they sort of didn't believe him.
"And," Duke continued, dropping the real weight of his offer, "I want to finance your next feature film. Full creative control. No executive notes. You write it, you direct it, you star in it. We just pay for it and distribute it."
"No notes?" Jones asked, his voice laced with heavy doubt. "At all? Even if we want to do a ninety-minute film about labradors or chihuahuas?"
"If it's funny, I don't care what it's about," Duke said without missing a beat. "I care about the talent. You guys have a distinct voice that deserves to get pushed."
The group, usually prone to endless bickering and philosophical debates over every minor detail, fell completely silent.
Cleese slowly extended a long arm across the table.
"Duke," Cleese said, "I believe we have a great deal to discuss."
___
The train ride from London to Oxford offered a quiet transition from the concrete rush of the city to the ancient, damp of the university town.
Duke watched the English countryside roll by, preparing himself for the next meeting.
21 Merton Street was a modest, sturdy house that felt like it had been part of the Oxford landscape for centuries.
Duke knocked on the heavy wooden door. It was opened by a housekeeper, who quietly led him into a study that smelled wonderfully of old paper, leather bindings, and rich pipe tobacco.
Sitting in a wingback chair near a small fire was J.R.R. Tolkien.
At eighty years old, Tolkien was a man of sharp eyes, observing Duke with the polite distance of a lifelong academic dealing with a "man of the world."
His wife, Edith, was resting upstairs, her health having been poor lately, which only added to the quiet, protective atmosphere of the house.
"Mr. Hauser," Tolkien said, his voice a gravelly, cultured rumble. "Please, sit. Would you care for tea?"
"Thank you, Professor. I would," Duke said, taking the seat opposite him.
They began with polite small talk. Tolkien was fiercely protective of his work and deeply suspicious of Hollywood.
The unauthorized Ace Books paperback edition of The Lord of the Rings in the United States back in the 1960s had caused him immense distress, costing him royalties and highlighting his lack of control over his own creation.
The turning point arrived unexpectedly when the conversation drifted to Duke's own projects at Paramount, specifically Hacksaw Ridge.
"I was sent a private print of your film by a friend about the medic, Mr. Doss," Tolkien mentioned, packing his pipe with slow, deliberate motions. "I must admit, I was hesitant to watch it. Cinema so often trivializes war, turning it into an adventure. But your film did not."
"We tried to be as honest as possible about the reality of it," Duke said quietly.
Tolkien lit his pipe, the sweet smoke filling the space between them. "I was at the Somme, Mr. Hauser. I lost nearly all my dearest friends in those trenches." T
"What moved me about your picture was the portrayal of faith amidst the mud and the wire. The solitary individual, holding fast to his principles while the violence tries to tear his soul apart. It takes a certain kind of gravity to understand that heroism is rarely about swinging a sword. It is more often about endurance."
Duke nodded, "Doss endured. He didn't want to take life, he just wanted to save what he could in the middle of hell."
"Indeed," Tolkien murmured. "A very difficult thing to capture, but you managed it."
This shared understanding of war's horror and the resilience of faith opened the door. The professor relaxed slightly, the academic caution giving way to a more genuine curiosity about Duke's perspective on storytelling.
Duke decided to test the waters regarding modern literature and film. He brought up Love Story, the massive hit that had defined recent romantic cinema that was also Duke's first film.
Tolkien gave a dismissive, though polite, wave of his hand. "Sentimental," he said softly. "I appreciate the core emotion, the grief of losing a spouse is a profound thing. But the narrative is entirely simplistic. It relies on emotional manipulation rather than moral truth."
He pointed the stem of his pipe at Duke. "If you wish to understand how love is truly forged in sacrifice, you should study the epic romances of myth. Look to the story of Sir Orfeo, The Mabinogion or The Kalevala."
Duke absorbed this. "What about modern horror? Stories grounded in the everyday world. Things like Cujo or Misery."
"Well-crafted mechanics, I'm sure," Tolkien replied, entirely unmoved. "But they are far removed from the myths. They deal in immediate, physical terror. They do not touch the deep, existential sorrow."
Tolkien stood up slowly, walked over to a bookshelf crammed with academic texts and dictionaries of obscure languages, and pulled down a paperback book.
It was a copy of Duke's recently published 1972 novel, Star Wars.
"This," Tolkien said, returning to his chair and placing the book on the small table between them, "is a very curious piece of work."
Duke sat perfectly still. He had published the book mostly to establish the copyright and lay the groundwork for his future. It had seen moderate success, mostly in genre circles. He never imagined it would end up in the hands of someone like Tolkien.
"You have mythologized your story, Mr. Hauser," Tolkien noted, tapping the cover. "Most modern science fiction are concerned with space races, or bleak political allegories like that book 'Dune'."
Tolkien leaned forward, genuinely engaged. "Meanwhile you have the hero's journey. You have the wise old wizard in your 'Obi-Wan'. You have the dark knight, the princess, the magic sword. It is fascinating. Tell me about the sources of your work. And this concept of 'The Force', is it an active, conscious divinity, or a neutral magic to be wielded by the will of the user?"
Duke answered carefully, framing his explanation not in terms of box office appeal or merchandise, but in the language of myth building.
He explained the Force as a binding energy, a reflection of the natural order that could be corrupted by fear and anger, or served through selflessness and discipline. He explained how the Jedi were not superheroes, but warrior-monks.
Tolkien listened intently, nodding. He didn't see it as a copy of his own work or anyone else's, he saw it as a continuation of the ancient human tradition of storytelling the patterns he had spent his entire life studying and cataloging.
"It is a fairy-story for an age that looks up at the sky instead of into the forest," Tolkien concluded with a rare, genuine smile. "I commend you."
Sensing that the foundation of mutual respect was finally solid, Duke decided it was time to play his most important card.
"Professor," Duke started gently, shifting his posture. "I appreciate your words on my book. But I'm here because I want to talk about the primary world. I want to talk about The Lord of the Rings."
Tolkien's smile faded, replaced by that familiar, protective caution. "Many people from your indsutry want to talk about it, Mr. Hauser. Usually to ask how quickly it can be condensed into a two-hour picture show."
"I don't want to condense it," Duke said firmly. "In fact, I think anyone who just looks at the Ring and the battles is missing the point. To me, the most important part of the entire narrative isn't the destruction of the Ring. It's the Scouring of the Shire."
Tolkien paused, his pipe hovering halfway to his mouth. "Go on."
"Most studios would cut it," Duke explained, leaning forward. "They would end the movie with the coronation, because that's a triumphant Hollywood ending. But the Scouring is the thesis of the whole work. It's the realization that even in victory, home is never the same. The trauma of the journey changes the hero forever."
Tolkien closed his eyes for a long moment.
For the next hour, they didn't talk about movies. They talked about the Lore, treating the mythology with the exact same reverence he would treat actual human history.
Finally, the fire began to burn low in the grate. The afternoon light outside the study window was fading into the blue dusk of an English evening.
Tolkien set his pipe down in the ashtray. He looked exhausted, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.
"Mr. Hauser," Tolkien said quietly. "I have spent years dealing with people who view my work as a commodity. The incident with the American paperback... the unauthorized printing..."
He waved a hand, dismissing the painful memory. "It left me deeply cynical about your country's publishing and entertainment industries. They care for profit, not for language. Not for the soul of the work."
"I know," Duke said gently. "And I can't promise you that my studio doesn't care about profit. We do. But I can promise you this, If Paramount ever touches your world, it will be done with a linguistic and scholarly treatment."
"We won't adapt it to fit the times. We will trust that the times need your myth exactly as you wrote it."
Tolkien looked at Duke for a long, silent moment.
"I believe you," Tolkien finally said. He reached out his hand, aged and frail, but perfectly steady. "I hope you will treat it with the respect it deserves."
Duke took the professor's hand and shook it.
___
Sort of chill chapter
I'm tired of this, Grandpa