Several wardrobe assistants strapped the chest armor over Duke's shoulders.
The fiberglass plates dug into his collarbone.
He was finally stepping into the Darth Vader role, he had planned.
Darth Vader, the King of Aura.
The only problem?
The wardrobe department in 1976 relied on heavy materials, and this specific suit was made with leather, plastic, and thick wool.
No lightweight carbon fiber or breathable synthetics.
So the black suit was a wearable sauna.
The supervisor lifted the helmet over Duke's head and the seal clicked around his neck.
He tried to turn his head but the collar locked his neck in place.
He had to pivot his entire torso to change his view.
His right leg was another problem.
His lingering injury made the leather boots a struggle.
Every step required effort on his part.
He walked toward the rehearsal mats with a mechanical limp that surprisingly suited the character.
Bob Anderson stood on the blue mats, arms crossed, waiting.
Duke got onto the mat, and took of his helmet, his face already flushed.
Anderson watched him move and didn't say anything at first.
"Put the helmet on," Anderson said.
Duke did, the world shrank again to a narrow slit. His peripheral vision disssapearing.
"Raise your arms," Anderson said.
Duke tried, the shoulder pauldrons hit the helmet rim and his elbows stopped at chin height.
"Figured," Anderson said.
He handed Duke a wooden practice sword. "You can't see as much and if you swing wide, the chest plate locks your elbows. We must change the footwork."
Anderson around him. "We could bring in a double. Someone who fits the suit better, does the spins."
Duke yanked the helmet off. Sweat already plastered his hair. "No double."
Anderson studied his face and nodded. "Alright, your attacks will be maybe spining and heavy attacks."
For three hours, they drilled the same four exercises.
Duke's undersuit soaked through within 20 minutes.
Sweat ran down his neck, stung his eyes and right knee throbbed with every pivot.
But he kept his grip and did his moves.
Anderson called out the numbers. "One-high. Two-low. Three-inside. Four-reset."
The next morning, Alec Guinness arrived.
He wore loose flowy robes that dragged on the concrete.
Duke and Anderson demonstrated the routine.
Heavy downward strikes from the villain with quick deflections from the Jedi.
Guinness watched the wooden blades blur, folded his arms. "That's very fast."
"It has to be," Duke said.
"Does it?" Guinness tilted his head. "The audience needs to feel the weight of each exchange. There must be pauses, breathing between strikes. That's where the emotion lives."
Duke pulled off the helmet. "This is about a master confronting his fallen student. The violence has to match that betrayal and showcase their personalities... So cant be slow."
Guinness held his gaze. then nodded.
They walked through the fight at a quarter of the speed.
Duke couldn't see Guinness when they circled since the helmet hindered his view.
He had to trust that the old man would place each strike exactly where it needed to be.
Guinness aimed for his shoulder, Duke raised his blade. And the woods connected, a few inches from his helmet slit.
"Good," Anderson said. "Again."
They increased the tempo, as Duke's knee screamed.
Guinness retreated, also feeling the tiredness, after all, his age was hitting him already.
He started using small pivots, letting Duke's momentum carry him past.
"Like that," Anderson shouted. "Use his weight against him."
Guinness ducked under a wild swing and his wooden blade lightly tapped Duke's ribs.
Duke grunted and reseted.
Guinness deflected his blow and tapped him again.
They rehearsed for another hour, sweat dripping from both of them.
Guinness moved with surprising grace as he sidestepped Duke's charges.
Duke pressed harder. His breathing was already ragged inside the helmet.
___
The Death Star hangar set was a huge structure of painted plywood and fluorescent lights.
The crew laid camera tracks to capture the dynamic duel.
Duke stood in the shadows of the blast doors, wearing the full armor.
Fog machines pumped haze across the floor.
He took a breath through the helmet vents and cleared his mind, focusing on channeling his physical discomfort into the character's presence.
"Action!" Ridley Scott called.
Duke stepped from the shadows and did the motion of igniting the prop blade, adopting the agressive stance they had practiced.
Guinness waited with his blade in a calm guard.
They engaged with ferocity, Duke swung the lightsaber crushing force.
The older actor parried the impact. The speed of the exchange shocking the crew.
The camera rolled backward, scrambling to keep them in frame.
Duke pushed forward, dragging his leg, using his shoulders to generate downward strikes, His strain inside the suit was genuine.
Guinness matched the energy, spinning and deflecting the blows with elegant moves.
Unlike the cautious taps of the 1977 original, Duke had decided to change things.
Darth Vader attacks with power. Every strike he makes is intended to crush through Obi-Wan's defense.
The choreography highlighted Vader's lingering hatred for his old master.
Trying to channel his raw anger to overwhelm Obi-Wan through physical dominance.
Obi-Wan meanwhile was spending much of the duel on the defensive.
Though older, Obi-Wan occasionally spins, and utilizes classic forms, proving he is still dangerous.
Duke forced a lock, pushing his blade down toward the master.
They stood inches apart.
Duke stared through the tinted lenses, seeing the emotion radiating from the actor.
Guinness broke the lock, spinning away and the exchange continued.
"Cut!" Ridley Scott yelled. "That was excellent. Let's check playback."
Duke dropped the tip of the prop to the floor, leaning on the shaft for support.
His knee and body burned.
The wardrobe assistant rushed in, lifting the helmet free.
He gasped, wiping sweat from his eyes and limped toward the small black-and-white monitor to review the footage.
He watched the grainy playback and the physical struggle translated perfectly.
The emotional weight of the clash was palpable.
Riddley called for a quick reset to capture the final shot.
Duke took a long drink of water, steeling himself and allowed the assistant to lower the helmet back over his head.
They moved into position as the camera rolled.
Duke lumbered forward, initiating the final sequence of blows.
Guinness parried, retreating toward the hangar doors.
The older actor offered a serene glance toward the distant heroes.
Duke stepped into the opening, swinging the prop in a sweeping arc.
"And cut! Print it!" the voice echoed across the soundstage.
Duke let got of his prop and handed it to the prop master.
He stumbled backward, collapsing onto a wooden apple box.
The wardrobe team swarmed him, unlatching the straps and pulling the chest armor away.
He rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands, struggling to breathe.
The entire soundstage erupted in applause.
Bob Anderson walked over, with a cold towel.
Duke wiped his face, nodding gratefully.
Alec Guinness approached, his robes swirling around his ankles.
The English actor looked refreshed, his classical training allowing him to control his breathing.
He held two paper cups of lukewarm water.
He handed one down to Duke who drank it in a single gulp.
____
Yo, next chapter, back to business