I Am C-3PO--The Inside Story Page 12
We were actually about seventy feet above the fake desert floor. The real desert was about seventy feet below that. In the centre was a giant hole. All the transit vans were parked underneath. It was an amazing set. Timber, canvas, steam vapour and plaster making a living, breathing ship of the desert.
Threepio was standing on deck. Vast sails fluttered and ballooned above me. As a result of Salacious Crumb’s spiteful attack, one of Threepio’s eyes was left dangling down his cheek. The convincing prosthetic took away half of my, already severely limited, vision and now I was tottering a few feet from the railing – which they had removed.
EXT. SAIL BARGE – OBSERVATION DECK
ACTION!
As scripted, the powerful motorised Artoo mischievously nudged me forward. I remembered how hard it was to control. I recalled the number of times the machine had run into and over my toes in the two previous productions. Now I teetered closer to the edge, ahead of it – and closer. I raised my arms in theatrical and genuine fear, as I prepared to tumble over.
CUT!
I stepped back from the edge, relieved. Then Tracey Eddon arrived. They dressed her in a rubber facsimile of my suit and led her to the unguarded rail at the edge of the deck, as if to walk the plank. I demonstrated my last position. Just watching a fellow human in this perilous moment made me feel nervous.
ACTION!
Tracey mimicked my pose and then toppled fearlessly forward and down, twisting in mid-air. I learned it’s what Stunts do, to land safely on their back. Of course she didn’t crash to the desert floor, fake or not. Out of shot, some feet below, mattresses were laid on top of a whole warehouse-worth of cardboard boxes. They absorbed the energy of her impact, but it was still an impact – it could still hurt. She landed safely, like the professional she was, and walked off the set in one piece. With the editor’s skill, you can’t tell it wasn’t me. But I knew – it was Tracey.
A few hours later, she reappeared in a wig and a more revealing costume – Princess Leia’s bikini. Because it is Tracey, in that iconic outfit, who swings across from Jabba’s barge to the skiff. She was small enough to be a stunt double for both Carrie and me. Small, but tough.
But Jabba’s barge would have its revenge.
I did a bad thing. In spite of being warned not to even think of riding a dune buggy, I borrowed one – without thinking. My Blue Harvest hat squashed down low, I wore a red bandana over my face as a disguise. I zoomed and skidded about with great joy and didn’t roll it or threaten my insurance cover. It was exhilarating fun but a risk. Very unprofessional.
Later, sitting in the shade outside my trailer, I was facing away from the barge and the bikers’ hill beyond. I enjoyed the empty, sandy landscape. They had torn up the few scrubby plants to make the place more alien than it actually was. Maybe the vegetation would grow back in time – I hoped so. Nature is good at that sort of thing. It was all rather peaceful. The sounds of human activity carrying on without me in the distance were rather comforting. Then a strange noise. A sort of Bang. A kind of Pop. Then the most spine-chilling scream. And again. And again. This was certainly horror beyond my imagination. There was silence. Now running feet. Now the helicopter flying out.
A member of the crew had been working inside the hull of the set. A hose disconnected itself from the effects steam generator nearby. He had been hit by a vicious jet of scalding steam. When he returned from hospital, unbelievably, he was embarrassed that he had cried out in pain. He thought he should have been tougher. If it had been me, I would have yelled for a week.
On a happier note, I was heading back to the Stardust Hotel, very comfortably relaxing in the back of my car. It had been another rather dusty day in the heat. The privacy of the air-conditioned vehicle made the journey back really quite pleasant. There was hardly ever any traffic on the roads, apart from our own production vehicles. So I was surprised that someone was trying to overtake, blasting the horn for my driver to move out of the way. He did. The crew bus slowly came alongside. It was quite a sight. Every window was filled with a bare bum, as the crew collectively mooned at me. I laughed and laughed and laughed. If only I’d had a camera.
Jabba’s barge was indeed a magnificent vessel. It really was constructed as a ship – very convincing with its huge set of sails. Convincing and problematic. I was musing in a quiet corner, hearing the wind wiffling against the canvas sheets above me, and the faint groans from the wooden structure below. My reverie was interrupted by David Tomblin. David was our superb, glorious First AD, with a light and humorous touch. His voice was a gravelly mix of W.C. Fields and Captain Ahab. He came with interesting advice. It seemed that the sails really were sails. As such, they were catching the desert breeze. That would have been fine, were they not attached to the barge, and were the barge not attached to the vast, wooden scaffold on which it was planted. It seemed there was a possibility that the entire set might actually drift back to Yuma.
“So, my darling. I think you’d better abandon ship, as they say.”
Though I did exactly what he suggested – and fast – the barge stayed put, perched on the huge sandy platform that was the Pit of Carkoon, nesting place of the giant rubber sphincter – the visible presence of the all-powerful Sarlacc. Underneath was the temporary garage, and the exit passage from the monster’s digestive tract.
Over several days, the horrible beast claimed many victims – real ones – all stunt actors. I watched them fearlessly tumble off the barge and smack into the pulsating orifice below, before they slithered down and out of sight. Their performance made the whole battle look realistically dangerous which, in fact, it was. The Stardust Hotel took on the aspect of a hospital. Out of action for the time being, several actors lay around the pool, various parts of their anatomy covered in plaster casts and bandages. The others were in hospital, being patched up.
Everyone survived.
But not without a certain amount of pain and suffering.
Which, Star Wars experts will know, is what the Sarlacc newly defined.
38 gloop
Jabba’s palace was never there.
It would eventually be a wondrous matte painting, planted on shots, filmed in a Californian national park where I had walked weeks before. Now I was walking on set, back at Elstree. And this was the real thing. Well, it was real as far as it went – which was about twenty feet. The rest would, as usual, be added later by ILM. The intimidating doorway to the palace was impressive, unless you looked upward. It was really quite a low build.
EXT. JABBA’S PALACE – GATE
ACTION!
Artoo and I approached. I knocked, then made to move off, without waiting for a response. When it came, Threepio was surprised. And so was I. Richard Marquand, the putative director, must have assumed that I had peripheral vision. He must have supposed I could see the giant eyeball when it shot out of the door to my right. I couldn’t. I didn’t. And he didn’t cue me. So I sort of guessed at its arrival. I am still embarrassed by the delay in my mistimed reaction. Then of course, I had another one-sided conversation. The ball didn’t speak till later – neither did Artoo. Even for me it was quite a weird three-way non-exchange. But I had become fairly used to that sort of thing by now.
I wasn’t sure about the metalwork spider that scared Threepio into running down the hallway. I was concentrating on aiming at the tiny ramp that Props had put into the step-down in the sand floor. If I’d missed it, I probably would have fallen flat – again. The atmosphere in the vast hallway was quite sinister but pig guards are not really very menacing at all. They’d like to be, but wearing inches-thick layers of foam around your body can sap the energy to scare. I really empathised with the team when they were un-velcroed from their sweaty prisons. And then I met Bib Fortuna.
I’d worked with Michael Carter in the theatre and always admired his acting talent. Here was no exception. He was wonderfully creepy and inventive as he led Threepio round the corner, to
meet the illustrious Jabba. Watching the scene in ADR, I spotted an opportunity. I asked George if I could cram in an extra line. Why not? Everyone else had said it. So finally, I did too.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
And I loved Jabba. He was locked into the set and couldn’t go wandering away, to have Hair and Makeup. I first met him at Elstree, when he was a clay and chicken-wire construction. Now, thanks to Stuart Freeborn’s art, he was a convincing, greenish, articulate, rubber monster. His look was one thing but his repellent body language came from a band of puppeteers, inside and out. Dave Barclay was the right hand and lips, Toby Philpott the left arm and tongue, while hilarious Mike Edmonds gently rolled around inside Jabba’s tail. Yet another puppeteer operated the eyes by remote control. Four people creating something remarkable.
Dave and I had personal radio contact. We whiled away the hours, inside our own little worlds, by nattering about things going on around us, in the weirdness that was Jabba’s palace. Stuff happened. Carrie found it hard being disguised as Boushh – she didn’t like wearing the face mask. There was so much atmospheric smoke, that we felt we were inhaling a pack of twenty each day. The eight-teated fat lady was said to be suffering a bout of diarrhoea. We didn’t talk about that, much.
Salacious Crumb was a welcome distraction for me. Wielded on the forearm of Tim Rose, Crumb kept me endlessly amused. His snarky character was a delight. Tim’s snarlings and cacklings were wickedly believable. I asked, and he let me have a go. I slid my arm up into the glove and moved the puppet’s head. Then the other way. Nothing. The thing was a collection of feathers and plastics. Nothing more. The critter was beautifully designed but it was Tim’s acting skills that made it come so realistically alive.
A moment of tension.
It was long before the abundance of blue and green screen scenes but Peter Diamond was still very much a popular member of the cast and crew. As a stuntman he was no stranger to peril. But this seemed to be going too far. First having appeared as the murderous Tusken Raider, here he was in another bizarre outfit. Trailing electric cables behind him, he walked slowly – and very carefully – across Jabba’s throne room. He was garbed in some kind of insulating suit. His outstretched and elongated arms were dressed with rows of fragile light bulbs like some ghastly parade float. His outer glow was mesmerising. So was the thought that he might get electrocuted at any moment. The idea was that he would provide a travelling source of light for some creature character that would be drawn in and added later. It was one of the moments of real suspense on the set. Peter survived but the idea didn’t.
The all-powerful Jabba took his revenge on Threepio – or rather the suit. And actually, it wasn’t Jabba but his slime that was the problem. Props had perhaps thought to save some of the budget and use an off-the-shelf cleaning product. They could have invented something themselves but found a jar of green gloop that would do the trick – a retail substance for cleaning grimy hands after an oil change. They daubed it liberally on Threepio’s golden skin. It looked great on film. The shot was done. They wiped it off. Off too came the gold finish. The product had bleached large areas of the costume. It had to be sent off for resurfacing.
Expensive.
39 panic
Years before, there were six of us training to become scuba divers in my local sub-aqua club.
Wet suit, gloves, tank, first stage, second stage, fins, mask. We all struggled a bit – me less so. It was just like being on a Star Wars film in a gold suit, except that we were all taught a lot about safety and survival. This was going to come in handy.
Now I was lying on the floor in my jeans and trainers. Brian Lofthouse dressed me in gold, just from the waist up. The camera was very close – closer was Salacious Crumb, with his attendant Tim Rose, brilliantly manipulating him as usual.
INT. SAIL BARGE – OBSERVATION DECK
ACTION!
Crumb cackled as he tore at the eye he was trying to wrench out of Threepio’s face. All I had to do was writhe and object – so easy. Suddenly. A strange sensation. Panic. Not Threepio’s – mine! I couldn’t breathe. I was trapped.
“Get me out! Get me out!”
Instantly, Brian dived in front of the lens and undid the bolts around my head. He sat me up. I tried to breathe slowly – it was hard. I realised that, for the first time in my life, I had suffered a moment of claustrophobia. I was in a safe place, with the camera operator and Tim Rose and Brian right next to me – and yet I had been overtaken by a fear – for no reason. I talked myself down; reassured myself that I was okay. More than okay. So Brian tucked me back inside and we finished the scene. But that brief experience gave me a tiny insight into what a phobia feels like – not good.
It was at the ABC Theater in New York. It was 1985. Threepio ran down the aisle and up onto the stage, to join the producers of the animated TV series, Droids. It was all quite exciting and great fun. I’d also enjoyed recording the many and various scripts in Toronto. They were aimed at a young audience and told of the further exploits of Artoo and Threepio. At last we were ready to present this breakthrough entertainment to the world. It would be broadcast on the ABC network, which is why I was here. This was the launch extravaganza.
Threepio politely bowed to the executives who were now applauding his energetic arrival. At that moment, I realised that I had used up all my lung capacity by running from the back of the auditorium. I was about to pass out from lack of oxygen. Somehow, my scuba training clicked in. I didn’t panic. I calmed myself down. I survived. It was a rehearsal. When the main event happened, later that day, Threepio strolled down the aisle. He graciously shook hands with members of the audience. He eventually joined the others on stage.
I had learned.
Well, I thought I had.
40 torment
Threepio’s hands had always been useless – from the first moment Maxi and I sat on my bed, in the failing light, gluing them together.
They had little practical value. I had to curl my hands to keep the strange metal pieces from pulling the gloves off. The joints of Threepio’s gloves bore no relation to my anatomy. They were mere encumbrances, rather than a useful aid to practical effect or gesture; flopping uselessly off my wrists. Fortunately, I was hardly ever required to hold anything. Except once – many years ago. I was only wearing his left arm and hand. The rest of me was shirt and jeans.
INT. DEATH STAR – MAIN GANTRY – COMMAND OFFICE
ACTION!
I brought my arm into shot, opened my palm over the communication device and slapped it down, closing the dangling finger joints around it. I pulled my arm out of frame, clutching my prize.
CUT.
It is amazing what a patch of double-sided sticky tape can do, stuck in the centre of your palm.
But now, a new design for a new Episode – one-piece gloves made of thick plastic. They looked the same. They had greeblies inserted on the top. But they still bore little relation to my own human anatomy. And I could hardly bend them – until my body heat eventually warmed and softened the material. If I needed to point in a scene, I had to prepare well in advance. I forced my index finger outwards and bent it in position against my leg, till required. When the moment came, I swiftly raised the arm. The finger stayed pointed long enough for the effect I wanted. It was supremely frustrating. I basically had two ping-pong bats for hands, and the pressure was excruciating as the arms bore down on my wrists, in a sort of thumbscrew effect. But later, on the Forest Moon of Endor, they would cause me a different sort of torture.
Brian laid out my suit in the chill air under the trees. He got the Sparks to rig some lamps over the hands. The heat from the nine-light softened the plastic, making them more pleasant and somewhat easier to put on. It made them easier to manipulate, too. Like a kind mum, Brian would lovingly warm the hands on the trestle table that was my dressing area in the forest. Since they were hardly a pleasure to w
ear, Brian left them until nearly last – Threepio’s head being always the final blow to my comfort and freedom. The inevitable happened.
One day, he left the gloves under the fearsome lighting array for rather longer than usual, possibly distracted by some heavy Ewok action. But he finally slid them onto my hands. There was a moment before the heat hit me. I yelped at the raging plastic. A new kind of torment.
Finally, I had had enough. I took a scalpel and sliced away all but the barest bones. Apart from the tops, they were now simply my black gloves and some wires. It gave me more functionality. I could pick up anything I liked – almost. It would be decades before I really got what I wanted. What Threepio needed. But my trials by fire weren’t over.
By now, Brian and I had worked out a rhythm of getting me ready to film. The arms, the legs, the hands, the feet, the head and, always the last moment, switching on the eyes – still powered by a pack of batteries. I had forgiven him the “hand” moment, so was later surprised at the growing heat behind me. Had Brian left a screwdriver sticking in my back?
He was wounded at the suggestion. On investigation he found the battery pack was shorting out – I was being baked alive!
41 bonfires
We were in Stout Grove, somewhere near Crescent City. California.
The trees were impressively threatening. Centuries-old redwoods towered above us; stunning monuments to nature. Lest we should be stunned in other ways, a work gang looked out for “widow makers” – branches that had grown old and tired and were soon to drop off. The wife of anyone standing underneath would get a phone call later that day, hence the name. In spite of acquiring this piece of morbid information, I found the atmosphere deeply serene. The leafy undergrowth matched the great canopy of leaves up in the sky. Sunlight filtered magically through, like some movie lighting effect which, indeed, it was going to be. We were on the Forest Moon of Endor.