I Am C-3PO--The Inside Story Read online

  Tom needed to keep everyone’s tracks separated for eventual post-production. I spent the days isolated behind glass screens, listening to the drama unfolding around me through headphones. I wasn’t the only one. Brock Peters, as Vader, and the even more fearsome Emperor, Paul Hecht, were similarly banished to various undignified corners and cupboards, as Tom ran out of studio space. When you hear the echoingly bleak acoustics of the Emperor’s Throne Room, imagine Paul in a tiny store cupboard, draped in sound-deadening blankets. We had to crane our necks down the corridor for a look at Ed Asner, giving an outrageously disgusting rendition of Jabba the Hutt.

  It says a lot about the performances, that off-duty members of the cast would cram into the small control room to listen to what was going on in the studio. Tom just kept going, carefully monitoring each take being recorded on his multi-channel desk. He managed to concentrate, in spite of the loud appreciation of the gathering team. In particular, John Lithgow’s delightful recreation of Yoda was standing room only.

  Of course, there is always a contrast between what you see through the studio window and what it sounds like over the speakers. We all looked particularly silly as we contorted our bodies, trying to suggest we’d been caught up in an Ewok net trap. It sounds convincing, though. So does Han’s passionate ardour. At a mere hint from the stage directions, Perry apparently swept a sighing Princess Leia into his arms and lavished her with kisses. The truth was more prosaic. Perry at mike three. Ann at mike four, some feet away. Perry held his script in his left hand while leaning closer to the mike. Ann holding hers and breathing heavily. Perry’s right hand came up to his lips, his breathing heavier. He passionately kissed the back of his hand. Ann went, “Mmmmmm.” In the control room it sounded like total passion. In the studio everyone rolled around in helpless mirth.

  As in the movies, much was left to post-production. Anyone having a conversation with Artoo was on his own – his beeps would be added later. The Ewoks would similarly arrive on tape from Ben Burtt, their original audio creator. Actually, some things are better heard and not seen. I think Ewoks look great on radio.

  It had been intended that crowd tracks would be lifted from existing recordings. Fortunately, John decided to employ a group of actors to cackle and snarl. They were hilarious to hear but even better to watch, as they recreated the scum of Jabba’s entourage. Later, they became the crowd of macho pilots in the briefing room with Mon Mothma. Even Howard Roffman, Lucasfilm’s Vice President of Licensing, was persuaded to join in as part of the Rebel Alliance. A clever chap, he still couldn’t quite understand that, in a radio crowd, everyone speaks at the same time. He kept politely listening to the other actors and nodding. Nodding doesn’t work on radio. Howard was not natural radio material.

  “It must be easy on radio. You don’t have to learn the lines.” How many times have I heard that? The truth is quite different. For a start, most films have only some blue-screen effects. Radio is all blue-screen. The actors have to imagine everything. Pretending you are on the verdant Moon of Endor when you are in fact, in a tiny, mirrored recording booth on Beverly Boulevard, takes some doing.

  As for learning lines, if you aren’t absolutely familiar with them and their position on the page, you’d never be able to take your eyes off the script. Most actors are very insecure people. They need to look at each other. If you’re not familiar with the words, you’re bound to lose your place, with a resulting, embarrassing pause. My problem was that I never learned to write neatly. All my notes and changes and self-instruction are like hieroglyphs and render the neatly typed pages into pencil labyrinths.

  After five days it was over – a wrap. We met for dinner that night in a lively restaurant on Melrose. Strangely, for an LA eatery, we could hear each other speak. Maybe we’d just got used to shouting over intergalactic battle-noises. We raised a glass to absent friends – to Brian. Quite a few glasses were subsequently downed in the happy relief that a wrap party brings. But there is always a tinge of sadness in these occasions. You never know if you will meet again. It had been fun. But for the cast at least, it was over. There would not be another. We left for our various homes and hotels. Maybe someone said, “May the Force be with you.” I don’t know. I went to bed.

  My phone woke me early the next morning. It was John. He’d just heard that Brian had died that night, as we sat in the restaurant, just about the time we were drinking to absent friends – to Brian.

  It had become a joke that Threepio usually stole the last line of any scene that included him in Brian’s scripts. Without Brian to write the lines for me here, I can only say, I was so happy and proud to have known him.

  44 smoking

  It was an honour to meet Robin Williams. Just as brilliantly energetic in person, as on screen.

  I had so long admired his zany character in TV’s Mork and Mindy. And now I got to stand next to this hilarious and lovely man. A charity event. “Hands Across America”. 1986. The idea was to raise awareness and funds for hunger and homelessness in the USA. About six-and-a-half million people tried to form a line across the States by holding hands. Mr Williams held Threepio’s hand in West Hollywood. It was May 25. It wasn’t my first Public Service Announcement.

  I’d donated my time for a different PSA, ten years earlier. American parents weren’t getting their kids vaccinated. Measles, polio and whooping cough were taking a toll on young lives. Just as it is today, the message was important but the spot itself was horrible – a sludgy, if informative script. We shot it in a faux sci-fi control room. Most memorable was the way Artoo appeared to pay no attention to the laws of physics.

  The control consoles were fairly standard. The floor was large black and white squares. It seemed the director was oblivious, or perhaps magnetised by Threepio’s words. Watching the finished piece, Artoo magically changed position in each different camera angle – as though he was playing “hop-scotch” mixed with “grandmother’s footsteps”. It was a hilarious lesson in continuity failure. But the shoot gave me an idea. Eventually I would try to persuade the US Health Department and Lucasfilm to make an anti-smoking spot. They would. If I wrote it. So I did.

  Months later, I was dressing up again. This time in a rather scary electric power installation, in north Los Angeles.

  The emotional impact of this tender last moment may have been slightly lessened, for an observant viewer at least. The wonky end-card faded up in a star field.

  “A MESSAGE FROM A DISTANT GALAXAY FAR, FAR AWAY.”

  Someone in production had obviously been smoking – something.

  45 naked

  Well I never expected this to happen. I had suddenly learned a new word along with the rest of the world.

  It had been so many years since the last production – for me, years filled with the Saga’s spin-off activities and stuff with no relation to Star Wars at all.

  I was amazed and excited to be back.

  “You’re created by Anakin.”

  George was detailing a plot-line for, what would become, the first “Prequel”. I was at Leavesden Studios. It was 1997. I was pleased and touched. Sir Alec Guinness had been such a lovely, kind colleague. So many years ago now – still remembered with fond respect. How fitting, I thought, that his character should be the one to bring Threepio into existence.

  But a few days later, I had a revelation. It had been fourteen years, so I could be forgiven for getting confused. Alec had played Obi-Wan, not Anakin. Dear, sweet, troubled Threepio was created by a bad guy. Maybe that’s why he’s so anxious.

  That was the only piece of the story I learned that day, or later on. I didn’t see a script, didn’t see George, didn’t hear from production for many weeks. I wondered vaguely, how it was all going. They obviously didn’t need me. So I just got on with my life, assuming they would get in touch when they were ready for whatever input I might add. Eventually, I was back at Leavesden. A mere visitor on the set. There was
Threepio. But not as I knew him. What a genius idea, to have him built by a little boy. Plastic, bare wires and electric motors created a truly inventive, puppet version of my friend’s inner workings.

  The life-size doll was rigged onto the body of the immensely skilled prop maker, Michael Lynch, who’d created it. I wondered why they hadn’t asked me to try puppeteering the thing. Of course, Michael was familiar with the workings of it all, and was doing a grand job. But I could have learned how to manipulate it. It fed into my sense of always feeling that I wasn’t permitted any sense of proprietorship over the character – in spite of what I might have brought to it from the beginning. Impressed though I was, here I felt completely sidelined. No one had thought I might want to have a say in how Threepio began. The film industry can be surprisingly insensitive at times.

  Looking back, how amazing to meet Natalie Portman and Jake Lloyd on set. Both so young and fresh and enthusiastic. It was fun to hear how they felt being in a Star Wars film. But Michael seemed to avoid me. Normally a perfectly friendly chap from ILM, he apparently felt awkward in knowing how little involvement I’d been allowed into this development in the character I had inhabited for so long. Lucasfilm owned the copyright but, as a creative person himself, he clearly understood my unspoken thoughts. Eventually, in ADR, I would admire his puppeteering skills, as I added my voice to movements that were not mine.

  There was a moment I liked.

  “My parts are showing!”

  Poor Threepio.

  Eventually, the film was edited and graphically enhanced. The computers had worked overtime to create overwhelming scenes and landscapes and characters. I’m not sure if my brief stint, mostly in ADR, had really made me feel a connection it. But I was certainly thrilled to be a part of it all. And the expectation, in America at least, was palpable.

  Due to geographical issues, I saw the much-awaited, long longed-for Prequel in Salt Lake City. I sat unrecognised in the whooping, whistling crowds as the famous opening sequences shone from the screen. The noise hushed as we read a treatise on galactic political machination – the words rolling yellow, away into space. Certainly I was confused but settled back to enjoy what followed. Or not. Impatiently exiting during the credits, I paused as the audience crowded around me into the street. I overheard a rather sad but telling remark.

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait till the next episode, to see if it gets any better.”

  To be fair, the years have been kinder to this, the first Prequel. Many, who were young at the time, still hold it, and Jar Jar Binks as their dearest memory of the Saga.

  As for me – I was never the target audience for The Phantom Menace.

  46 celebration

  How ironic then, that I had earlier been an element of its long-awaited unveiling.

  I’d known Dan Madsen for some years from the days when he ran the Star Wars Fan Club. He edited the club’s magazine, Star Wars Insider, too. I used to write “The Wonder Column”, a tongue-in-cheek selection of memories from the first three films. It kept my brain alive. I have no idea what it did to the brains of others but I still get appreciative messages from readers. Dan and I always got on well together. So, when he suggested I might help him produce the event, and host it, I was more than thrilled to agree.

  Star Wars had been dormant for many years. Return of the Jedi seemed to be it, as far as movies went. Now the trilogy was being revitalised by starting another one. From the beginning. Star Wars was coming back to life with that hitherto unknown, word. Prequel. Something to celebrate and restore a solid connection with the fans.

  “Celebration”. I wasn’t yet sure what it actually was. It was going to be different from the normal fan conventions that had rapidly sprouted around the world. This one was official. Dan had been brought in by Lucasfilm to mastermind the very first event of its kind.

  We collaborated over the months, putting on a show together and it was fun. Me, helping to find guests who’d be willing to come – Dan researching suitable sites. Me, planning the stage sessions – Dan, sub-contracting builders and vendors and getting all the safety permits. My jobs were reasonably easy, as guests eagerly wanted to join in the event that would showcase the upcoming film. And I’d always been fascinated by the art and science of stage management.

  Dan’s tasks were hard work. Suitable venues had been booked months before. The National Rifle Association was busy setting up their own event, having bagged the biggest indoor venue in Denver, Dan’s home town. And now he was running out of time to find anywhere that might work. He doggedly searched on, and eventually found the Wings Over The Rockies Air and Space Museum. Most of the buildings housed various pieces of aviation memorabilia. But there were wide-open spaces, where temporary marquees could be erected for the event. And even more spaces for open-air exhibits and parking. A proper convention centre was simply not available but the ground at the museum site was solid and could take a lot of traffic – both vehicles and people. So huge numbers of fans could be accommodated in safety and comfort in the warm spring air.

  I felt quite excited as I arrived in Denver, two weeks before the big event. My seventh-floor hotel room had an excellent view of the sunlit hills beyond the city. And it was great to be working face-to-face with Dan, rather than by phone calls and emails. But whatever our means of communication, all our preparations were going well. I drove to the site and was amazed at the infrastructure that Dan had installed. Two huge marquees and spaces for numerous food outlets. The Star Wars Store was housed in a small brick building near what would become the Skywalker Stage. That was where I’d be spending my time, talking with cast members. The other stage was slightly smaller but would allow for all sorts of different interviews. Scott Chernoff, writer, actor and above all, comedian was hosting that one.

  A large space had been made available within the museum building itself. All sorts of artifacts had been shipped in to provide a fascinating array of props and costumes. There was even a life-size X–wing fighter on display. It was all going to work so well. Fans were going to love it.

  The midday news was devastating. Thirteen students had been massacred in a shooting at nearby Columbine High School. The two shooters had killed themselves, after wounding many more of their fellow students and teachers.

  Putting aside the outrage and grief, Dan had to consider his options. He was wholly responsible for creating this enormous Star Wars event. But how could it continue in the face of such tragedy? To go ahead might seem to disrespect the dead and bereaved. To cancel it would be ruinous and a huge disappointment to fans travelling to Denver, literally from around the world. A Lucasfilm executive, indeed, argued that it should be cancelled – everyone would understand the reason. We talked around it for days, still in shock and wondering what was the best that could happen.

  The mayor of Denver spoke out. After such an unspeakable event, the community needed to be lifted up. Memories would remain forever but life needed to go on. Denver needed this event.

  Though the April sun was pleasant as Dan and I walked around the site, some of the joy had gone out of our footsteps. But we were still excited about tomorrow. And, as it does, tomorrow came.

  I drew back the curtains to rejoice in the view. I was stunned. The distant hills were invisible. Rain was crashing down, blotting out the very clouds that were creating this deluge.

  Even though it was still early, I anxiously drove to the site. Thousands of fans had arrived there before me. They were standing in already saturated lines, gallantly waiting to get under cover in the giant tents that housed the temporary stages.

  The next hours felt like I was wading through forces I could not control. Not just the rain. Thinking what to do. How to fix what I could fix. I wasn’t quite finished with setting up the stage area and its lighting grid. I’d planned to do it all this morning before the first panel started. I could only reappraise. I organised the staff to open the doors of the huge
marquees. Fans flooded in, already drenched. Some had raincoats and umbrellas. Others had clearly been surprised by the change in the weather. They were in T-shirts. I shook hands with those nearest. They were corpse cold. Shivering. But smiling.

  The Fire Marshall told me the place was full. I argued that there were sufficient doors for safety and, in these sodden conditions, even a box of matches couldn’t catch fire. By now the seats were all filled but we squeezed hundreds more fans down the side aisles. At least they were out of the pouring skies and chilling wind.

  I stood on stage, marshalling the inflow. When, even I felt, we couldn’t cram in any more, I pulled a Jedi mind trick. I explained that I was an illusion. I was not actually there. But I would be. Soon. I went backstage, exhausted. And we hadn’t even started yet.

  When we did begin, the warm welcome from the crowd was in stark contrast to everything else. Dan opened the proceedings by asking for a minute’s silence. It was memorably profound, save for the rain lashing us above. We were all wearing buttonholes in the Columbine School’s colours of silver and blue – a tiny but heartfelt gesture of sympathy for all those who had been affected by the unspeakable atrocity. But the goodwill and enthusiasm were clearly present on the smiling faces that heard me congratulating Dan and introducing various members from the new cast.

  Jake Lloyd was amazingly mature and self-confident. He delighted the fans with his happy banter. We even did a quick lightsaber fight. I think I let him win. Or maybe he just won in his own feisty way. It makes me sad to remember how the little boy, who would epitomise the Dark Side, would go on to suffer dark times in his own future. But for now, Master Ani was a joy.