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

  I soon found that I could only turn my head about twenty degrees from the centre. Looking sideways was a problem, an impossibility, without always twisting from the waist or revolving on my feet. I worked out that turning my torso in preparation, gave me an extra twenty degrees. Adding the two together gave me more options.

  In the finished film, Ben Burtt provided a further element – noises. During filming, my suit made all sorts of irrelevant squeaks and bangs and groans. If it sounded bad on the outside, the cacophony was uncomfortably well amplified for me on the inside. I learned to ignore the noises I was creating. It didn’t really matter if it intruded on anyone’s dialogue. The other actors would later be revoicing their roles, in the more controlled environment of a dubbing studio.

  George liked everyone’s dialogue to be separated. No overlaps. It allowed him to keep control. But no one in my life waits for me to finish a sentence. I certainly don’t. In post, I would eventually offer to slip in “shutting up, sir” inside Uncle Owen’s lines. It seemed the right thing to do.

  In post too, Ben gave Threepio servo motors. A member of his team devotedly watched all Threepio’s footage. Each movement got its own sound effect. Walking – zer, zer, zer. Head turns – zih, zih, zik. Hand movements – well, listen to the film and you can work it out. But each sound was created by Ben and added by hand, all contributing to Threepio’s believability.

  As I followed Luke Skywalker in my clunky outfit, I noticed his neat shoes, custom-made from the softest doeskin, topped by folds of sand-defeating cotton bands, the gentle texture of his creamy pants and tunic, carelessly draped across his frame, his blond hair ruffled by his easy progress across the sand. He looked as though he felt relaxed – comfortable. And me?

  I felt envy.

  11 tricks

  It was barely a town.

  Like an invading army, the production had unloaded the assorted baggage of crew and equipment needed to bring the Twentieth Century to this ancient world. Umbrellas to shield us from the sun, reflectors to move the sun around, lamps to light the shadows, boards to smooth the way. Droids. Cameras. Food. Water. Styrene cups. Mars Bars. Most of the many loads borne by teams of patiently enslaved donkeys. They had already trudged us up a mountain to look down at Mos Eisley far, far below. And hauled us down again. Now our braying caravan had arrived in Mos Eisley Central to be unburdened. It was an extraordinary juxtaposition of ancient and modern. Techno running on primitive. Not till the Ewoks’ triumph over the stormtroopers would such a contrast be manifest. But no one had heard of Ewoks back then.

  Having nothing to do for a while, I wandered off, down the gritty street, exploring. This was a real village but there wasn’t much to attract the eye of a passing stranger like me. An all-purpose store with a myriad of domestic necessities piled in dusty heaps. A butcher’s shop – its wares loudly buzzed by flies. Days before, I had ridden on a camel. Not the loveliest experience – for me or the camel. It spat. Here was less of a threat. A row of its brethren’s severed heads hung from hooks, silent in the window. They looked so calm in repose. Their long, languid eyelashes the envy of any Hollywood film star. I didn’t linger. But I was in an antique land. The clutter of oasis life against the bright blue skyline of this bizarre place. Some of the clutter was ours. A strange plastic creature was immobile in the unforgiving glare. It was a dewback. It was ours. The Cantina was Ahmed’s.

  It was at the far end of the fly-blown road. Dome-shaped, in keeping with much of the local architecture, it was bleached and weather-worn, as was Ahmed. He stood proudly outside. This was the bit we were going to film, the outside. It was his family home. But today, for us, it was the Cantina exterior.

  We smiled at each other. His grinning friends crowded around. He was obviously a popular man. We managed a passable conversation in a smattering of common words and gestures. I think I understood Ahmed. His enthusiasm and fascination with our visit from another planet was evident. He was personally in contact with a techno-world he could only have dreamed of. He was very happy – particularly so, since he was receiving rent for the use of his home. The film production was paying him location fees. Eight dollars a day, in local currency. I was appalled. It was a rip-off.

  No.

  The producer, Gary Kurtz, patiently explained the socio-economic effects of paying location fees above the local rate. First, inflation would eat at any savings the villagers had set aside. Secondly, it would jeopardise future film location work as a source of national income.

  Thirdly, my smiling new friend would be a wealthy man during our visit. It would dramatically improve his social status. But he risked losing his place in the natural order of local society. Once we departed, the income stream would dry up. He would find it hard to readjust to normality. So – far from being mean and tight-fisted, they were being kind, generous and responsible by paying Ahmed eight dollars a day.

  At the other end of the street, the famed landspeeder was baking in the sun. A fact I didn’t realise until I took my position and sat on the back. My uncostumed rear instantly overheated. I got off again. Fast. Some foam padding helped. I perched myself next to the Artoo shell, which was firmly strapped to the back. I steadied myself with my ungloved left hand. The other was in gold and, therefore, fairly useless.

  This was my first ride. I’d been amused to see the speeder parked, as if hovering, its supporting leg hidden behind Artoo or a convenient rock. I had already watched Mark being quaintly swung into shot on a scaffold arm, as if on some cheap fairground roundabout – the camera artfully ignoring the manpower crew pushing at the other end. This was the real thing. This was horsepower. Sort of.

  Sir Alec and Mark were in front. I gathered that we were sitting in, and on, a converted three-wheeler car. Its original incarnation was as a “Bond Bug” – a bargain form of self-transport in the 1970s. The lightweight body had been replaced by a more sturdy shell. But the chassis was just as fragile as before. I was interested to see what a ride on the speeder would feel like. I noticed a piece of carpet pinned beneath the rear. I imagined that this old rug had something to do with the rather battered appearance of everything in the movie. In contrast, the long, thin mirrors were sparkly clean. They fringed the bottom edge of the car, on the driver’s side – the camera’s side, to my right.

  Finally, everyone seemed to be standing by for a take. I removed my sunglasses and was bolted into the ultimate sunscreen that was Threepio’s head. The crowd artists hovered on their start marks. The camera crew watched and waited. The inhabitants of this archaic world paused to look. Ahmed watched and smiled, anticipating the techno-miracle about to happen. After Sir Alec had pulled off a Jedi mind trick, we were on our way.

  EXT. TATOOINE – MOS EISLEY – STREET – DAY

  ACTION!

  Mark gripped the steering wheel. I noticed it was on the right. Good – in the unlikely event that it would ever again be driven on a British road. But now, no gentle rising up from the ground. Just a throaty grumble. I had the sensation of being stuck in a traffic jam. Funnelled by the ancient rug, exhaust fumes streamed up and into Threepio’s small rectangular mouth. I blew them out and nearly fell off the back of the now lurching speeder. Mark had found second gear. I managed to grab Obi-Wan’s seatback but Mark accidentally hit the brakes. I shot forward, heading for a soft landing in the Jedi Master’s lap. I steadied myself as, unrestrained in second gear, Mark steered us round the corner and we swept down the street.

  There they were. The camera, the crew, the crowd artists and locals and Ahmed – all marvelling at our peculiar progress. I was precariously perched over the throbbing exhaust and hovering was not at all the smooth experience I’d imagined. The vehicle’s frail suspension echoed every rut and bump on the planet’s surface. The fumes were still getting up my nose as the old rug, trailing in the dirt, brushed out our tyre tracks, but we were making progress. Not for long.

  I thought Mark must have found the
brakes again, as we slowed in the centre of the street. But this wasn’t in the script. We weren’t even within smelling range of the Cantina. Mark wrestled the gently coughing vehicle to a hiccupping stop. My lungs breathed the clear desert air. Silence. Charlie rushed in with a jerry can. Our landspeeder was clean out of fuel.

  Of course, we did it again until we got it right. The magic had slightly worn away for the onlookers but was finally scuppered when the mirrors fell off. They had been concealing the vehicle’s tyres. Using old stagecraft techniques, they reflected the sand in front. The audience’s brain would assume it was the sand behind. The landspeeder would appear to defy gravity. Simple magic.

  The sun was falling fast as we packed up our umbrellas and reflectors and bits of gold. They watched us go with all our techno-trappings. I think we must have already become a part of their folklore. I waved goodbye to Ahmed. He smiled back. Happy to have met. I suspect, even happier with his eight dollars.

  12 tears

  EXT. TATOOINE – MOS EISLEY – STREET – DAY

  ACTION!

  “I can’t abide these Jawas. Disgusting creatures!”

  But the gang of Jawas gave me some kind of distraction from my own costume problems. Their tiny, monk-like shapes would scuttle busily around, trying to act mean. This effect was sometimes thwarted by the rather random behaviour of their eyes, caused by their design.

  A battery pack around the waist was connected to two torch bulbs, attached to wires on their wool-covered faces. Trouble was that the flimsy wires kept shifting. So, so did their eyes. Many a take was cut mid-way because Jawa Number Five looked a little wonky, with one eye shining off the end of her nose. An endearing look, but just not menacing enough. The odd disconnection would cause Number Three to go monocular during scenes, while a flat battery made it seem that Number One was gently nodding off. But the real problem with Jawas was something else entirely.

  Some Jawas were little people. Several were children. They were thrilled to be playing dressing-up. They excitedly put on their battery packs, their monk-like habits, bandoleers, woolly face masks and torch-bulb eyes. They urgently pulled the thick wool cowls up over their heads. They were ready for anything.

  The sun was high as we started the scene. We filmed it again to avoid the rather blatant wink of Jawa Number Three. We did it again because a bit of my costume fell off. We did it again, since I nearly fell over a Jawa who was out of position because she suddenly couldn’t see. We did it many times. I was hot and uncomfortable. As usual. In a pause between takes, there was a sound. Nearby. A sort of sniffle – a kind of sob. I lurched nearer. Yes. It was a Jawa. Crying. It’s very hard to give comfort to anyone when you’re wearing layers of metal and plastic, but I tried.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I mumbled sympathetically in the direction of the woolly, sobbing face mask and fading light bulbs. They gave a random flicker, as if of deep sadness. A voice muffled back.

  “It’s hot! And I hate it!”

  I sidled closer, sharing that I knew how it felt, and that it would all be over very soon. I tried to put a comforting metallic arm around the trembling heap of wool. It was slightly below my reach. Given that, and my limited vision, my kindly gesture became a sort of karate chop across its left ear. I don’t think I can have helped much.

  “I don’t wanna be a Jawa anymore!” it wailed.

  But now I was just watching.

  The Jawas had zapped Artoo and hoisted him in the air, to carry him back to the sandcrawler, like pall-bearers at a rather bizarre funeral. The original gang had been expanded. There were still some children but others were older actors, who weren’t going to grow any taller. Mustapha was 16 years old. He was the smallest, destined to stay tiny for all his life but he had a huge, delightful personality. He dressed up with the others, his monk-like robe brushing the ground at his tiny feet.

  As rehearsed, the gang hoisted Artoo and carried him off, each lending a helping hand. Except Mustapha. He tried. He stretched both his hands in the air towards the now moving load, just beyond his reach. He followed. He reached again. He gamely followed the cortege, trying to participate. And then I noticed something strange. Mustapha was growing smaller. As the others moved ahead, he came to a sort of swaying stop. Held by an invisible force.

  His tiny feet had caught the trailing hem of his costume. He had walked up the inside of the flowing robe so far, that they had reached the battery pack at his waist which stopped him in his tracks. He crouched there powerless and abandoned. His torch-bulb eyes flickering with a wounded bewilderment.

  The truth is, I am rather fond of Jawas.

  EXT. TATOOINE – WASTELAND – DAY

  So it hurt a little, when I had to dump a few dead ones on the fire – fake dead ones, of course. Principally it hurt because, with my limited sight, I was unable to see my own feet. I walked into the flames. Fortunately, Maxi’s sight was fine. He was watching out for me. As ever.

  13 damage

  EXT. TATOOINE – ROCK CANYON – RIDGE – DAY

  Threepio and Luke out searching for the absconding astromech, Luke scanning the terrain with his binocs, Threepio peering from behind. Suddenly. A fearsomely masked Tusken Raider rears into vision. Luke is startled. So is Threepio. He falls off the cliff. Luke is left to battle the Raider and his gruesome gaffi stick. He survives. But something is missing – his golden new friend.

  EXT. TATOOINE – SAND PIT – ROCK MESA – DAY

  Mark and the camera found me lying on the desert floor. Attentive audiences would have noted the new detail on Threepio’s head. Where a human would have suffered a nasty bump, Threepio’s left temple had a painful dent, with another on his chin and some painful scratches along the jaw line, all beautifully conceived and executed by the Art Department.

  But it wasn’t only the head that was damaged. His left arm was detached. Completely. It lay on the sand, some feet away.

  The golden chest piece, with one half the neck ring, was strapped to my body. There was no back panel, no other half of the neck. I clung onto the straps, with my spare arm twisted up behind me, out of shot.

  Where Threepio’s left arm should have been, was a prosthetic prop – an early glimpse of his inner workings, the totality of which would be revealed some thirty years later. At this point it was a heavy metal ball and socket and wires, all attached to the shoulder of the chest piece. The prop was so heavy it dragged the chest sideways and down, opening a space between me and the half neck. The other piece of neck was attached to the unused back plate. Now the camera could see my black cotton hood. So they piled sand into the space to disguise the costume failure. And more sand. Some of it sidled underneath. It felt horrible, trickling down inside.

  Mark helped me to sit up in shot. Maxi helped too, as I did a stomach-crunching sit-up. Off camera, he was holding down my feet, on account that my top half weighed rather more than usual. However, what worried me most, was that Sir Alec moved closer to help me up off the sand. I was concerned that a Knight of the Realm, and all round rather terrific person, was helping me to stand. He might not foresee the danger in holding Threepio’s right arm – that he could get his fingers caught in the brutal metalwork of my costume.

  I now sat with my legs crossed. As Mark and Sir Alec helped me up, I scissor–lifted myself, lifting my own weight. In the final edit, George transitioned many scenes with rather old-fashioned wipes. Left. Right. Diagonal. Here, the scene wiped upwards, with my waistband. Otherwise you would have seen my spindly legs, dressed in less-than-elegant black tights. That day, I was only droid from the waist up.

  Earlier, I had felt rather concerned when they wanted to dress someone else in the whole gold suit for the fall. They were taking away a part of my role. No. It was a health and safety issue. They were just being cautious. If I did the stunt, I could be severely hurt. I would be unable to continue filming. Of course they were worried for my safet
y. But possibly more worried about the shooting schedule that any accident might jeopardise. So I helped them dress Jim Marlow from Props, who’d volunteered. I think he’d volunteered. He was about my size – and plucky.

  EXT. TATOOINE – ROCK CANYON – RIDGE – DAY

  ACTION!

  Dressed in the Tusken Raider’s costume of a Sand Person, Peter Diamond attacked. Mark parried. Jim fell back. But then. No spectacular screaming free-fall to a death, hundreds of feet down, no blood dripping from tangled joints, no ominous silence from the wreckage. Just a backwards lean of about twenty degrees, out of camera shot and onto a soft mattress and boxes at his feet. Of course Jim was unhurt. I could have done that. But it was nice that they were protective of my health. Or was it that they really needed me in one piece for longer.

  I took a look through the Raider’s head piece. Amazing. Peter could barely see daylight down the tube eyepieces with their distorting lenses, just vague shapes out of focus. Yet how viciously he had wielded his gaffi stick in the brutal attack. How energetically Mark had writhed and parried from his prone position on the mattresses, that softened the rock surface beneath him. It looked brutal but, being a skilled stunt performer, Peter had managed not to actually mangle Mark to a paste.

  I will never know how.