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

  I marvelled at so many things in the film – the editing, the music, the effects. And me. I hadn’t realised how large a part Threepio played throughout. And that I spoke the first lines of dialogue. I think I left the theatre a little dazed – everyone did.

  Now I would see endless reviews extolling everything and everyone – the droids especially. Sadly, in the avalanche of press coverage that Star Wars attracted, I was all but absent. Threepio became the first non-human to make the cover of People Magazine. But without Lucasfilm’s shoulder behind me, that quickly faded, as yesterday’s news. I was included in some desultory press interviews in the UK but, apart from that, it was Carrie and Mark and Harrison who bathed in the world’s attention. As months went by, I became aware of something that would profoundly colour my relationship with the entire Star Wars enterprise. I learned that some of the folks at Lucasfilm were intent on creating the impression that Threepio had no human content – other than a voice.

  New Times, June 1977, Jesse Kornbluth: “A fussy public-relations robot and his all-purpose android sidekick save the galaxy and steal the show from their human allies. Loveable automata? Computers you can trust? That the 70s Tin Man has a heart is Star Wars’ hidden message.” Threepio was endlessly referenced. Me? Not at all. Likewise, two months later in Paul Scanlon’s 12 page feature for Rolling Stone, he noted that the droids “practically steal the film”. Clearly he had been instructed not to mention me by name.

  Apparently, whoever was responsible for the marketing of the film, felt it would detract from the believability of the robot, were it to be known that it was, in fact, a costume with a person inside. An actor, responsible for bringing the character to life – for every nuance of performance, every gesture, every reaction, each emotion. An actor, seriously engaged in the pursuit of his craft. And he was me.

  The audience were led to believe that Threepio was a true marvel of robotic engineering, that my sole contribution was merely to grace this fully realised character with a voice. It felt as if half my performance was being amputated – denied.

  As well as People Magazine, the character I had so stoically played also featured on the cover of the journal, Psychology Today – under the circumstances, a far more appropriate place for him.

  I knew what I had brought to the film set, on a daily basis, working hard in endlessly horrible circumstances. Now my efforts were dismissed by implication. As if I had done nothing. As if I had never been there. I think any artist would have felt disappointed, if not devastated. It would be less than honest to say that it didn’t hurt me – deeply.

  I might reasonably have become objectified on the set, since I was playing the role of a machine. But to be erased, redacted, ignored, shut out of the success to which I had contributed, was beyond distressing. The casual cruelty of regularly seeing photo captions such as, “Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) with C-3PO in a scene from Star Wars,” was a regular stab to my sense of self-worth. I was in no way a self-publicist, so could do little about the situation other than assume that I must have done something terribly unprofessional to be so negated.

  It wasn’t just Lucasfilm who were being insensitive. I’d long admired Paul Newman as a fine actor. I watched him being interviewed on television. Was he upset at never having won an Oscar? He responded that, in a world where the biggest box-office stars were a shark and a couple of robots, he didn’t care anymore. I took his remark personally. The shark was probably hurt, too.

  That summer I flew back to Hollywood to don the costume once again. I was the only person it fitted – almost. They put me up in the Roosevelt Hotel, opposite the famed Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. It was quite a view. The outrageous, oriental architecture was like something out of the movies it had screened over decades, for this was a real cinema. Its forecourt was filled with hand prints and signatures – a concrete index of all the famous Hollywood film stars, dating back to the 1920s. And I was about to add my name – well, Threepio’s name.

  From my window, I had a front-row view of all the preparations, and the huge crowd that was collecting on Hollywood Boulevard below me. I could see an area that had been ceremoniously cordoned off. There was a patch of newly wet concrete waiting for something joyous – a recognition that Star Wars belonged here, with these stars of the movies.

  It was a fearsomely hot day. The crowds were quite intimidating as they pushed forward. Guards had been protecting the little patch overnight. Cement writing was more technical than I expected. The first layer had hardened and now the top waited, damply grey, for us to write on. The crimson rope barriers were parted and we began the ceremony. Someone in a Darth Vader costume was the first to write his name. Next, they lifted an Artoo unit and carefully put it briefly in place, leaving neat little machine prints. Then it was my turn.

  The budget clearly didn’t extend to flying Maxi across the Atlantic. I had a new team from Lucasfilm who were shovelling me inside for this new experience. They ushered me along as I puttered through the mass of fans from a cool dressing area in the lobby of the theatre. It was odd to walk outside as Threepio, in the real world. The crowds seemed to be pushing harder now, trying for a better view of me putting his feet next to Artoo’s. Except they weren’t really his feet at all. The rather mundane, ribbed soles of my deck shoes were not quite the thing for immortality. The multi-talented creature effects artist, Rick Baker had created fake soles, which they tied to the bottom of my shoes. These plastic pieces had interesting, high-tech designs, made for posterity and photo ops. Rick would later get his own star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame – due to his fancy foot-work obviously. Good for him. He was great to work with, and gave my costume an added flair. But I was so frustrated at never personally being mentioned in anything Star Wars, that I insisted I be allowed to write my own name in the mud, next to Threepio’s newly designed footprints. I sometimes visit them on Hollywood Boulevard, pick out the odd cigarette butt and move on.

  Weeks passed. I was at TV Center in West Hollywood. As Threepio, I was narrating a television special, The Making of Star Wars. I was alone on a sci-fi set with an Artoo unit. My monologues to camera were interrupted by the arrival of Harrison, then Mark and later, Carrie. I had to stand around, while they gave enthusiastic interviews about their involvement in the film. When they’d finally gone, I asked when we would be taping an interview with me – about my contribution to Star Wars. The director said they weren’t planning to do that. That hit me.

  I began to feel that, as far as Lucasfilm was concerned, I didn’t exist – and certainly had nothing worth saying about my role in their film. Later, in London, I asked Gary Kurtz why they had opened a door to slam it so deliberately in my face. I forget his reply.

  My feelings weren’t helped by the sheer ubiquity of it all. Star Wars was everywhere. I couldn’t escape it. Anywhere I went, there were images and sounds and writings about this marvellous film – with a funny gold robot.

  My sense of rejection grew dangerously profound and I marvel that I survived it all. I could hardly bear to talk about Star Wars. People congratulated me, assuming it must be wonderful to be a part of it all. But I wasn’t a part of it all. Out of a strange sense of professional and personal loyalty, I couldn’t let my feelings out in public. I didn’t want to put a canker in the rose of the fans’ delight. It left me feeling like a secret outcast. Supportive friends kept me going, while Lucasfilm, by omission, continued to perpetrate the myth that Threepio was a real robot. Audiences believed it and indeed, that had been my aim. I was pleased, if not amazed, that fans were so convinced by my depiction of a technology that is still far from becoming a reality. But would it really have harmed the box office to admit there was an actor inside the suit?

  Nobody seemed to care what I was feeling. For me, it was a difficult time that seemed as though it would never end. Of course it did, in the sense that, eventually, my true role was clarified. It’s just that some scars can take a long time to heal. Wh
en I found a Trivial Pursuit card with the question, “What part did Anthony Daniels play in Star Wars?” I realized it was official – I truly was a triviality. I had it framed in gold. Hung it in the toilet. I felt I was probably the only person on the planet to know the answer.

  Nobody should take up acting to become rich and famous – certainly I never expected either. I simply wanted to act. But, to misquote the brilliant playwright, Tom Stoppard, actors pledge their identities, secure in the knowledge that someone will be watching. Certainly audiences were watching and adoring the funny gold man. Perhaps it would have been kinder back then, if they had been allowed to know that this quaint humanoid robot actually had a real human concealed within him.

  A man.

  With a name of his own.

  28 special

  It was 1977. An innocent time. At least as far as TV channels went.

  Watched by millions, they were delightful. Both of them. I wasn’t a disciple but I was certainly aware of the Donny and Marie phenomenon of utter squeakiness, their amazing tooth whiteness, and their niceness. And meeting them, they were indeed lovely, nice, friendly and very, very professional – and with enviable teeth. I could judge because now I was on their show – The Donny and Marie Star Wars Special.

  Back in that year, most things on earth seemed somehow to connect to George’s new film. America’s viewing public also loved Donny and Marie’s singing, dancing, smiling show that was a paradigm of life in the USA. This was wholesome, Colgate entertainment – iconic in its own right. And now these two beloved pieces of escapist fun – Star Wars and the Osmonds – were joining forces for the night.

  This spectacular alignment would be hosted by the two smiling stars. And there was another icon, Kris Kristofferson, celebrated country music maker. I’d certainly heard of him. He was lovely, too. Sadly, in a rather different mode, actor and comedian, Paul Lynde, a regular on the show, was playing something Tarkinish. He seemed a bit put-out. It was quite evident he felt that the whole Star Wars team was upstaging him, though Peter Mayhew and I and an Artoo unit were the only originals on board. With Kris embodying Han Solo, the two principals were, of course, the world famous brother and sister act, playing Luke and Leia. Who knew?

  Nice as it all was, the script was unspeakably awful – to such an extent that I personally cut most of Threepio’s lines. Unusual for an actor. But I had already become protective of my golden alter-ego and would not allow him to embarrass himself in public by speaking drivel. However, I remained heavily involved in rehearsals of the drama, such as it was, and in the dancing which, in my case, was limited.

  Many of the numbers were performed by a female chorus line of beautiful blonde-haired stormtroopers. I concentrated on not bumping into them – or not getting in the wrong place and have them bump into me. For the most part, I succeeded. But I was never sure if Threepio should be bopping along with this strange assemblage. It all seemed rather undignified – a foretaste of the embarrassment I would suffer on a forest moon, in the distant future.

  The real drama occurred as we all boarded the scenic prop referred to as “The Spaceship”. It was a simple piece of set construction, tall and slim with a pointed roof. The black-and-white check markings made it look like some kind of traffic bollard. In fact, the design would allow for a feeble joke about it being mistaken for a taxi. No laughing matter, then.

  Access was by way of a ramped drawbridge. It was set at an incline that I could manage. So in we went, to set off on our mission to escape some danger or other – Peter, Kris, Donny, Marie and me. Curiously, cruelly, Artoo was abandoned to twirl alone on the studio floor, beeping, I imagined, some droid profanity of fury at being left behind. Truth was, they couldn’t get it up the ramp. And anyway, there was no room for it inside – as it transpired, a lucky escape for my angry counterpart.

  Once we were all aboard, the drawbridge hinged upwards and slammed decisively shut. Unfortunately, The Spaceship was rather more frail than even I had imagined. The slamming immediately caused its pointed roof structure to collapse and topple down inside – on our heads. There was a brief silence. Then Threepio’s, “How… interesting”, made everyone laugh. Nobody was injured. Watching the show however, did make me feel slightly nauseous. But it was nothing compared with the horror that was to come a year later.

  Only recently, I found it in a cupboard. Hidden. The original script. A weighty black folder with bright silver lettering – my name and the title. It looked important. Having put the whole thing out of mind, I thought it might make an interesting, memory-jogging read. It didn’t. But then, it had made a very peculiar viewing experience, at the time. The Star Wars Holiday Special.

  I was on the shoot for two or three days. I suspect it seemed longer. Certainly “Wookiee Life Day”, the climax to the appallingly misconceived event, seemed as though it would never end. It was my only involvement in the, amazing, script.

  Anyone watching the whole broadcast would have endured lengthy episodes of Wookiee home life, to get this far. The family didn’t exactly break wind together but their dialogue of grunts and growls was equally off-putting and far from entertaining. These incomprehensible domestic scenes were interspersed with some well-known, and much-admired, artists being reduced to mere stooges. Ghastly jokes and wince-making dance acts floundered around them, as Life Day inexorably drew near. As far as I dare remember, Wookiees everywhere were planning to go on some strange celebratory pilgrimage.

  Reading the whole script was a challenge – but not as great a trial as trying to watch the finished broadcast. I’m not sure how many viewers survived this variety show mish-mash of the previous two-hour ramble but at this point, we might well have been playing to an empty sitting room.

  My part was easy. I stood on a stage, backed by a threatening tree trunk, in some strange nether world. I chatted with Chewie and Artoo, as the area below filled with Wookiee shapes. Eventually, I turned to face the awful sight.

  “Happy Life Day everyone.”

  I’ve spoken some rubbish in my years but, seeming to confirm Artoo’s sentiments, this topped everything as I addressed the furry throng.

  “It is indeed true that at times like this, Artoo and I wish that we were more than just mechanical beings and were really alive, so that we could share your feelings with you.”

  Threepio has always had feelings. But would he rather be a Wookiee? Doubtful.

  But, “The Best Actor In A Turd” award must go to Mark and Carrie and Harrison. They managed to mouth their saccharine lines without once showing their gritted teeth – though they did seem to cling rather closely to each other on stage, for support.

  We were all speaking so sincerely, but as if in slow motion, as if we had all been sprayed with “Hint of Valium”. The director clearly rated this very, very calm atmosphere. The deadbeat, energy-free performances were swamped by a morbid layer of greeting-card emotion, as everyone built up to the amazing Life Day experience.

  The finished production would sit on a peculiar sound bed. Endless Wookiee grunts and gurgles. The music, clearly intended to be emotionally moving, was just maudlin and depressing – excerpts from Preludes in a Sanatorium. Carrie had to sing without musical backing, on the ugliest of cheap sets. She may have had an in-ear orchestra but from where we were all standing, her unaccompanied voice sounded so thin and vulnerable. She got through the mawkish lyrics like a trooper, though her frumpy white dress and big Danish hair pieces didn’t help. But the sheer cloyingness of the words was hard to listen to.

  The herd of swaying Wookiees looked surreal and slightly sinister. Like some strange religious cult of sleepwalkers, they arrived in a trance-like state, each moving to some vague internal rhythm, completely unrelated to the backing dirge. They walked, zombie-like, seemingly affected by a chemical cosh dispersed through the air-con system. Each one held a plastic ball of fluorescent light. They carried these “glowing globes” as if going to some
dreamy bowling alley. But now they lurked before us in the gloom – awaiting my benediction. Quite why I was there was never clear to me. But arriving had not been easy for them, either. Our stage was solid enough. But the shaggy audience was stranded in some kind of outer-space star field. This effect was inexpensively achieved by tossing white Christmas tree lights all over the blackened studio floor. These were stars. Adding a fog of billowing dry ice made the whole thing more mysterious and magical. It also rendered the “stars” invisible to the actors inside their festive robes and ominous Wookiee heads. That strange crunching was the sound of dozens of Wookiee feet, treading on tiny light bulbs. More deadly than an ion-cannon blast, whole galaxies were instantly crushed out of existence. It was hilarious.

  The limo driver glanced over his shoulder, as he drove me away from Burbank Studios.

  “Why’re you laughing?”

  “Because I’m off this awful production.”

  He turned back, his eyes, once more, off the road.

  “You an actor? I’m an actor.”

  Of course. We were in LA.

  Fox Studios promoted The Holiday Special as a “Two-hour visual and audio delight. A live animated-musical-potpourri of pure entertainment.” It was only aired once. A day of infamy – 17 November 1978. Apparently, pirate copies are available. But not for the faint-hearted.

  29 identity

  Forget Threepio’s feelings about space travel.

  Jetlag is the price you pay for going somewhere far, far away. 1978 and I was back in the almost familiar grounds of Los Angeles. The flying saucer at LAX was becoming an old friend. But I was already feeling the time change and remembering that I’d be off again in just a couple of days. I had returned to LA for the, rather apt, Golden Anniversary Academy Awards. Nothing personal. They wanted Threepio on stage for one of the events – appearing alongside Artoo and our master, Mark Hamill.