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

  Riding in a black stretch limousine was still a major novelty for me. It felt very grand. Then I spotted an empty cigarette packet in a corner of the floor, presumably tossed there by a previous passenger and unnoticed by the driver. So it was just a cab after all. We waded through the dense traffic and eventually arrived to see and hear the lavish trappings surrounding this spectacular night. I felt a little self-conscious in my black-tie outfit, walking down the red carpet.

  It was slightly bewildering to see so many giant statues of the famous gold award decorating the space. The figure seemed oddly familiar. Some distant relative of Threepio’s perhaps. I could see all the crowds behind the barriers peering for a brief glimpse of a celebrity. They glanced at me briefly. Eventually I was passed through the numerous security checks, given a badge and shown to my dressing room. A security guard stood outside – my personal minder for the evening. I was being well looked after.

  I was horrified at the amount of weaponry backstage. Various officers wielding serious guns. In those days, Great Britain was mercifully free from the sight of armed police. Sadly, that would change over the years but for now, this arsenal added to my slight sense of unease. My private room was a quiet place for me to change into the gold costume lying there, prepared for this gala evening. I’d already recorded my brief remarks and some interplay with Artoo. My lines would be played-in from the production studio, hidden somewhere in the vast auditorium of the glitzy Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

  There was a comfortable green-room area backstage – lots of potted palm and sofas and Perrier, where the guests could relax during the show. Not really being a stargazer, I was however impressed to see Vanessa Redgrave and Richard Dreyfuss. He seemed to have got over any disappointment he might have had, at not being the voice of See-Threepio – especially since he would end the evening with the Best Actor Oscar in his hands. Miss Redgrave would get hers for Best Supporting Actress.

  Stargazer or not, I was thrilled at a life-enhancing moment of mutual admiration with Joel Grey, who had so wowed me, at a distance, with his exquisite, Oscar-winning performance in Cabaret. And there was Bob Hope, who would soon be traumatised by encountering me and Artoo on stage. I was awestruck to see Bette Davis too, though she didn’t appear to be totally relaxed. Things would only get worse.

  George’s film was honoured with seven Oscars. But sadly, not one for himself. Meanwhile, I was involved in one of the presentations. At the podium, Mark looked charmingly dapper and confident in his dinner suit. He read a nice, personal introduction for me, standing next to him in my gold outfit, with the formal addition of my own black tie.

  My pre-recorded script began to roll. Artoo replied. Threepio spoke. Artoo beeped lengthily. Mark joined in. Quite a sweet little script, which worked well, except for one thing. Maybe the playback system had inherent delays, or perhaps whoever was punching in the pre-recorded cues in Production had the worst sense of timing – ever. Whatever the reason, the long gaps in the dialogue were excruciating. I filled in with Threepio actions but there was nothing I could do to speed up the conversation and make it sound anything like natural. Mark managed to retain his beautiful smile through it all, like a real pro. As the torture trundled on, I was eventually left to mime to one of the most cumbersome lines ever written, outside a Star Wars script.

  “A Special Achievement Award has been voted by the Board Of Governors upon the recommendation of the Sound Branch Executive Committee for the creation of the alien, creature and robot voices featured in Star Wars.”

  The good news was that the award went to my talented colleague, Ben Burtt.

  It was a relief to get off stage. But then the real trauma began. With every distraction amplified inside my gold suit, the shouting was horrible. Like criminals, Ben, Mark and I were herded along thick yellow lines, painted on the black floor. Suddenly we were in a barrage of flashlights from a bank of press cameras. They were behind rope cordons – or we were. It was unnerving, as each photographer yelled for attention. The flashes bounced around Threepio’s eyes, blinding me over and over again. Then onto another yellow line and another room and more flashes and yelling. By the third room I’d had enough. Luckily it was the last one. I could escape back to the private quietness of my dressing room. But the evening’s drama wasn’t done with me yet.

  I changed back into my dinner suit. Then I needed a drink. I thought I’d seen a bar somewhere along the yellow tracks, but really didn’t want anyone tagging along with me. My personal guard reluctantly let me go off by myself. I left him to watch all my stuff, including the rather unappealing badge they’d given me. It looked like some kind of radiation alarm and certainly didn’t go with my smart clothes. I got in the elevator, as I’d learned to call a lift, and pressed a button. It was a button too far. I realised my mistake as soon as I saw the paraphernalia of the stage-door security. I pressed another button that would take me back up to stage level. The door began to close.

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  A boot was stopping the door from closing, so it opened instead.

  “Sir. Please step out of the elevator.”

  I did, and heard the door slide closed behind me with a Thunk. The boot belonged to a fully weaponised police officer.

  “Sir. I need to see your ID.”

  “Oh. Um... I’m actually English. We don’t carry IDs.”

  I sensed the officer was releasing the safety catch on his gun. I spotted the TV monitor on the desk behind him.

  “You probably just saw me on stage, wearing the gold robot costume from Star Wars.”

  I felt his trigger finger itching.

  “Sir. I need to see some ID.”

  I noticed he kept respectfully calling me “sir”. However, there was nothing polite in his intention. But now my fingers found the one item in my pockets, apart from a white handkerchief. This might satisfy him.

  “Look. I have a ticket to the Governor’s Ball at the Hilton Hotel.”

  He was unimpressed.

  “Sir. Anyone can have one of those.”

  “At a hundred and fifty dollars a time, very few of my friends can have one.”

  It was an instant, possibly flippant, response but true at the time. One hundred and fifty dollars was a lot of money back then. But my uniformed friend had heard enough. He gestured to the open stage door and the street outside.

  “That truck’s full of gatecrashers like you. Sir, I’m gonna have to arrest you.”

  Time stopped. My future life flashed in front of me. I’d be handcuffed, fingerprinted, imprisoned with who-knew-who, my professional life over, left a laughing stock. And I’d miss my plane.

  “Officer!”

  He turned around to see what this other drama was he now had to manage. At that moment I heard the lift door open behind me. Without even looking, I stepped neatly backwards and pushed a button. When he turned around, it was too late for his boot to stop my escape. By the time he’d raced up the stairs to the next level, I was clinging gratefully to my personal minder and flashing my badge at everyone.

  And now I was back in the green room. It was febrile with reactions to Miss Redgrave’s political acceptance speech. The security seemed to have grown even heavier. Standing near to Miss Davis, I somehow found the courage to speak to this real Hollywood legend. I gestured to the guards and all the trappings of the event.

  “What do you think of all this?”

  She looked at me with her signature, dour expression.

  “Well, I remember when it was all so good. Now it’s just money. And politics. And sh…”

  I was captured by her surprising directness and her real humanity. I became her fan. Eventually, everyone trooped out of the Pavilion and onto the pickup spot. It was a chill April evening, and a great Einsteinian truth came upon me. Hundreds of stretch limos cannot be in the same place at the same time. With the average stretch being around thirty feet, you don
’t have to be a genius to calculate the wait time. As car after car boarded their famous passengers, I remained one of the few waiting, and waiting. Nothing personal, just mathematics and chance. It was no comfort, but I noticed that one of the guests impatiently chilling on the sidewalk was my new friend, Miss Davis.

  Eventually I arrived at the Hilton. The security, the chill, the near-arrest, the time zone – it all began to bear down on me. I found my table. It actually had my name on a place card, next to Mark and his wife, Marilou. They were long gone, table-hopping; their extravagant king crab and caviar appetisers waiting moistly for their return. The guest to my right looked accusingly at me.

  “Who are you?”

  She’d seen my name card. It meant nothing to her. Maybe she had yet to see Star Wars. I suddenly couldn’t face explaining myself for the second time this evening. Anyway, I didn’t like her. I turned away. And now there was a friendly face – our talented and lovely designer, John Barry, was arriving with his team, even later than me. I congratulated him on the Oscar statuette he was proudly carrying. I briefly held it, feeling its weight, and he went to find his table. Shortly, I caught his arm, as he was abruptly leaving. Tears were starting in his eyes.

  “I come here, holding the most prestigious accolade this industry can bestow. And I’m told there’s no place for us at dinner.”

  I wasn’t the only one feeling stressed. I made him wait while I manhandled the chairs and the Hamills’ appetisers, so he and his team could sit and eat. The lady to my right didn’t like that at all. As I brutally nudged her chair sideways, to make room, I’d had enough. I found my limo. My hotel. My plane. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Hollywood. Maybe Miss Davis was right. Or maybe it was jetlag?

  Some years later, I was at the British Academy Awards ceremony in London. I had learned in my childhood that it is better to give than to receive, and again I was there as part of a presentation – not that they had offered me anything else. Of course, it was Threepio that they really wanted. That was fine. Another free dinner. But there was a problem.

  The show designer had created a long flight of curved stairs, swirling down to the stage floor – the sort of curve that allows leggy actresses to show off – with the added drama that hopefully someone might tumble down them. Attentive readers will still remember that Threepio doesn’t do steps. The show producer thought about it. Perhaps the gold figure could stand on the top landing. Fine. But how to get him there? Of course, that old forklift routine. I would dress behind stage, at floor level and then be ignominiously lifted up, like freight in a warehouse. The ride would take about twenty seconds. My agent told me that I would be insured for £25,000. I was impressed. Then she rather spoiled the moment. It seemed that the suit would be insured for £75,000.

  Lucky I didn’t fall over then.

  30 puppets

  Like everyone on the planet, I had loved The Muppet Show for all of its reign.

  Now I was going to be in it. Mark, Peter and I walked across Borehamwood High Street from our studios to theirs, ATV, on 17th January 1980. I was so happy in the familiar, crummy backstage area that was their set. I recognised it from all the shows I’d watched – and there was Kermit on Jim Henson’s arm. More prophetically, there was Miss Piggy, attached to Frank Oz. It was all so magical. We had a blast. The crew were completely dedicated to looking after a cast in strange outfits. I felt so at home. The producers were very respectful and thrilled that we were there. The Pig was less reverential, but that was her diva way.

  The puppeteers were on the floor, with their arms up in the air. Mark and I stood in the Pig’s dressing room, on a raised platform above them. It was even stranger than being in the world of Star Wars. Talking to the wildly charismatic porker was one thing; tap dancing was the real challenge. Strange, to find my simple choreography notes some forty years later. “Weight on L – Hop-step R... Drag L (to close) x 4. + Head & arms. Stamp L.R. Brush L toe back. Brush R toe back. Repeat Forward...” and so on. Ending with “BA BUM!” Swan Lake it wasn’t but unbelievable to think I managed to perform the short dance number six times in all, while wearing Threepio. I remember being exhausted afterwards. Funny, to return to ATV to dub my voice onto the final edit and watch a man at a microphone, hitting a tin tray with a spoon – Threepio’s taps.

  How magical subsequently to be asked to join the cast of Sesame Street in their New York studio – to meet Big Bird in person – because there was Caroll Spinney, showing me how he created his iconic persona on the street. Again, I felt so at home with a cast and crew who were all lovingly on the same page. In front of camera or behind, everyone worked so harmoniously together – entertainment and education, delightfully combined. I could have stayed for ever. It was just a week, but I had the most memorable time. And there were some unforgettable scenes. Dear Big Bird mistook Artoo for a mail box. And my favourite moment – Artoo taking Threepio into the street to meet his very shy and rather short new girlfriend. Ever informative, Threepio explained the truth.

  The object of Artoo’s desires was a fire hydrant.

  31 mop

  No one had cared when we were shooting A New Hope.

  It was a mid-budget sci-fi film – not on anyone’s radar. I had been embarrassed to discuss my role with friends. They were doing proper acting – television, theatre. I was pratting about in a shiny suit, speaking with a funny voice and pretending to be a robot. Then the film opened and everything changed.

  Within a year, they called me about a sequel. I was conflicted. Did I want to go through it all again? Not really. Were they offering an amazing deal? Not really.

  The first film had been an endurance test. I don’t think that anyone at Lucasfilm appreciated what I’d gone through, portraying Threepio in that unforgiving suit. Neither did they realise how neglected I felt, once the film had wowed the world. Why should they? They all had other things to think about now. On the other hand, if I said yes to reprising the role, at least this time I was going in with my eyes open. I knew what I could expect. I was free to choose.

  Was I an actor? Was it a job?

  But there was another factor, that was perhaps more important. I had grown fond of See-Threepio. I said yes.

  We were back at Elstree. Now the security was intense; the production a collection of guarded secrets. I read the script. I wasn’t sure about it. It seemed to be slightly disrespectful of Threepio, a character of whom I felt quite protective. I was shocked, too, to find that Artoo would go off on his own mission with Luke. Artoo and Threepio were a team. It seemed sacrilegious to split them up. And to saddle poor Threepio with a human as dismissive of him as Han Solo…

  Harrison’s, or Han’s, disrespect for the protocol droid, to whom he sarcastically referred as “the professor”, was evident in the previous film. Looping the original, I had spotted his reaction to seeing Threepio for the first time, outside the Falcon – pure disdain. I suggested to George that I add the cheery line, “Hello, Sir,” as a stimulus for Harrison’s look. It fitted perfectly. But now Threepio was forced to hang out with him.

  The edgy relationship would give rise to one of the most quotable moments in the entire Saga. Ever keen to protect others, and indeed himself, from danger, Threepio became the epitome of a health and safety zealot. His warning about the odds of surviving an asteroid field fed Han that most memorable of ripostes. I can almost hear you say it. Curiously, that iconic line didn’t appear in earlier drafts of the script.

  I had finally made it. I was almost in the driving seat – well, standing behind it, at least. The lounging area was spacious compared with this. But the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon is truly iconic – lots of white, red, blue and green lights on the control panels. But on its first outing, in the days before LEDs, I was amused to find that many were just holes drilled into the plywood walls. A couple of sixty-watt bulbs shone through all the variously coloured gels stuck to the back. A good effect from the front, an
d cheap.

  Peeking round the back again, there was a plastic cup, resting on one of the wooden battens of the set’s construction. Someone had dumped the remains of their breakfast – cold tea and a string of fat from their bacon butty. Somehow, the prosaic nature of this domestic litter added to the magic of the scene on the other side – what the camera doesn’t show you. But I knew it was there. It kept me grounded.

  Though there had been an upgrade, the cockpit was still very small. With Harrison, Carrie and Peter in there with me, it was a tight fit. Warm, too, in spite of there being no glass in the window – just a lens pointing our way, framed by the faces of the camera crew. There was lots of fiddling about to get the lighting just right, and many adjustments to this, that and the other. It all took time to get ready. After a while, Carrie, as Mark observed from the sidelines, “Pulled out twenty minutes’ worth of hair,” from one of her buns. She had to leave the set and be re-coiffed, while we stayed behind, and waited.

  Harrison got bored and, perhaps in a throwback to his previous occupation, picked up a carpenter’s saw, left lying out of shot. He began to take out his frustration by slicing into the cockpit’s sliding door. It was not the metal structure that it looked, but painted plywood, like the rest of the set. The stand-by painter was called in to repair the damage with grey paint. It took time. I was standing there – in the suit. Eventually we took off, in a manner of speaking, straight into an asteroid field.

  INT. MILLENNIUM FALCON – COCKPIT

  We peered intensely through the front window as we careened past imaginary lumps of rock. To ensure we all fell around in the same direction, at the same moment, the whole set was rigged on scaffold poles that stuck out at the sides. Two strong teams grasped the poles.

  ACTION!

  UP RIGHT!

  The right-hand team shoved their poles upwards. The cockpit dropped and we all swayed to our left.

  DOWN RIGHT! UP LEFT!