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, and 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!

And we flopped right. We were shifted around like bowling pins, being careful that we didn’t actually fall over. Then the final indignity. Being switched off. Carrie put her hand behind my back and Brian Lofthouse – my new, eternally dedicated and patient right-hand man – flicked the remote switch he’d rigged earlier. Threepio’s eyes went out. I slumped to my left, one arm hanging limp. As the crew eventually poled the cockpit upright, I made sure my arm followed suit. That wasn’t hard. But there I was again. Breathing shallow.

The whole sequence looked very dramatic in the final edit. But I remember the static camera crew peering from their adjacent platform. With arms folded, their faces said they’d seen this sort of stuff before. They were really waiting for the lunch menu. Catering is a big deal on a film shoot.

Of course, the new pairing of droid and smuggler gave opportunities for more dramatic and comedic tension between the characters. At least the droid was allowed to show equal contempt for that “impossible man”.

Others may have found our director, Irvin Kirshner, to be impossible in some ways as well. I found him a total joy. His enthusiasm and energy were infectious. He brought his immense intellect to bear on a script that would end up as the fan favourite. Personally, I still prefer A New Hope, as being the most complete and unselfconscious story of the Saga.

Kirsh was always encouraging. Little bursts of praise were followed by small tweaks to the performance. I felt he was always watching and appreciating. It all felt inclusive. I did notice that some shots grew more elaborate as we worked on them. Set-ups would become bigger and wider; more background; more troopers. The schedule expanded. So, apparently, did the budget. Not my department. I was just there to act.

Threepio had new feet. No more deck shoes that peeped out from the gold covers at awkward moments. The new look was one-piece plastic with shoe laces at the back, almost unnoticeable when covered in gold tape. And I had new pants. The two-piece, flimsy “space eroticism” was now a onesie, which I had to wriggle myself into. I had returned to the plasterers’ shop and been smeared with gunk and plaster again. But not all over. Just the area of my body in question. To my embarrassment, the resulting cast would sit on a desk in the workshop. It looked like a retail display for Y-fronts. I don’t know what happened to it. Possibly, it became a collector’s item.

As filming continued, I began to feel an odd sensation in my hands – or rather, a lack of sensation. It was rather disturbing. It grew worse, until I couldn’t easily turn my own front door key. At that point I saw a doctor. When I described what I was wearing, he explained that the arms of the costume were pressing on my nerves – the ulnar nerves. I was risking permanent damage, if I kept on doing it. He’d seen it before. Arms draped over the back of a chair, sort of thing – though he’d never encountered a robot with this problem before – probably never encountered a robot at all. Being left in the costume for such long periods, I had to develop a resting stance, to relieve the pressure – arms raised upwards. I must have looked as though I was about to dance a highland fling. In that costume?

I kept reminding myself that no one had attempted this sort of suit before. Its creators had tried their best. I asked them nicely for some alterations to improve the fit but they had other more pressing things to do for the production. I asked several times over the ensuing weeks. But I would see the ugly cuts and bruises and pinches every night. At some point, my frustration and physical hurt got so strong that I took metal cutters to open the tops of the arms like petals. Now they’d have to repair and hopefully enlarge them. It would give me a little more clearance.

It worked, somewhat.

But they weren’t happy.

INT. MILLENNIUM FALCON – MAIN HOLD AREA

“I have reversed the power-flux coupling,” Threepio proudly boasted, completely unaware of the sexual tension in the air. Finally the Princess was going to get a good kiss.

But no.

I waded into the scene, gatecrashing the steamy moment. It wasn’t exactly a crash but as I tapped Harrison lightly on the shoulder, I did hear a Ting! I knew that something had fallen off something of mine. It was getting tedious. I was aware George was frustrated by the suit’s malfunctions. How did he think I felt? So, because of the costume glitch, we would probably have to do the scene once again. Not, I think, that Carrie and Harrison would have minded. We didn’t do a retake, because you could only hear the Ting. The sound would be replaced in post-production. And you wouldn’t notice what happened, unless you watched closely, frame by frame. In which case, you would see a small gold object falling from my arm and exiting the bottom of picture. It was a greebly.

An elbow greebly.

Then there was Hoth. Norman Reynolds, the Production Designer, and team had created a wonderland. A world of ice and snow. Giant frozen icicles were, in fact, elegantly crafted, hand-blown glass sculptures. Inverted and filled with water, slowly weeping through a pinhole at the tip, they were totally convincing, and beautiful. The floor was covered in salt crystals. The ice corridors were carved out of polystyrene blocks. A coating of melted wax and salt created completely believable walls of frosted snow. Convincing – until you touched them, which I did, often – out of a sense of curious wonder.

Now I was shuddering in the huge, icy entrance way.

EXT. HOTH REBEL BASE – DAY

ACTION!

The crew chucked fake snow into the air around me as I was blasted by the huge and extremely noisy fans. I naturally reacted to the dramatic onslaught of the scene and I desperately waved my arms against the snow-laden gale. I yelled at Artoo, to come inside.

CUT!

Kirsh came up close. He patiently explained that, when I came to see the finished film, I would hear a gentle breeze, drifting off the snow field beyond. In other words, I was over-acting. Not for the first time, I fear. It had become a habit. Threepio was taking me over.

But in an ice cavern, I did do a remarkable thing.

INT. HOTH – REBEL BASE – ICE CORRIDORS

Running away from the stormtroopers, Threepio sees a red and yellow sign stuck on a door, set in the ice wall. He pauses in his flight and considers. His circuits processing the information, he niftily swipes the sign off, before rushing onward. The sign was in fact a warning that on the other side of the door was a herd of ever-hungry wampas. In earlier drafts of the script, the poor captured beasts had been teased to fury by a malicious Artoo, incessantly squeaking high-pitched whistles at them. Now, Threepio used his wits, hoping the pursuers would enter the cell and be chomped up, thus allowing him and his friends to escape. That was all scripted. The remarkable thing was that I managed, with my limited field of vision and poor depth perception, to take aim and grab the paper with my all-but-useless hand. A minor triumph perhaps. But for me, a landmark. The scene was cut.

I wasn’t feeling great as the rebels frantically evacuated their collapsing base. I chased Han and Leia down a narrow corridor in this world of whiteness; smoke and explosions around me, wearing my body-clenching gold costume, unable to hear Kirsh’s shouted directions or see obstacles in my path. It was ghastly. The more so, since I had clearly overdone it the night before. I learned an important lesson that day. Never go to work with a hangover.

INT. STAR CRUISER – MEDICAL CENTER

It couldn’t be the end of the story. This was only the second film of a trilogy. Nevertheless, there was a sense of apprehension as we approached the open end of this chapter. We stood there, gazing at the Falcon flying away on a mission to find Han Solo. Luke and Leia wore expressions of concern, as they stared out of the giant viewport. So did I – but you couldn’t see.

The iconic craft swept across our view and out into the dark reaches of space or, in this case, an expanse of blue screen, the Falcon not actually being there at the time. But the gravity of the situation still hung in the air, as a crew member provided a moving eyeline for us to look at. He walked away, holding up a rather bedraggled floor mop. We giggled, briefly. It was a serious moment.

32 illusion

There was a new member of the gang. Billy Dee Williams. Lando Calrissian. A seasoned and charismatic actor and indeed, a charismatic character. It can’t have been easy for him to join a group of a ready-made cast who’d been there before. And the script cleverly put doubts in the mind. Whose side was he on? Betrayer or benefactor? Either way, quite a gutsy role. It quickly became apparent that here was a cause of some tension. Harrison had been the only real macho hero thus far. Was there room for another one? Were Han and Lando now playing two sides of the same coin? The tensions gently simmered. Perhaps they were bound to explode in the prison cell with Chewie. The fight was eventually choreographed but Harrison’s anger was clearly apparent. And matched by Billy’s. Method acting at its finest. But not my problem. I had other concerns. I was in pieces.

I turned the page quickly. Having been rudely insulted by a familiar metal face in Cloud City, Threepio’s curiosity was about to become his nemesis.

INT. CLOUD CITY – ANTEROOM

Exploring an intriguing corridor, he had just been blastered apart. Horrifying! When the assault actually happened, the Effects crew had simply stuck a small firework, a squib, on my chest. Fine wires led out of frame to a battery. I tensed slightly as I apologised to an off-camera, non-existent assailant. A quick touch of the wire ends...

BOOFF!

Disembodied parts, hurled across the floor, spoke eloquently of Threepio’s fate – the details of his destruction, horribly told by implication and the power of the audience’s imagination. But now I was concerned to see whether that was finally it, for the protocol droid. Would the next page reveal a funeral or at most, a careless scrapping? I read on, searching the stage directions for what happened next.

INT. CLOUD CITY – JUNK ROOM

Months later, at Abbey Road Studios, I would be thrilled to watch the London Symphony Orchestra scoring the moment with John Williams’ iconic music. After a few takes, they turned towards the screen to watch a playback to picture. There were the filmed shots from the ensuing script pages that I had eventually discovered. As Threepio’s severed head rattled fatefully towards the maws of a radiant furnace, the musicians let out a cry of sadness. The orchestra had scored A New Hope and had clearly grown fond of the metal man. I was rather touched. And, of course, it wasn’t the end of Threepio.

INT. CLOUD CITY – LARGE CELL

Chewbacca had come to the rescue and collected Threepio, albeit in pieces. After a thoughtful Hamlet moment, Threepio needed to be rebuilt. Brian lent Props a selection of my second-best parts. They swagged these in a net on Peter Mayhew’s shoulders. He could crudely keep the elements alive by tilting his weapon, up and down. Fishing line attached at both ends, threaded through and animated the plastic parts behind him. An excellent effect for a long shot. But a closer two-shot required a different approach.

I knelt at Peter’s feet, wearing the torso as normal. Chewbacca was being kind and thoughtful. But clumsy. He managed to put on the head, backwards. Brian had cut most of the back away from a copy head, to allow my face to stick out. I wore the character’s face on the back of my head, while my face poked out of the rear. It was more simple than it sounds. I just had to remember that, to glance at Chewie, I had to look away from him. I eventually got the hang of it. But there was a bigger issue. My nose. It stuck out of the back, more than the rest of me. When I turned to the side, it protruded beyond the curve of Threepio’s cheek. Brian found the answer. He stuck shiny gold tape on it. All good. But freeze frame and for a moment you can see an odd-shaped “thing” on the edge of Threepio’s face. My nose.

Similar disembodied effects were achieved with me sitting on the floor with my hand up through Threepio’s chest, animating his head, like a ventriloquist. That was after Peter had attached it as I sat adjacent, talking out of shot. Running down the corridors was even more fun. Wearing jeans and the top half of the suit, I stood on a wheeled luggage trolley. Peter and I were tied together, with a harness around our waists. The camera shot upwards from a low angle, avoiding my state of partial undress. Where Peter dragged me, I followed.

But my favourite trick was safely back in the Falcon, where Artoo thoughtfully welded a severed foot onto Threepio’s ankle. Sitting on a packing case, Threepio’s legs stretched out, complete, apart from his feet. This high-tech film set, in a faraway place and time, was employing an old stage illusionist’s trick. I wasn’t sitting at all. Wearing the top of the costume, with the lower half artfully arranged in front of me as if attached, I was actually kneeling inside the case. And you can’t tell. Magic. Except for two sore knees.

INT. MILLENNIUM FALCON – HOLD

“I’m standing here in pieces and you are having delusions of grandeur!”

A cute line. Easy to say but very difficult to deliver – the scariest illusion so far. Now complete, but for the last unattached shin, I stood on one leg, waving the remaining part in the air. At the same time, I had to bend my real leg up behind me and make sure it was hidden behind my thigh. It only worked from a certain angle. The camera’s one eye can’t see round the side. But with the weight of the torso pressing down on me, my centre of gravity shifting precariously, it was a real and scary balancing act. These days they’d do it with green-screen effects. Back then they weren’t so into green-screen. That would certainly change.

33 cake

I knew Frank Oz, a real star, because he was Miss Piggy from The Muppet Show.

I had appeared in scenes with her – or rather – him. And I had loved the show. And especially the Pig. And here he was wandering around Elstree but on our side of the street – his show being taped across the road at ATV Studios.

We would chat together, and I soon discovered what he was doing in our sequel. He had laid the world-famous porker aside for a while and had his hand up a character with a totally different personality – Master Yoda. The funny, wise, crinkly green face was one of creature-maker, Stuart Freeborn’s best creations. In repose, his features had a remarkable personality but when Frank infused the rubber doll with his energy, Yoda truly lived.

Since Threepio never got to meet the gnome-like Jedi on set, I watched some scenes from the sidelines. But I would regularly see Frank around the studios. One day we were talking about puppetry and character acting, when he asked me an astonishing question.

“How did you come up with a voice for Threepio?”

I was literally speechless. Here was one of the masters of character voices known around the world, asking my advice. Of course he was voicing the puppet during scenes, acting out the whole thing with Mark. But he gathered that George was unsure, to say the least, about Frank’s vocal performance. That certainly resonated with my experience. It wasn’t the first time that George had failed to see the true connection between body and soul and voice and character.

I murmured that I’d had six months to prepare while they’d been making my costume. I’d thought a lot about the character and the situations he landed in and I admitted that, on the day, Threepio had arrived on set as a complete personality – through some kind of magic. Frank frowned and pottered away. I’m not sure I’d been much use.

Some months later, I was set another amazing question.

“You know Yoda?”

I was sitting at a large, round table, with all sorts of people from Production – people like George and Kirsh and Howard Kazanjian, our new and considerate producer. We’d been working in the Samuel Goldwyn Studios across the street in West Hollywood. Now we were taking a break in the famous, if florid, Formosa Cafe. The food was fine but the restaurant’s real fame was due to the amazing cast list of movie stars who had eaten there over the years – Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Depp. And me, sitting there, from a different league altogether. I did wonder who the guest was, sitting next to me. A real star perhaps?

“I’m the voice casting director for Yoda.”

“Really? So you’re looking for a sort of scrunched-up, squeaky, weird voice?”

“You know Yoda!”

He look stunned. Amazed that he was eating chicken stir-fry alongside someone familiar with the diminutive Jedi Knight. He explained that the character was so secret that he hadn’t been allowed even a glance of a design or photo. Really, it felt that Production were giving themselves an extra headache. They were certainly doing that to my rather deflated dinner companion. Of course, there was a precedent – Threepio and me.

“Looping” was long gone. The slightly clumsy way of re-recording sound to picture had been replaced by Automatic Dialogue Replacement. The computer whizzed the digitised material back and forward, at will, vastly speeding the re-recording process. Doing ADR with Kirsh extended the inspirational time I spent working with him. I really enjoyed that. I was back in Los Angeles – in the dubbing suite.

Kirsh was making a fine job of helping me give Threepio the right vocal attitude. Then the producer, Gary Kurtz, began giving his own direction. Lines went by. He joined in directing, more and more. Kirsh left. A few takes later, I wondered what had happened to my director. I went out to the water cooler to see. Kirsh was there. He was irritated – very. He told me. We talked. He wasn’t going to direct the session any longer. I was shocked. Out came Gary. I left them to it. Some minutes passed. Kirsh returned. Alone. We carried on, happily working together, just the two of us. He was very relaxed. He lay down on the floor. I continued for a couple of takes. The engineer was encouraging.

“Great. But there was a funny noise at the end of that last one. Let’s go again.”

The funny noise was Kirsh. Snoring.

George eventually realised that Frank’s vocal performance was brilliantly aligned to his physical one. With Frank speaking the lines, Yoda was Yoda. But it would be a long while before I saw Frank’s portrayal, and indeed my own, on the big screen.

I had, at last, been included in publicity events in Los Angeles. The Empire Strikes Back was madly awaited by the millions of fans across the planet. No doubt, their appetite was stimulated by seeing my name actually on the poster – a gesture from Lucasfilm that they did indeed acknowledge my participation in the film.

I was pleased and excited to feel a part of it all. A mood heightened by the lavishness of my accommodation. And now, after my few days in my luxurious, newly renovated hotel suite, I was flying to Washington for the premiere screening, joining all the other members of the cast. It was all going so well. Mid-flight, I began to feel quite strange. Altitude? Champagne? I checked in to the fabled Watergate Hotel. Another gorgeous suite, but I wasn’t in the mood. I was feeling stranger. I phoned down. They found me a doctor.

I had flu. Not a cold. Real flu. Influenza. But what about this red mark on my foot? The medic said it was nothing, a small puncture. I must have trodden on something sharp as I padded, barefoot, around my newly glamorised suite in LA. Nothing to worry about.

I slept.

I called him back the next morning. Urgently. He arrived and was so shocked at what he saw, that he had them drag me out of bed and wheel me to his own car. No time for an ambulance then. We arrived at a hospital. He grabbed a wheelchair and rushed me forward. I learned later that no one had ever seen a doctor push a patient in a wheelchair before, so this must be serious – porters did menial tasks like that. We reached Reception. Everything stopped. Credit card? Fortunately Sid Ganis, Lucasfilm’s Senior Vice President, had arrived with concern and the company’s card to hand. It would not be the last time he and the card would come to my rescue. Within minutes I was in a private room, in a bed, an intravenous drip spliced into my hand. The flu had weakened my system. The tiny wound had become infected. I had developed blood poisoning. I was in shock.

INT. Hoth – ECHO BASE – Medical Center

No. This was real.

INT. WASHINGTON – SIBLEY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL – ROOM 25 – DAY

I was still in bed when everyone else was sitting in their seats at the premiere. The drugs were killing off the infection but I was so sad. Time passed in mournful thoughts at what I was missing. Instead of dressing in a smart premiere outfit, I was wearing two short daisy-covered nighties for modesty; one split at the front, covered by the other, split up the back. I was sitting up against the rumpled pillows, self-pitying tears wetting my cheeks. It seems antibiotics can cause depression. Also – I was depressed.

Somehow, word of my baleful situation got out. The door quietly opened. Four visitors walked in. These were the only people I’d seen here who were not dressed in white. Complete strangers they may have been but they were also kind and thoughtful and generous Star Wars fans. I must have been quite a sight – bed-haired, teary-faced, daisy-covered, attached to a drip. But they were smiling. Knowing I had a famously sweet tooth, they had brought me a big chocolate cake, to cheer me up. They gave me reason to dry my eyes. Such unexpected, thoughtful kindness. A week later, I returned to London. All the festivities had ended. I had missed everything. But I had survived.

And there would be other premieres.

34 Christmas

It wasn’t my idea. And a lot of people loved it. Christmas In The Stars.

1980 – I was rehearsing a stage production in a church hall in London. It was Friday night and we finished around six. I was a little anxious. Tomorrow I was flying to New York but had to be back for Monday morning rehearsals. Even travelling by Concorde, it was going to be a squeeze. Concorde – wow. But it was a very early taxi to Heathrow the next morning.

I gazed out of the window, in the very exclusive lounge. The stunning plane was parked right outside and pointing its elegant nose straight at me, personally. It was beautiful, so beautiful, and slender – inside, too. It was a different sort of squeeze from the one that worried me about getting back for rehearsals. The cabin was really quite slim. Being that way myself, it didn’t concern me but there were some businessmen who would be less comfortable than me on the short flight. Short, because we’d be flying at twice the speed of sound. Sadly, that meant that the luxurious food service was over too soon. But what a treat.

Another treat – being met by one of the producers. Bizarrely, due to the time zone, I had arrived before I’d taken off; a paradox that rather added to this out-of-time experience. Another glamorous touch came as we sat in the back of a limo and she poured champagne into a saucer glass. It was all so luxurious – even after the back axle bounced roughly over a rut in the road and I snapped the stem off my dainty glass. I sipped carefully till we arrived at the mid-town studio. Life was not usually like this. But now I had to do some work.

Christmas In The Stars had been in pre-production for months. It was riding off the huge popularity of Meco’s Galactic Funk. Meco was a recording artist who had released a disco version of John Williams’ iconic compositions. It was great but wasn’t an official tie-in with Lucasfilm. The cover was all sorts of artwork, but nothing from Star Wars itself. This time the disc would be official.

The Robert Stigwood Organisation was famed in the music industry and RSO Records were producing this vinyl record album. It was going to celebrate two great entities coming together – Christmas and Star Wars. Maybe three entities, since it was Jon Bon Jovi’s debut as a singer.

I was used to being in recording studios and this was no different, except that I usually arrived by bus. We settled in and I put on the headphones that would play pre-made music in my head. No massed musicians around me. They’d done their thing earlier. Throughout the day, I would plunge through the musical numbers by myself.

“Bells, Bells, Bells”.

“Christmas In The Stars”.

“The Odds Against Christmas”.

Such innocent pieces. The latter was particularly apt, since Empire had been released earlier that year. Threepio’s obsession with irrelevant statistics had been one of the main laughs. Of course, the odds against “Christmas being Christmas” were three hundred and sixty–five to one. But there was also some fairly batty stuff about what else December the twenty-fifth could have heralded – the invention of the wheel, perhaps? Really? But the lines I spoke, or half sang – sprechgesang being the great helper to the vocally challenged like me – were notable for another reason.

It was the first time real-world planet Earth was mixing its celebrations, or anything else, with characters from another galaxy. Threepio and Artoo were part of a droid team making toys for S. Claus in an unnamed location somewhere in space. Strange, as far as it went, but George Lucas had been very clear that Christian dogma could not sit alongside the Force. Yoda, in particular, could only warmly warble rather sentimental generalities about the time of year and goodwill to all things.

My thoughts were concentrated on the pages of lyrics, as I battled through the day. I finally ran out of puff around six that evening. They drove me to the luxurious Plaza Hotel, where I glanced around the suite and immediately sank into bed and sleep. It was after midnight, my time.

I woke up at two in the morning, New York time. But I felt great. I stared out at Central Park, surprised at the amount of nightlife going on outside – the lives of others. I went over the remaining words in my script. I did it again. I wandered about the suite – bored. I went downstairs. The front desk suddenly remembered that they’d forgotten to give me the large floral display, gifted to me from RSO. A generous gesture – just what I wanted for the remains of my one night in Manhattan. So the hours wore on in their mix of opulent loneliness. But eventually the sky lightened and it was time to pack and go. The team had all agreed to be back at work unusually early that Sunday morning. I had a plane to catch. We sped through the day, working on different pieces in the album.

There was even a magical sighting for the golden droid – a sleigh with eight reindeer hauling across the sky. Poor S. Claus would never jump to light speed that way, but I began to feel quite Christmassy. And then it was over.

I sat alone in the back of a limo to Kennedy airport, where I boarded that most beautiful plane. I lived like the elite again, for a few hours, fast but not at light speed either. Then I was safe home once more. I had got away with the madcap trip. Monday morning, I was on the bus to work, back to normal, rehearsing the play. But the real drama was happening in New York.

Production was completed, with the addition of various numbers that did not feature Threepio in sing-speak mode. It might have been an intergalactic mash-up too far, to have him enquiring, “What can you get a Wookiee for Christmas, when he already owns a comb?” So Maury Yeston sang my favourite piece from the album. And there were several other fun numbers, backed by a choir of fifty school children. Maury had written most of the lyrics and music and would eventually become a famed musical composer on Broadway.

The record was released, in spite of RSO going out of business at that moment. It wasn’t my problem but it meant that this musical masterpiece arrived in the record stores without the usual marketing fanfares. The sales were excellent but with RSO gone, there wasn’t going to be another issue. Until it was eventually let out again on CD, many years later. But it remains a loved curiosity for enduring Star Wars fans. For many of them, it has become a ritual part of the Holiday Season, playing in the background as gift wrappings are ripped apart, or another glass is sipped.

Actually, a glass or two probably makes it all sound rather better.

35 blind

Sand storms normally happen outside.

Ours would be at Elstree studios. Inside Stage Two, on day one of principal photography on Revenge of the Jedi – a last-minute name change would be forthcoming. But yes, they were shooting another sequel and, yes, I was back again in the gold suit.

The sandy painted walls blended in with the tons of real sand spread across the floor. In one corner stood the Falcon. On the far side of the stage were huddled rows of dustbins, filled with sand and powder. Silver tubes snaked upward, to vent themselves in front of a curtain of propeller blades, looking like an antique air force; their blades powerful enough to vacuum the binned debris up and out.

I was disconcerted to see Harrison and Mark and Carrie being heavily draped, goggled and protected from the approaching onslaught. I wondered if the little strip of gauze they had stuck inside my mask would work for me.

All we had to do was walk towards the Falcon’s ramp. Two cameras. Camera A, by the Falcon and Camera B, way off for a wide shot.

EXT. TATOOINE – DESERT – DAY

START THE FANS!

ROLL CAMERAS A AND B!

That was the last I heard – apart from the appalling roar of the propellers. The sound was overwhelming. I could see that the others had begun to move off, as rehearsed in quieter times. I set out after them. I wasn’t fast enough – I’d lost them. I began to search. The air was solid with noise and thick with the choking junk, spewing out of the tubes. Earth and sky merged into one mass of sensory deprivation. I was blindly edging along in my suit in the dense, sandy fog, confused by the din. My eyes blurred over. I blew my breath upwards to try to clear the condensation on the plastic gels they had stuck over the eyeholes. It bounced my breath off the interior of the mask and onto the gels. It helped, a little. The noise still pounded but I could see better. I could see B Camera, surprisingly, right in front of me. Its deafened clapper-loader was kneeling before the lens, still waiting to mark his slate, as disorientated as I was. I never saw the rock – not even after I had careened over it and lay pancaked on the sand. The noise whirred to a stop.

Silence – apart from the coughing. They stood me up. I was okay. The scene wasn’t. It was cut.

36 beep

We landed somewhere in the rocky desert terrain.

It had been a fun flight in a twin-engine eight-seater. George’s good mood only spoilt by the pink-iced cake in his packed lunch. I salvaged the situation by swapping it for my chocolate one – George likes chocolate.

We eventually landed and checked in to the Fire Creek Motel, as I remember. It was basic. Very basic. There was no television reception and the food was clearly not memorable at all. But there was a gift shop. George jokingly bought me a souvenir bill-fold of orange hide – a bucking bronco was crudely branded into the cheap suede surface, with the words, “My Little Buckaroo”. Nice. I opened it. It was empty. We went to work.

They put the camera in a cave, shooting outwards. I stood outside, with the rock vista stretching out to the horizon behind me. Threepio was on guard. Supposedly, Luke would be in the cave itself, constructing a new lightsaber. He’d lost his original blade at about the same time as he lost his hand. Ultimately the scenes would hit the cutting-room floor and Artoo would prove to have had a new saber all the time – but we weren’t to know that yet. We got the shot and moved on. Fast. The shadows were lengthening, which would give the next scene an atmospheric quality. However, it meant the day was coming to an end. No one wanted to spend an extra night at the motel, so everyone in the tiny crew pitched in and carried. We rushed to get the shot.

Several times, Artoo went off-piste, merrily ploughing a completely different path from the one David Schaefer was struggling to maintain with his remote control. Apparently, the little droid was picking up strong radio signals, emanating from Edwards Air Force Base. We just had to keep doing it over and over, as the shadows grew longer. Part of ILM’s genius team, David had been my colleague on various live adventures round the planet. Such events were scary, in that they couldn’t be edited. If something went wrong, you had to deal with it in front of the audience. Fortunately, with David’s skill, that never happened. Filming was different. You could do things again and again.

Earlier, the crew had constructed a hide for the camera. I watched – fascinated. It had a sheet-glass window, a portion of which was being blacked out. They explained that the painted area would cover a part of the film stock. Later, they would expose that area of the film to a matte painting of the palace itself, back at ILM. For now, the clear glass would allow the camera to film only me and Artoo, walking away on our mission.

It had taken a while to set the whole thing up and I grabbed the opportunity to rehearse walking up the track – searching out any rock or pothole that could send me tumbling. Artoo was still in his packing case.

I would just pretend, as usual.

EXT. TATOOINE – ROAD TO JABBA’S PALACE

ACTION!

“Of course I am worried. And you should be, too. Lando Calrissian and poor Chewbacca never returned from this awful place.”

Then. Surprisingly. Behind me.

“Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.”

It had taken nearly three movies to get to this point. George was following me on the path. Squatting on his haunches, waddling along, making very silly Artoo sounds.

We got the shot. We didn’t have to spend an extra night.

It was the happiest day.

37 caged

I had never been a fan of Tunisia, as planet Tatooine. Well, I got my comeuppance in Revenge.

October 1982.

I landed at the dusty aerodrome in Yuma, Arizona. Mark had been concerned about how to avoid the crush of fans and paparazzi. The place was deserted. But hot. A short drive got me to the Stardust Hotel. I was amused – Robert Watts had teased me since our first days together on A New Hope. Here he was for his third stint on Star Wars, now promoted to the role of co-producer. I was soon to be promoted, too – to God of the Ewoks. But basically I was still Threepio underneath it all. Back in the early days, Robert had endearingly nicknamed me “Stardust”, so I might have assumed the inn was called after me. It wasn’t. It had been around a lot longer than me and rather looked it.

Yuma itself seemed to be a mile of neon-bright fast food outlets, stuck together. Burgers and nuggets were the thing – vegetables were fries. Fortunately, we were fed on the set. And the set was in a vast wire cage, plonked in the desert sands. This was where we were filming Blue Harvest – Horror Beyond Imagination. The spoof title was intended to kid the townsfolk into believing that this was not a Star Wars shoot. Everything to do with the production was liveried in blue and white lettering – the vehicles, hats, jackets, T-shirts, waterproofs and call-sheets all meticulously badged with a fake identity. This, in an effort to keep location costs down, and to allow the production to go ahead discreetly. Fat chance.

It was a half-hour drive out of town, off the main road and through the dunes. What a visual treat, to pass the rippled sand banks that constantly changed in the sunlight and shadows. As the terrain flattened, there was the set. And there was the hill. It transpired that the former had been built without any regard for the crowds who populated the latter. The giant slope was a mecca for dune-buggy enthusiasts. They would zoom noisily down and up again, all through our shoot. Others sat on the top with their telephoto lenses, snapping away at the mysteries below. And indeed, it did appear a strange construction.

It looked rather sinister, with its high perimeter fencing – as if a crazy border containment camp. Its extraordinary centrepiece was fringed with trucks and transits and security guards. To keep ourselves amused in the long periods of waiting around, Mark and I would wander out of our air-conditioned mobile homes to chat with the sightseers, peeping politely through our perimeter. We faced each other through the chain-link mesh. Our new acquaintances seemed fascinated by what we were up to. Especially, they wanted to know why they had seen a very recognisable gold robot in this horror film. So much for secrecy. It was fun and felt like being in a zoo, though I wasn’t sure which of us was the exhibit.

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 wear, 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.

The protective awning created a sort of micro-climate at ground level. It was quite cool, unless you stood in a clearing – there it was sunbathing time. The forest floor was centuries in the making, with decaying vegetation and creepers and ferns contributing to a beautiful, earthy nightmare for Threepio. They laid down floorboards whenever I was on the move. Not so for the poor stormtroopers.

EXT. endor – GENERATOR BUNKER

ACTION!

“I say! Over here! Are you looking for me?”

Stormtroopers were searching the area for rebels. Cued by my amplified voice from a loudspeaker hidden in the undergrowth next to me, the troopers turned in my direction, to see Threepio sticking himself out from behind a gigantic tree trunk. They ran to arrest him. It was scary, then scarier, as one fell over, then a second. The evil in me came to the fore. I turned the scene into a steeple-chase commentary.

“And-Number-Two-Is-Down-But-Number-Six-Is-Coming-Up-On-The-Outside-And-As-He-Takes-A-Tumble-At-The-Fence-It-Is-Number-Twelve-Who-Sprints-For…” sort of thing.

My breathless voice echoed around the forest. I had fun – and no one was hurt. But I wondered why stormtroopers were so clumsy. Picking up an abandoned helmet, I looked through the green plastic eyes. It was like looking through an empty wine bottle. It seemed that troopers could barely see at all. No wonder they were accident prone. It certainly explained why they never hit anyone with their blasters.

The Props Department was ever inventive. But the net proved a challenge – and not only for me. Made of thick rope covered in latex, it was certainly robust enough to hold our group. We were indeed trapped by the crude resourcefulness of the surprisingly all-powerful Ewoks. But once we were all carefully hoisted aloft, it became clear that the camera could barely see us through the hessian mesh. We were ignominiously lowered to the forest floor again. We stood around like cargo waiting to be shipped but were soon winched back up, Props having cut out every alternate square of net, so our faces could peek out.

But the odder thing was what had sprung the trap in the first place. I had time to study it later. The item that had so attracted Chewie’s hunger was actually animal. Well, part of an animal – the part at the rear. Days later, as I wandered the delights of the local town, with its grandiose title, I found a souvenir shop. In the window, something very similar to the Wookiee snack I’d seen on set. In a line, the upturned hind quarters of several small deer snarled at me. Their disembodied legs stuck up in the air, like elongated horns. A pair of plastic eyes stuck into the fur above. Below, a set of teeth – framing each sphincter. Deer walk afraid in Crescent City.

Much as I did like the location, my main source of fun was sparring with Ralph Nelson – a highly-regarded stills cameraman. Back in 1976, I had enjoyed working with John Jay. He shot all the stills on A New Hope. One of his iconic snaps is of Artoo and Threepio, standing together outside the Homestead. Threepio on the left, my deck shoes clearly peeking out from underneath their gold plastic covers. On the right, Artoo with its legs forgetfully locked in position; the packing struts still screwed in place, having just been hoisted out of its travelling case. Between them on the sand – a cigarette butt. I liked John. He was a seasoned professional but perhaps, sometimes missed the details. He gave me pause during our last scene in the desert.

“Why are you wearing a silver leg today?”

He’d been shooting for two weeks and he’d never noticed George’s subtle hint at Threepio’s accident-prone history. Mind you, lots of other people missed it, too.

Ralph was very respectful of John’s work but less respectful of me. Then I wasn’t respectful of him, either. I told him that anyone can take a photo. So he gave me one of his cameras in a soundproof box, a blimp, to try my hand at shooting stills. It was an action scene – the fight outside the bunker. I aimed but didn’t manage a single shot. It was harder than it looked. The actors kept moving.

Ralph had a schoolboy’s sense of humour. His ability with a toy fart-maker was legendary in the world of hilariously cheap gags. But that wasn’t enough for him. One day he poured cold water down inside the leg of my costume, filling my shoe, knowing I couldn’t escape. So, when he was dozing on set, I had the FX crew quietly rig an explosive squib under his chair. The effect was rather satisfying. But I shouldn’t have done that.

Years later, in a prequel, I had rehearsed a scene and walked past Ralph, back to my number one position. ILM’s Don Bies was now my super-skilled, trusted assistant, friend – encasing me in the costume and brilliantly driving Artoo. He was waiting to put my head inside Threepio’s. As usual, I closed my eyes as the two halves came together. I heard them clip into place and opened my eyes. Total darkness. Something had gone wrong. I couldn’t imagine what. I heard sniggering. Ralph had stuck gaffer tape over the eyeholes inside my mask. He let me out. Eventually. I’ll get him back one day.

“What’s the red light behind me?”

“Oh. You’d better stop.”

I was driving back from dinner in town with my saviour from Empire days, Sid Ganis, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. The cop had been hiding behind a redwood. I was not pleased – especially since I was driving Lucasfilm’s Vice President. Would I go to jail and halt production? The company quietly paid my fine and that was the end. Shortly afterwards, some State Troopers visited the set. They said their colleague was a bit embarrassed at having booked See-Threepio for speeding. I toyed whether to send him an autographed photo. I decided not to. The message I considered writing might really have landed me in a cell.

What a joy to see Warwick Davis under the trees. Eleven years old and really cute – as opposed to the other Ewoks, who were meant to be, but weren’t. Warwick’s mask was the only face that was actually animated, to some extent. It had been planned that several furry friends would have faces capable of expression. Time and budget ran out. So I spent days surrounded by the blank stares of the fur-fringed, goggle-eyed creatures. I felt as if I was in an animal version of Village of the Damned. Warwick did manage to get something through his costume. His tongue. He stuck it through the rubber lips of the mask and wiggled it – and with his new-found acting ability, it worked rather well.

It wasn’t all work in this compelling landscape. A Sunday fishing trip was arranged for those of a sporting nature. I went anyway. Normally preferring to leave the capture of food to others, I was so glad I tagged along with the group. There were several boats with four or five of us aboard, forming a quirky armada as we were rowed up-river together. It was delightful. After a while, the guide hovered our boat in a spot he thought might be suitably thronged with fish. We cast our lines, plopping them rather noisily into the water. The ripples soon stilled and we sat there in peaceful contemplation. I didn’t really care if I caught anything. It was all so beautiful and calm. Nothing happened. We reeled in our empty lines and drifted to another prime spot in the gentle flowing waters. Our hooks once more vanished under the surface. We watched and waited, murmuring to each other, lest we scare off any fish below.

VVVRRROOOMMM!

Harrison careened around the bend in the river. His speedboat roared and swirled around our puny craft, as he laughingly waved greetings to us all. Then he was gone.

The water sloshed and rocked against our boat and lapped to a stillness, the fish presumably fled for the day. It had been a surprise. Like a visitation from Harrison’s other action hero. But now, another surprise. My line was taut. The thrill of the hunt took over. I reeled it in. And there was a fish struggling away from me. I was surprisingly excited as I grabbed a net to scoop up the silvery beauty. The hook dislodged itself and my prize just rested in the net, already exhausted by the brief struggle. I made a decision and took a photo. Gently sliding the net back into the water, I let the fish float away. It lay very still. I felt bad. Then with a gentle flourish of its tail, it was gone. What a sense of relief. But now others in our group were hauling in lines. It was quite a catch – gleaming trophy fish that would provide a generous supper. I had to admit, mine had been something of a tiddler.

EXT. ENDOR – FOREST – DENSE FOLIAGE

ACTION!

“It’s against my programming to impersonate a deity!”

I loved the idea of Threepio becoming a god. A chance to get his own back, on one human in particular. We were back at the Ewok village at Elstree Studios. The giant set was raised high above the stage floor. Painted forest backdrops filled in the picture behind the prop trees. The camera could encompass the depth of the forest floor, helped by pumping dry ice into the area below. It gave a lovely, misty quality to the view. And the area didn’t go to waste. Out of sight, there were rows of chairs where off-duty Ewoks could relax. It was a few days before they realised that some of our furry friends were in danger of becoming a little too chilled out. Dry ice is the friendly term for a rather unfriendly substance, carbon dioxide. In solid form it’s so cold as to burn the skin. As it warms and becomes a gas, it changes the atmosphere, and not in a good way. The Ewoks were in danger of passing out due to lack of oxygen. They moved the chairs.

Meanwhile, I had a throne. But I too felt slightly unsafe. I trusted the crew – but you never know. Wires, front and back, tensed and then winched me up to the studio rafters – the flies. A small length of tracking above, allowed the chair to travel in a circle, as I waved my arms in fear. It was partially real. I was genuinely glad when I landed.

I’m often asked, what is my favourite line from the movies. Han had been bullying and dissing Threepio since their first meeting. Now, hung over a pile of firewood about to be ignited by an Ewok, the cocky young smuggler wondered what was happening. Threepio was always happy to provide information.

EXT. Endor – EWOK VILLAGE SQUARE

ACTION!

“It appears, Captain Solo, that you are to be the main course for the banquet given in my honour.”

You can read the satisfaction on Threepio’s face.

I don’t wear the costume in rehearsal. Everyone can see my face and Threepio’s emotions writ very large on it. To get anything through the suit, my droid performance has to be slightly larger than life – Robot World rather than World Of Chekhov. In other words, it’s a form of overacting. Without the suit, it’s probably quite apparent. But there’s no point in rehearsing out of character.

This being the third movie, I had evolved a little. Both as myself and as the droid. Still insecure that I looked and sounded foolish in rehearsal and equally so within the suit, I had to go on in my own way. I now knew what it took to create an effect through the costume; the can and cannots of wearing a suit like that. Still dependent on the script to give him opportunities for new and fresh expression, Threepio was Threepio was Threepio – not everyone’s cup of tea – but I liked him. So. Tough.

His character is really an exaggeration of a human. Somehow the audience enjoys human emotions coming from a creature that is not actually flesh and blood. They become quite forgiving and empathetic. George’s script for A New Hope had firmly planted Threepio in my head. It was gloriously well-written and defined the basis of his character. I could absorb him. Once absorbed, a character can live in the actor’s mind, to the extent that many of its characteristics become instinctive. He was never going to be allowed to be a protagonist, someone who heroically moved the story forward. He would always be re- rather than pro-active. But that allowed the audience to empathise with him. His lot in life is, for the most part, like those of us ultimately watching him on screen. His overt sensitivity and nerves are the raw emotions that humans are taught to hide as they grow up.

I had grown to admire his innate loyalty; a quality I admire in humans, so maybe I was able to relate and play it up a little. But unlike me, the poor creature has no sense of humour, which actually makes him quite funny to watch. He is the ultimate straight man. The fact that he finds human behaviour hard to understand is key to some of his anxieties. Humour and irony are essential to survive living on any planet I know. Without them, Threepio is indeed doomed to suffer.

In spite of the overblown performance, I did need to give Threepio a sense of reality and truth. In his own way, he needs to seem, to feel, real. Then we all can believe in him. It was certainly a challenge from the start, especially relating with the ever-silent Artoo. Thank The Maker for those improv classes at drama school. Then, rather stupidly late, I realised that my stint as the sharp-witted Guildenstern had been a rehearsal for it all. His relationship to Stoppard’s more blunt, gung-ho creation, Rosencrantz, was like a mirror of the two droids. Gloriously bonded, interdependent in their unique characters, tempest-torn by events beyond their control. R was Artoo. G was Threepio.

On top of the character play, I did have to continually consider the physical aspects of each scene. I needed to work around the restrictions of the suit, whether it was manual or visual. The hands couldn’t touch the face or head. That took away quite a range of human gestures. The head could only turn a few degrees in the neck. I had to fake eyelines to avoid peering downwards at Artoo or the Ewoks, which would have made Threepio seem like an old man. I wanted him to stand stoically upright. I only had so much to work with and it was my job to make the best of it. Which, for the most part, I did. With the occasional failing. However, I did rely on everyone else performing as in rehearsal. Which, for the most part, they did.

It didn’t help that with all the clicks and squeaks of the costume echoed and amplified up inside the head, it was often hard to hear what the others were saying. Equally hard for them to hear my muffled tones, again deafening me from the inside.

Even in unsuited rehearsal I stand like Threepio, with my arms spread like him – it helps the camera crew understand how much of my physical presence will fill the screen. I speak in his voice. It probably looks and sounds ridiculous without the mask. But it’s what I do to help me stay in character.

Marquand had asked me to work it out for myself. So I spent the weekend rehearsing at home. How to mime the story of our adventure that Threepio was tasked with telling the Ewoks, so they would understand our plight and help our cause. Back in the village on Monday morning, I demonstrated my homework to the tiny audience. For this moment, I had written simple lines in English. Later, Ben Burtt and I would re-record the words in Ben’s cleverly constructed Ewokese. But for now, it was me delivering some fairly lame stuff.

“Princess Leia put a message in Artoo because there was this really bad human – Darth Vader who built the Death Star. Then we met a Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi who fought him with his glow stick. We were attacked by Walkers but Master Luke blew them up. And we flew to Cloud City in the Millennium Falcon…” and so on.

Not Shakespeare. But a start. No good being embarrassed, I went at it full tilt. The Ewok faces gazed up at me with their scary dead eyes. But I caught Harrison’s rather disdainful stare from off camera. Clearly he was not impressed with my performance. But with Ben’s sound effects of walkers, X-wings and explosions, it became a much-loved scene. Not bad for a character who once apologised for being not very good at telling stories. Subconsciously, that look on Harrison’s face may have inspired one of my proudest moments.

INT. ENDOR – CHIEF’S HUT – COUNCIL OF ELDERS

Threepio is in conversation with one of the tribe.

Han rudely taps him on the shoulder, interrupting. The droid turns and gets a peremptory demand, right in his face. He turns back and begins politely translating Han’s enquiry. It happens again. Threepio politely listens and turns back to his new little friend. Han taps once more – once too often.

The irritated droid whips his head round, giving this ill-mannered human a furious stare. And another – his emotion clearly written on his golden face. The mask doesn’t change. The emotion does. The anger is right there. It took a little planning with my head and torso positions. But I think I managed to communicate Threepio’s true feelings.

The torture room was a smaller challenge. How to show absolute horror as the child droid gets pulled apart. I realised that humans do a sort of tortoise thing when they’re afraid – hunching shoulders around the ears. I think Threepio’s horrified reaction is quite effective. Besides the actual drama, it was a strange scene to shoot. Marquand had his face in the script the whole time. He personally read-in the lines of the chief torturer. At the end of the shot he looked up and asked the cameraman if it was okay. I wasn’t sure whether he meant my performance or his. He liked performing. He liked dramatically posing for stills. But it was apparent that it was actually George who was directing – by proxy.

I had my doubts about this new director from our first meeting. Sitting in his office at Elstree, I mentioned that I sometimes rewrote Threepio’s dialogue lines, with a view to improving them. He addressed me like a headmaster in a minor boarding school. He informed me that a scriptwriter had been paid a lot of money to write the words, so I should leave them alone. This man was no Kirsh. When I later saw Marquand’s previous effort, Eye of the Needle, I phoned lovely co-producer, Robert Watts, questioning if this was the right man for the job. It transpired that George seemed to agree with my assessment. He hadn’t planned to be on set for the entire shoot, having a plateful of other stuff to deal with. As he observed the first few days of the shoot, he changed his mind and became a significant presence on the set, although the stitching on his hat didn’t actually say “Director”.

With the slightly confused focus about who was actually in charge, it seemed that Harrison was also taking a whip hand. It became a maxim on the shoot, that a close-up of Carrie ended up as a two-shot favouring Harrison. I always thought that he would make an excellent director. Too busy being an excellent actor, I suppose.

Marquand seemed to enjoy scapegoating people.

I was watching from the camera position on Jabba’s barge. After a couple of takes Marquand was vociferously rude about Billy Dee, wired onto the distant skiff.

“Why couldn’t he get the lines right?” he grumbled expletivly for all around to hear. The fact that Harrison had just rejigged the scene with the director and Billy was hanging upside down in the severe heat of Yuma’s desert, perhaps had something to do with it.

Marquand tried it with me in the forest. Hearing my name spoken from behind a bush in the adjacent clearing, I was beside the camera in moments.

“That’s the second time you’ve kept us waiting.”

“What?”

“Okay. Let’s start.”

“Wait a minute. What are you accusing me of, in front of the crew?”

“Never mind.”

I dropped the exchange because now we were both wasting time. Some days later, the schedule was suddenly changed, so that Harrison could fly to LA for a premiere of his latest, non-Star Wars adventure. He had indeed, become the star he truly deserved to be. As we watched him walk, Indiana Jones-like out of the clearing, Marquand turned to me, suddenly his best buddy.

“Now you and I can get on with making this movie together.”

“Richard. Throughout the production you have belittled me. Ignored me. Given me no useful direction. Cut takes when I am still performing. I would prefer you not to speak to me for the rest of the shoot.”

I turned from his blank expression and walked over to George who was hovering. I gestured behind me.

“I can’t dub the movie with him. Okay?”

Lovely Howard Kazanjian produced the whole thing in the most gentlemanly fashion. The attitude of the producer can make a huge difference to the atmosphere on any production. The film business has its own peculiar rules on how people are treated. There has yet to be an HR Department like other industries. It’s better simply not to complain – if you want to work again. Howard somehow managed to contain the awkward situation and made a very popular film that audiences love. And many fans loved the Ewoks. And, as I had requested, George directed my ADR sessions.

It was here that we incorporated real Ewok words, covering my place-holder lines recorded on set. It had been huge fun working with Ben on the language. He and I had listened to recordings of weird dialects from around the world. We wrote down sounds and phrases and jiggled them about to make credible-sounding sentences.

“Princess Leia wassay wad-ma Artoo. Oss va-ta-ta rundi, Darth Vader! – un chemko vaskeemo tee a tum de Death Star. Oss meechi un Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Ee mana macha Vader con yum num. Toronto Gosh – Toronto Gosh. Master Luke ah chimeny Choo-Do. Choo-Do. Uta Millennium Falcon ah – chimeny Cloud City.” And so on.

Yum num still makes me smile. Along with the drama of – Han Solo, Teekolo Carbon! We had to stop sometimes, falling about with laughter. Certain sentences sounded too hilariously vulgar. We didn’t use them in the end. Ewoks are meant to be cute.

I was shocked. I had wandered into the back-lot behind the stages at Elstree. It was the area where productions could build outdoor sets, do what they wanted here. I remembered seeing the snow-bound gas station from The Shining when we’d shared the studios with Stanley Kubrick. Literally tons of salt had been dumped across the whole area to create the right effect; and the same inside the stages. I recalled sneaking into the set of the garden maze. Big signs declared “Closed Set” but there was no one around. Nosey, I pushed open the heavy, sound-proof door.

It was genuinely amazing inside and I shouldn’t have been there. Tall green hedges were set against the snow piled on the ground. Even though it was inside Stage Two, next to my dressing room, it seemed genuinely chill as I trespassed on. Then. Horror! I looked down. My trainers had left perfect prints in the fresh fake snow. I froze – in the emotional sense – before working out my escape. So as to limit the damage I’d already done, I carefully walked backwards in my footprints. At last, I reached the edge of the set and walked nonchalantly out of the stage as if I had never been there.

How extraordinary and spine-tingling to see the finished film in the movie theatre. There was the maze. There was the little boy hero escaping from crazy Jack out in the snow. And he did it by walking backwards in his own footprints, exactly as I had done. I wondered if Mr Kubrick had got the idea from seeing my footwork. Probably not.

It was a damp, gloomy day and the gas station and maze were long gone – so was the snow. We were reaching the end on this shoot and I wanted some fresh air, away from the Ewoks and the fuggy atmosphere of Jabba’s palace. But now there were clouds of smoke here as well. Two crew members were making a bonfire. I realised what they were doing. But why?

They paused in their destruction to explain. Its huge steel frame had already been sent to a scrap yard. They were disposing of the rest – the wood and painted panels that were flaming and smouldering in front of us. No longer wanted, too expensive to store, the Millennium Falcon was finally going down in flames.

I felt a strange emotion as I gazed at the mess. This craft had taken me and my friends on so many exciting journeys. It was a part of our family. It was known and loved around the planet. An icon. What an unfeeling fate – to be wrecked, torn apart, burnt. Immortalised on film but never to exist again in real life. No goodbyes. No speeches. Just this acrid pyre.

I bent down at the edge of the wet grass and picked up some bundles of wiring. I’d seen them lining the Falcon’s corridors. It didn’t matter what they were for. They looked important – and real. Nearby were some small plastic grills about to be melted down. I picked up this doomed souvenir of a magnificent creation and thumbed mud off the black shape – a word stamped on them. “Ford”. And it didn’t mean Harrison.

These were car parts.

So it had been pretend after all.

It was the end. George wasn’t going to make any more Star Wars films. His once-planned trio of trilogies was going to remain just the one. That was okay. My memories were, to say the least, mixed. I had certainly moved up the chain from being ignored to having my name on the poster – and to being a deity – albeit of the Ewoks – and to being included in some publicity bashes. Perhaps there was an enduring, residual emptiness in my mind – feeling trivialised for playing a role in total disguise – inferior to the other cast whose faces could be seen. Also, I had some good times. Made a living. Made friends. Got to know my golden friend.

But I would soon find that my life as Threepio was far from over.

42 ride

1986 – Flower Street – Burbank – California.

Tom Fitzgerald sat behind his desk. He was the creative director-producer. He and his fellow Imagineers would combine talents with Lucasfilm and ILM to create a thrilling ride in the Disney theme parks. In his simple office, he conjured the most extraordinary adventure in the air between us, simply with his voice and gestures. He was describing, with vivid energy, the Star Tours experience.

Guests would be hurled into space, under the incompetent piloting skills of Captain Rex. Being his first day on the job, there would inevitably be some problems. This meant experiencing many of the most dramatic and exciting moments from the three Star Wars movies – the viewport screen constantly alive with a seamless view of the drama, with the passengers seat-belted into the hurtling flight simulator. Thrilling!

Entering the spaceport prior to departure, the guest would be immersed into the world of space travel. While weird announcements and flight information filled the air, passengers followed a snaking path. It led them past a StarSpeeder 3000, similar to the vehicle they would soon be boarding. This particular one was currently under repair. Artoo doing the mechanics – Threepio directing from a control platform, up above them. Things would not go well, especially with the craft’s space cannons about to explode. This was where I would come in.

I stood before the camera, in front of a mock-up of the control console, in an otherwise empty studio. Tom directed my performance, as I instructed and cajoled an eyeline that was the non-existent Artoo. I was wearing jeans and a shirt – and a sandbag. The latter kept my feet steady, in one place. My left leg would be the conduit for all the wires needed to activate the animatronic figure I would become.

Tom and I had such fun, as we recorded the 12-minute performance that would eventually be an endless loop in the parks. And that would include Paris Disney. So I recorded the lines in French as well. Months later, they realised that the French take twice as long to say anything. So we had to re-record a truncated script to fit with the animatronic programming. But I was concerned that the talented team of Imagineers, the utterly brilliant and inventive team who actually create the experiences at Disney parks, would make Threepio too human. I impertinently briefed the animation programmer, that this droid’s movements were unique. David Feiten listened impassively. I just hoped I had made myself clear.

Many months later, in the middle of the night – a time when installations and maintenance are done at Disney parks – I stood in the new but empty spaceport. There was Threepio, going through his procedures. It was uncanny. He was just as real as if I were inside. David had done a stupendously good job. Later I would tell him my ecstatic reaction. He would smile, slightly. He always did a good job.

But now I stood there alone. When we’d filmed the sequence, Tom directed me to put a glance down, towards where the audience would be passing through. Standing there, gazing up at my golden friend, the machinery that was hidden inside turned his face down towards me. He looked straight into my eyes. I felt my soul turn over. We gazed at each other for a moment. Then he looked up and went back to nagging Artoo. It was as memorable a moment as my first encounter with Ralph McQuarrie’s concept painting, so many years before.

Opening Night! Well, the rehearsal, anyway. I stood up on my stage, waiting to make an entrance. It was four in the morning. The brilliantly talented David Schaefer, concealed somewhere nearby, was twiddling Artoo’s controls. David was still accompanying me too, on all sorts of gigs around the world. I sang his praises to Tom, suggesting Disney could well use his skills. So they gave him a job. Stupid of me – our happy times together were no more. But his talents were clearly made for a higher level responsibility than mopping my face and driving Artoo. But that was later. Now. At Anaheim Disney. All systems ready for the spectacle.

GO!

A giant flying saucer appeared high in the night sky. Its long, delicate arms fringed the rounded body, as it rose up into sight. A sensational theatrical stroke. It flew towards me, so high above. Now it was nearly overhead. My pre-recorded voice sounded out through an array of speakers. Threepio began landing procedures for his arrival with Artoo, ensuring that Mickey was standing by to greet them. As my words echoed through the empty park, the saucer paused – sort of. For now, it was moving away. Now back again, as it started to swing like a giant pendulum. The arms began to flounce as they beat the air. The motion grew stronger. Stronger. Suddenly. Pieces of the craft tumbling. Breaking. Falling. Crashing.

It seemed that the giant prop was suspended on a wire. The blacked-out helicopter supporting it was flying four hundred feet higher. It stopped in the right position and hovered. But the prop had gained its own momentum during the brief flight. It didn’t stop. It paused, as if considering the situation, then corrected itself in the opposite direction. And began to oscillate, till it self-destructed and fell to earth. There was an eerie silence. Just the hammering of the helicopter dropping back down to the car park.

In the sound booth some five hours later, I was recording a new script. This time I would be “beamed down” from space, rather than make a hard landing.

Twenty-two years later, Tom was back. The original intention, when Star Tours was launched, was to revise the film every few years with a new adventure. For whatever reason, the original film was still running after all that time. At last, that was all about to change in a massive update. No more celluloid film, rushing endlessly behind the cabin walls, through the projector and back. Solid-state digital was the thing. And in 3D. And with branching storylines from all six Star Wars films, providing multiple, randomised adventure combinations which would fly guests to all sorts of destinations. And there were other special effects too. Really special effects. Wow!

Tom paused. He had sad news. It seemed that Captain Rex had retired, due to metal fatigue. Star Tours needed a new pilot. And they had found one. See-Threepio.

I was back at Burbank with Tom, recording Threepio’s dialogue as pilot, for what was going to be another wild ride. Star Tours – The Adventures Continue. I was so amazed at ILM’s new footage that, several times, I forgot to speak my lines – so I had to watch it again, which was fun. Earlier, we had actually been filming live-action sequences for the pre-flight monitors. There was the StarSpeeder 1000, an earlier model, since it was to encompass events from the prequels. It was actually a larger version than the ride vehicle, so that I could enter while wearing Threepio’s rather wider shoulders. I fussed around the hangar and up the ramp to the door. It still wasn’t quite wide enough. Rather than rebuild and reschedule the whole shoot, I slid in sideways.

Prior to take-off Threepio would appear on the cabin monitor. Then as the protective shutter rolled down he would spin round to face the passengers. We filmed me in the pilot’s chair – for real. Except that the rotation mechanism wasn’t quite as state-of-the-art as I’d imagined. It was actually the smallest member of the crew, crammed in a corner under the chair, out of sight. On command, he clutched the seat and whizzed me round. And back again. It looked good on film – looked very funny on set. I tried to insist that protocol demanded Threepio raise his hand in a polite greeting to the guests. This would not be advisable, they said. Given the dynamic movement of the vehicle, lurching through the galaxy, all day, every day, anything not tied down would fall off within a week. With my protective instincts towards my gold chum, I agreed his hands could remain glued to the armrest controls throughout.

Of course, Threepio wasn’t meant to be on the flight at all. He was merely doing a maintenance check when Space Traffic Control set him on automatic take-off. Poor thing. After years of racing through the worlds of Hoth, Kashyyyk, Tatooine, Naboo and Coruscant – with a side step through the terrifying Death Star, Tom and the team crafted even more thrills based on the last trilogy of the Saga. Meaning the adventures will continue non-stop for our golden pilot, who is doomed to be terrified on an hourly basis, every day of the year, until metal fatigue finally takes its toll of him, too.

But for me, Star Tours was, and is, the best ride of my life.

43 radio

It was more than ten years after we had finished the radio version of The Empire Strikes Back, when the phone rang.

I remembered the fun Mark and I had, making the original New Hope and Empire radio series for National Public Radio. I’d felt sad that we never completed this incarnation of the trilogy, otherwise so fully represented in every merchandise-filled bedroom of every Star Wars fan across the world.

Given my long association with radio, I was glad to be a part of NPR’s adaptations. For a start, I didn’t have to wear the gold suit. But more than that, I felt that it presented the wonderful story that George Lucas had created, in a form available to anyone who had a radio. No admission charges, no standing in line, no stink of popcorn. Just the actors’ voices, Tom Voegeli’s effects, and the imagination. It worked splendidly back in 1985. Then ten years’ silence.

But now Highbridge Audio were planning a production of Return Of The Jedi, with previously unpublished passages from John Williams’ outstanding scores. Three hours of radio need a lot more music to fill out the scenes. Would I care to be involved? Was Brian Daley writing the scripts again? Yes, he was. Yes, I would.

Months later I was sitting in a boardroom in Los Angeles with Tom, once again the editor, and John Madden, who had directed our previous efforts. Brian couldn’t join us. He was fighting cancer and sorry not to be with us at the script conference. We were sorry, too. There are always rewrites in any project. We each had lists of comments and suggestions. Many vanished as John and I hammed up the lines out loud and made Brian’s writing come alive – just the way he’d written them. Perhaps because we both had jetlag, we were hammier than usual but the room resounded with raucous laughter at Brian’s humorous inventions.

Studying Brian’s script, it was clear just how difficult it is to describe exotic scenes, only in sound. Imagine trying this with Jabba’s palace – a nightmare in all senses of the word. And Brian had given me a problem. He had put much of the scene’s description into a conversation between Threepio and another character, lurking in that mass of strange creatures. Unfortunately, he had made my companion Boba Fett. I was against Fett bonding so closely with Threepio. It simply wasn’t protocol. So, in a nifty pinch from Timothy Zahn’s Tales From Jabba’s Palace, we changed Boba for Arica, an exotic beauty we assumed to be partying on in the unseemly melee.

Jabba’s film subtitles were not a problem, as Threepio naturally made them his own. But sometimes, when the great Jabba is being particularly disgusting, his own Huttese speaks louder than any translation. And, of course, there were my own lines. I’d always loved the way Brian developed Threepio’s character in his scripts. He had a real ability to capture the droid’s strange mixture of humourless comedy and his oddly bleak but loving personality. No other writer had been able to do this for Threepio – outside his movie incarnation. Only Brian, at the end of the Ewok storytelling scene, could find a radio way of capturing the droid’s deeply-felt frustration with Han Solo.

So there we were again – me, Ann Sachs as Leia, and Perry King as Han. Everyone was lying that we didn’t look ten years older than the last time we’d met. A happy new addition to the team was Josh Fardon, who had joined us to play Luke Skywalker – at least one member of the cast was the right age for the part. With Ayre Gross playing Lando, I was the only original member of the movie cast present in the studio. Would I be able to restrain myself from giving helpful advice? The question never arose. All the members of team grasped their characters without any assistance from me. Anyway, John patiently masterminded everything with his confident direction, so we all felt comfortably supported by the genial atmosphere he created.

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.

Ahmed Best came on stage and took it over with his quick-witted humour. I took a moment to relax. I had miscalculated the time I would need to be on stage, introducing and interviewing the guests over three days. I hadn’t included any breaks. Not self-sacrifice – just stupid. Now I had a moment to myself. Ahmed was more than capable on his own, as he talked about his new character in The Phantom Menace – Jar Jar Binks.

Pernilla August added a touch of serene glamour to the fairly masculine event. She was allowed to admit to playing Jake’s mother in the film. An utter professional and seasoned actor, she must have wondered what she was doing in a tent in Denver – in the rain.

Possibly the highlight of the day was Ray Park who stormed the audience with his martial arts routine. He leapt and bounced around the stage in a hugely dynamic and engaging demonstration of his skill. It was the first time everyone got to hear John Williams’ signature music for this devilish character, The Duel of the Fates. And the fans loved it. So did I. And they loved Ray.

But I did, reluctantly, give him a piece of bad news. No one had thought to tell Ray that his voice had been replaced by the actor, Peter Serafinowicz. It wasn’t my place to do so but I liked him enough to save him from the wound of finding out, as he sat with his friends in the cinema. It would have been kinder if someone in Production had prepared him. Peter is a super actor, with a fine vocal range but I think Ray is probably better with the lightsaber, especially the double one. Darth Maul continues to be one of my favourite characters in the Saga – brief but favourite.

Stepping away from the stage, I was aghast at what the rain was doing. I’d heard it bouncing off the marquee’s roof but the pathway to the Star Wars Store was a swilling watercourse. The store was packed solid with fans, admiring the new merchandise, but they were all brownly muddied to the knees. In fact, the entire site seemed like a war-torn battlefield. The mud oozed and slopped everywhere. That evening the rain still torrented down as I wearily drove back to the hotel to dry out. At least we had all survived. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Tomorrow brought more rain.

The conditions were so bad that city officials had to turn away hundreds of devastated fans. The facilities just couldn’t safeguard the crowds against hypothermia and trench foot. Whenever I had the chance, I wandered down the lines of guests outside. The rain fell continuously but everyone I talked to was defiantly cheerful. The weather might have been kinder but all the fans were joyfully supportive of the whole event. They loved Star Wars. They loved being there.

Back on stage, I was again wearing the gold jacket I’d had made especially for this Celebration. It was my way of celebrating See-Threepio and saying, don’t take me too seriously. Because I, too, was putting on a brave face. I’d never before been rained on, on stage. For my next entrance, I came on under an umbrella. But worse for me was stepping out into the audience.

I was holding a radio microphone so I could catch reactions from the guests and amplify them around the auditorium. I wondered if I was going to get electrocuted. Then I worked out that they only had batteries inside, the main equipment being at a safe distance from me. As I stooped to point the mike at an enthusiastic fan, I felt something horribly weird. Though I was standing on the fake grass that carpeted the marquee, I was actually in a slight dip. It was filled with water so deep, it was gently flowing over the top of my shoes and filling them. I consciously reflected on my sense of misery as I poked fun at my interviewee, before squishing back up on stage. I leaked for the rest of the show. It was seriously depressing. But the day was over and people seemed to have had a good time. That was the main thing. Back on the seventh floor, I dried my feet and put newspaper in my shoes. I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

It brought sunshine.

I was back on stage, in my damp shoes and equally damp gold jacket. The sun glimpsed inside the marquee, bouncing off the puddles that had yet to drain away in the fake grass. As the programme went on, I realised I was hot and uncomfortable. I looked at my arms. They were actually, visibly steaming. The sunlight on the marquee, mixed with the dampened state of everything inside, was causing a fog bank to rise around us all – because we had all become one. We had all lived through an extraordinary event – even managed to enjoy it. To recall Shakespeare, I felt we few, we happy few, were indeed brothers. That people would hold themselves bereft they were not with us at Celebration.

Dan Madsen would never brag about his achievement. So I will boast on his behalf. Against a series of formidable, unfathomable odds, he created a miraculous event that bolstered the spirit of everyone there. Regrettably, he was left to wring out the pieces by himself as the marquees were dismantled and the flooded fields began to heal. But he had started a tradition.

Celebrations seem to come along like buses now. In Japan. In Europe. In America. Wherever it is held, Celebration brings fans together in a growing family of friends and like-minded individuals, making a global community – because of what Dan Madsen started with his wonderful, admirable spirit.

As I drove to Denver’s airport, I passed a huge hoarding, still advertising the NRA’s convention. Charlton Heston’s stern-faced, noble portrait towered above me as he proudly clasped a rifle. The text below him?

“Join us.”

47 tchewww

Another prequel.

Somehow, my hoped-for pleasure of being on a Star Wars set again, was elusive.

There were many people who were thrilled to be back. It was like a Star Wars reunion for the crew every three years. However, from my perspective, the experience was not a joyful one. I felt an uneasy atmosphere. No sense of joy – rather the opposite – a sense of an oppressive management ethos coming from above. George was busy directing the film – the actual production, naturally, being left to others. But there should be more to keeping a project on track than merely making the trains run on time. Considerate and respectful treatment of the cast and crew is equally important. Here, I sadly felt neither of these qualities was present to any degree. I wasn’t alone. Though bullying in the workplace is far less tolerated today, back then it seemed to be endemic on many productions, our film unfortunately being no exception.

But at least they agreed, this time, I could puppeteer the skeletal Threepio. For me, it made artistic sense. It made economic sense too – they didn’t have to fly Michael out.

But there were the pleasures of meeting Ewan McGregor and Sam Jackson. Both separately exclaimed their childlike disbelief at working with See-Threepio. I rather marvelled that I was working with these two friendly and talented actors. Though I was never in a scene with Christopher Lee, I did spend time with him, as we hung around the set, waiting. Here was a real bastion of cinema history. His endless, enthralling stories of his various filmic experiences made the hours pass quickly.

The principal joy was that the production was filming in glorious Australia. I had enjoyed so many previous visits. But it always feels more special if you have a reason to travel, a purpose, a belonging. And here I was, trying to belong.

I was rehearsing in “Creatures” at Fox Studios, surrounded by an eclectic collection of rubber heads and limbs. As I worked, a team of modellers and sculptors were transforming plaster casts into tentacled aliens. The intriguing results were stored all around the workshop like a mad freak show.

Don Bies, Justin Dix and the team attached me to the droid puppet. It was heavy, cumbersome, awkward. I wondered if my taking on the task was a mistake. The contraption was planted on my front, attached at the feet, hips, shoulders and my helmeted head. Sticks in my hands, attached to its elbows. Truly, we were an item.

This time, there were indeed large mirrors, helping me to see the effect of what I was attempting. I spent hours rehearsing in this rig, reminiscent of a Steadicam harness. I remembered the Japanese art of Bunraku – magic theatre created by black-clad puppet masters, ignored behind their exotic creations. They were free-standing while they manipulated their exquisite figurines. Not me. I was conjoined. My puppet’s head movements mirrored mine. Looking down to see where my feet were on the floor, was not an option. Where he didn’t look, I didn’t see. I would have to trust the crew to keep me upright. Eventually, I learned to walk and stand with reasonable credibility. I was ready.

The first shot had Threepio sitting down. Nice to have been warned. So now I was in Owen’s garage, kneeling painfully on the floor, attached to my seated nemesis, nervous – self-inflicted. We began. Padmé looked deliciously serene in her blue nightgown, bathed in the twilight of the room. She had earlier arrived at the Homestead with Anakin. But that was yet to happen, so the, as yet undamaged, puppet was still in one piece.

INT. TATOOINE – HOMESTEAD – GARAGE (FULL MOON) – NIGHT

ACTION!

“Please don’t leave us, Miss Padmé. These people need your help.”

“I’m not leaving, Threepio. I just can’t sleep.”

“That’s something I cannot relate to. As a protocol droid, I’m either active or inactive. There’s no in–between.”

“I guess you’re lucky.”

“Do you really think so...? I suppose I shouldn’t expect...”

“You’re not happy here?”

“Oh, I’m not unhappy... and my masters here are so kind I wouldn’t wish to trouble them, it’s just... being like this... well, it’s embarrassing.”

“Being like what?”

“Naked. If you pardon the expression. You see, when Master Ani made me, he never quite found the time to give me any outer covering. It’s so humiliating. How would you like it, if you had to go around with all your circuits showing?”

“I guess I wouldn’t like it at all.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Nobody would. It’s simply not protocol.”

“Maybe we can do something about it.”

“I don’t think so. Only Master Ani...”

“Why not? They seem to have a box of old coverings here.”

“Oh? How observant of you, Miss Padmé. Of course, I’m just not mechanically minded... if you see what I mean.”

“Let’s see, if we put this... here...”

“Ooooh! That tickles.”

Sweet. But surely, Threepio was never that unobservant. He’d lived in this space for eighteen years, and never noticed a box of coverings? The scene ended with Natalie offering up a chest piece to the waiting droid.

Cutting back from a different thread, Threepio stood there, nearly whole. Natalie proffered up his golden face. Don had stuck fridge magnets around the back piece, now clamped to my head. I was wearing Threepio’s eyes on a special rig that Don had built, too. Natalie had to finesse the face, with opposing magnets, over the wires and lenses, onto the back of the head piece. It wasn’t easy, rather like a game show challenge – it took several goes. But now, with a satisfying Click, Threepio was complete, whole, ecstatic. How joyful everyone was – Padmé, Aunt Beru, Uncle Owen. Assuredly, too, the audience who, at last, would recognise the beloved figure of their childhood. The scene was cut. All of it. George said it slowed things down.

Of course, he’d written the scene in the first place. In playing it together with Natalie, the moment became really quite moving. At last you were given a glimpse of Threepio’s inner feelings, as well as his inner workings. There was a genuine feeling of pathos, at least for me. Action films can surely benefit from the odd moment of tranquillity. And in this case, the audience already knew Threepio so well, I think they would have appreciated the sensitive insight the sequence revealed. I’m sorry George decided there wasn’t time for it. But before he made that editorial decision, a worse fate awaited the hapless droid. And me.

Thousands of miles away from Fox Studios, in a hole in the ground, I was politely introducing a young Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen to my returning Maker and his girlfriend, Padmé. We were back in the underground dwelling at Matmata, far away from its exterior domed entrance. That was many miles down the road on the salt flats of Tozeur. Movie magic again.

More practically, I assessed the rock floor in front of me. Naturally, it was rather uneven. I suggested it might be prudent to lay down some boards and even out the surface. There weren’t any boards. I’d just have to be careful then. And so we began. First, with a wide, establishing shot, then I successfully manipulated the weighty puppet through five set-ups and many takes, without incident. Now it was Threepio’s close-up.

INT. TATOOINE – HOMESTEAD – DAY

ACTION!

“Master Owen. May I introduce…”

As before, I stepped forward, looking straight ahead, triangulating on nearby, fixed points. The puppet’s face leading me forward, the puppet’s doomed feet, pinned to mine. My foot? The puppet’s foot? A foot struck a stone. I was falling. Falling. My world was in slow motion, as I fell straight down onto my left side. The puppet’s left side. Threepio’s left side. The sound was frightening. The ensuing silence, profound. Don’s distant voice approaching as he ran.

“Are you okay!”

I wiggled my toes. My spine must still be in one piece. Feet running closer. Don was there, urgently unstrapping me from the giant doll. Others helped me up. I was shocked. Then I looked down. Threepio lay there, abandoned on the stones. His carefully crafted thigh, a shattering of parts. I was doubly shocked. I had smashed a unique prop. The only Threepio puppet in the world, let alone in a Tunisian desert. But my shock was for something else, too. I felt I had wounded my friend, hurt him irretrievably through my clumsiness.

“Hey. It’s your close-up.”

Don opened his tool kit and took out a pair of metal cutters. He snipped the puppet literally in two.

ACTION!

I stepped forward, confident in my own shoes, balancing just the top half of naked Threepio against my chest.

“Master Owen. May I introduce…”

It was suddenly so easy. But it wasn’t the first time I had fallen. It wouldn’t be the last.

It was an accepted fact that Threepio had somehow acquired his coverings in between Episodes I and II. Possibly, moisture farming was not Uncle Owen’s only talent. Perhaps, in an intense fit of embarrassment, the naked droid had seen the box of parts lying on the garage floor and got dressed by himself. Either way, it was Justin who did an extremely convincing paint job on one of my gold outfits – turning it to rust. We had shot everything with the puppet for real. Now I had to re-enact each scene, wearing brownish grey, on a blue screen, or it might have been green. But the show wasn’t over yet. Was this the time I would really break my neck?

They seemed strangely unconcerned that I might damage myself – expecting me to stop dead when I reached the open doorway, some twenty feet above the studio floor. Of course, I couldn’t see the edge. But they offered no safety harness, to prevent me crashing onto the pads below. They did briefly consider tying a rope around my waist, attached to a railing at the back of the set. In street clothes, with clear vision, it wouldn’t have been too bad. But dressed as I was in rusty Threepio, I was surprised at their seemingly cavalier approach. I would recall the moment, many years later, in a sequel, as I clung to a racing speeder, safely harnessed aboard by a caring team. Here was not so nice. And the scripted lines didn’t help either.

INT. GEONOSIS – DROID FACTORY

“Machines making machines! How perverse.”

Quite. In the end, George decided to do the fall digitally. The resulting sequence is not ILM’s greatest hour, or Threepio’s, or mine.

Back, nearer the studio floor, in the world of blue, I was standing on a rolling road, rather like an airport travelator – the kind of transport that makes people forget they have legs as they stand there, just blocking it up. But I had this track all to myself.

ACTION!

The road began to move backwards as I ran forward, shuddering away from imaginary dangers overhead and around me.

CUT!

The road stopped and I walked back to where I started. We did it again. It would make the shortish roller seem much longer in the finished edit. I decided to be helpful. Instead of walking back on a stationary roller, I ran back while it was still moving and repeated my journey forward – two or three times.

CUT!

The road stopped. So did I. At that moment the distraction of concentrating, and the adrenalin, wore off. I found that I couldn’t expand my wanting-to-pant lungs at all. No one could see my anguished face inside the mask. I was dying. I managed to use my last breath to yell.

“GET ME OUT!”

Don was there in a moment. He did just that. Perhaps I would be less helpful in future.

But now I had something I’d always wanted. Since gripping anything with my hands was still a challenge, Don had to wire it into my fists – a blaster, of my very own. This was something new for Threepio. Well, nearly Threepio. I was fully dressed in his rusty outfit. But in the final edit, ILM would replace his head with one from a battle droid. Either way, I stood in a largish sand pit and aimed the weapon past the camera. I got myself into commando mode.

EXT. GEONOSIS – EXECUTION ARENA – DAY

ACTION!

“Die, Jedi dogs! Die!”

CUT!

I had found it impossible not to make Tchewww Tchewww Tchew noises, as I pressed the trigger and faked the gun’s recoil – probably be the same if they’d given Threepio a lightsaber – all those Vmmmmm Vmmmm sounds. But the crew were amused – especially by something else. “Die, Jedi dogs! Die!” were the words I eventually recorded in ADR. By the howls of mirth from anyone watching and listening on set, it was obvious that’s not what I said at the time. I couldn’t resist substituting “Jedi dogs” with another two-word expression. The laughing crew never knew that Threepio’s facility with communication included some fairly major expletives.

This was the last shoot day of the, as yet unnamed, Episode II. I’d like to say it had been fun. But here was the crowning tragedy. The wedding of Anakin and Padmé. Curiously, there was a kind of glum humour in the situation. I had always felt I was never allowed to be the bride but here, for real, I was almost officially – a bridesmaid. The other was Artoo. Apparently, Kenny had asked if he could take part in at least one scene of this film, for old time’s sake. So here he was, clambering into Artoo for the last time, for this one iconic shot. Sadly, we were not on the beautiful shores of Lake Como, in Italy. Slightly less exotic – we were at Ealing Studios in London. On blue screen.

Of course.

EXT. NABOO – LAKE RETREAT LODGE – GARDEN – LATE DAY

ACTION!

I remembered all the weddings I’ve attended. They all seemed to have been rather more enjoyable than this one. I gave muted bridesmaid, not wishing to upstage the unhappy couple. Two minutes later, like painful dentistry, it was all over.

CUT!

It was a wrap. And being the final shot of the movie, there were actually nibbles and wine to celebrate, just like a real wedding, except something had been missing.

Or someones. The groom and his bride. Anakin and Padmé. Hayden and Natalie had already done the deed by the lake in Italy. Threepio and Artoo’s attendance would be down to Industrial Light and Magic. We would be inserted later.

And, inexorably, the third prequel rolled in.

48 relationships

The relationship between Threepio and Artoo was an aspect of the original script that I found very appealing.

The strangely believable banter – Threepio says this, Artoo replies or blows a raspberry. Threepio cleverly returns the insult. Charming. I naturally took it for granted that my counterpart and I would be acting out this delightful repartee together, when we eventually shot the film. The reality was a shock.

Much to my surprise, on location in Tunisia, I discovered that I was required to say my lines with no response or feedback at all. Nothing. Nobody had bothered to mention that I would be working with a silent companion. Artoo’s unique voice wouldn’t be heard until months later, when it was added in production by Ben Burtt. It was a bit of a blow. I quickly learned to leave pauses for replies that would never be forthcoming. And I soon realised that I had to work out in my mind, and sometimes on paper, what those responses might be. I needed to be able to mime an appropriate reaction, as I pretended to listen. Of course, the editor could move everything around in post. But on the day, I was on my own.

We shot the first six films with many versions of Artoo. For the most part, I worked with mechanical models, packed with motors, batteries and gadgets, depending on what was required in a particular shot. In later films Artoo would, for the most part, be added digitally back at ILM. This was especially useful when he suddenly acquired surprising new talents, like flying and climbing stairs. Otherwise, Artoo moved when he was pulled along on piano wire, or yanked on fishing line, or poked with a broom handle or, hilariously, by Don Bies sticking his hand up through the back panel like a farmyard vet giving an internal exam.

Of course, there was a version of the unit that Kenny could fit inside. This was effective for wobbling, bowing and sometimes, turning the dome. His waddling into the escape pod scene was especially memorable. Otherwise, pinioned in that rigid structure, Kenny had few resources at his command. But he sat in his tiny prison like a trooper. He couldn’t hear me at all and could barely see. It was frustrating for me, and most assuredly for him, to work with a fellow performer where we were unable to perform together. But we both got on with what we had been given to do.

The loving, on-screen relationship between the two characters was not mirrored by Kenny and me off screen. It was an unfortunate situation that only worsened with time. He repeatedly asked me if I would tour the world with him, as a human double act, a “reunion” of sorts. We had never been close friends, but Kenny thought we could make a lot of money by appearing together on stage. It wasn’t something I felt at all comfortable about. Perhaps I considered it would trivialise what, I felt, my performance had brought to the Saga.

Over the years, Kenny publicly made comments that hurt me greatly. I know his oft-repeated criticisms gathered a considerable following of believers. For the most part, I refrained from commenting and will resist the temptation to do so here. Kenny adored his association with Star Wars and Artoo and the fans. He appeared at countless conventions and the fans loved him. Sadly, our off-screen history prevented me from feeling the same.

49 officer

“George. I’d like to have my face somewhere in a Star Wars movie. Would it be all right, if I played an extra in some scene?”

“Shurr.”

We were filming Attack of the Clones. It was great to be working in Australia. But the script didn’t give Threepio much to occupy his mind. Or mine. And I suddenly had an urge to be myself for once – to show my face – in this great Saga. The First AD suggested I could be in the bar scene. I looked in the script. Ah, yes. The bit where a beautiful girl, Zam Wesell, played by Leeanna Walsman, turns into a hideous creature, having been lightsabered by Obi-Wan the Younger. Leeanna looked thrilling in her costume. Not so much, when she shape-shifted into her true self, as a Clawdite assassin. But what about my costume? I went to Wardrobe.

“I’m afraid you’re a wee bit late.”

Michael Mooney was assistant costume designer – assistant to the wondrously talented and eternally modest, Trisha Biggar. The fact that Trisha’s superlative designs, including Zam’s body-hugging sheen and Padmé’s vast array of gowns, and the even more extravagant robes for Palpatine, never won an Oscar, is a matter of regret, and an eternal misjudgement by the Academy. But that would be a year on. Now, it was my turn.

Michael explained, in his gentle Scottish way, that all the costumes had been assigned, except two military-type uniforms. I thought that would be fine. We had a fitting and it was more than fine. Quite dapper, really. However, the blue jacket, picked out with gold trimmings, had been created for someone even smaller than me. I could, at least, fasten the high collar around my neck. Soon, I would be given highly polished boots and a hand-made, Sam Brown holster array. Such detail, for my five minutes of fame. Of course, I didn’t know my character enjoyed going to the opera. That was later. However, now there was a snag.

The problem was my arms. They were too long. Or the sleeves were too short, depending on your point of view. From Michael’s point of view, this was an easy fix. In an hour, he had added a piece of blue cloth and an exuberance of gold braid to the cuffs. Now my arms were the right length. Even better, the extra detail meant that I had been promoted. I was now an officer.

Many months later, back at Lucasfilm in California, one of the post-production crew, Fay David, was tasked with finding this handsomely clad officer a name. Thanks to the scrambled egg around his wrists, he was clearly a lieutenant – at least. Ah. Daniels became Dannl. Fay joined with Tony, short for Anthony, became Faytonni. He even got a bio. Turned out, I was playing a con man.

INT. CORUSCANT – OUTLANDER CLUB

It was one of those grand party scenes that always, eventually, come along in a Star Wars film. Stunning set – lots of wonderful and weird extras. George thoughtfully positioned me at the bar. That’s where all the action was going to be, so my face was guaranteed to make the cut, at some point. The Second AD parked two stunning girls beside me, while Matt Doran was at my other elbow, with his death sticks. His name – Elan Sleazebaggano. With his already long career, Matt was fascinating to talk to. Which was lucky. A party scene like that takes ages to shoot.

It got exciting when Ewan and Leeanna did their thing, as Obi-Wan and Zam. But I hadn’t thought of all the coverage George would film, to make the scene as effective as possible. It took a long time. Life as a background artist is harder than it looks. I was standing at the bar all day, with a glass of ginger ale in my hand. I certainly needed a glass of something stronger when I got home that night.

There had been two uniforms. I told Ahmed Best that they were going to let me reveal my face in the movie. Normally, he was in a similar situation to mine, of being disguised. But Jar Jar wasn’t in the scene, so he decided to join in on the act. I think he looked better in the outfit than I did, especially with his intricate facial decoration. Turned out, he and Faytonni were a criminal partnership. And he, too, eventually, acquired a character name. Achk Med-Beq. Clearly, Fay was on a roll that day.