50 green

This was a job with benefits.

We were back in Australia again to film, what was meant to be, the last and final Star Wars movie, Revenge of the Sith. It only took me moments reading the script to see that Threepio’s role continued to be fairly minimal. So my duties were slight. There were clearly lots of exciting scenes in the continuing storyline of Anakin’s fall from grace. I was never sure about all the political aspects of the drama. But these pages showed promise of something good to come. It seemed like I would be watching from the wings. Threepio’s talents were always available to the story but the story was not about him. Maybe he was simply there as a historical reminder of times past – a recognisable figure from everyone’s childhood. It didn’t matter to me. That I was there at all was a wonder.

If anything, my previous feelings of unease working on Attack of the Clones were greater now. As for the rest, the sense of discomfort was worse for some than others. I felt the industrial, rather threatening atmosphere.

As before, the main pleasures of this production were the joys of Sydney, and Sunday lunches with the Design Department, led by Gavin Bocquet. Lovely Trisha was there, too. Again, she had designed another array of wondrous costumes, not just for Padmé. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s wardrobe bulged with even more gowns and robes of ever-increasing sumptuousness. Lunch was always a relaxed affair, our meal scrutinised by hungry pelicans at the water’s edge.

Visitors came out from California. Wonderful, exuberant Lynne Hale, Publicity Head. Howard Roffman, ace Lucasfilm head merchandiser and Yoda in Residence – someone whose wise counsel I would regularly seek and value.

Sydney’s restaurants are renowned. And I know why, though I always had to remember that my one-size suit lay waiting for me at the studio, like some dread Nemesis. I maintained my shape with regular workouts in the hotel gym and a certain discipline towards food intake. It was especially difficult to resist the on-set catering at Fox. In general, it’s sensible to spend a hefty budget on food, to keep everyone happy. Here it was superb – and tempting. I tried to avoid looking at the dessert buffet. On the last day, they made me a huge pavlova.

That made me happy.

Australians are renowned for being straight-talking. I like that. I like a lot about Australia and Fox Studios was a comfortable, pleasant place to work. My dressing room had a view of a grassy playing field and the trees around it. One day the sun went out. I went to see why night had fallen early. Nothing to do with daylight hours – Ewan had parked his huge camper van, with its chunky motor cycle attachment, right outside my window. I didn’t say anything. Right from day one, he’d exclaimed his exuberant joy and disbelief that he was working alongside See-Threepio. I was always happy to be in scenes with him.

After the camper van moment, I was walking past a group of extras, playing footie on the grass. I stood there in my full-length, purple dressing robe, enjoying the fresh air and fun. They paused to cool down. Seeing me under the trees, they came over, clearly excited, thrilled to be meeting someone who was in this film, and not just as one of the many stormtroopers.

“Hey, mate. You a Jedi Knight?”

I paused, knowing they were about to be amazed. I was modestly prepared for their awed reaction.

“No. Actually, I play the gold robot, See-Threepio.”

“Oh.”

“No worries.”

Their disappointment was palpable. They went back to kicking their ball.

Of course, there were some fun times. The crew were so good at everything they did, and hugely supportive and patient, weaving around each other with all their heavy and delicate gear, always courteous to each other and the cast – a pleasure to work with. I tried to enjoy myself, against the odds. I accepted that this would be the last time I would wear my gold suit, that I was nearing sad farewells to my old friend. I might have hoped for a more satisfying conclusion, than ending up as a discomforted bit-player. Clearly, the future was an unknown country, one I couldn’t see, couldn’t have dreamed of. Or maybe I’d had enough.

George had become devoted to green-screen technology. Mostly, we seemed to shoot on ever-repainted floors. Gravity planted our feet in semi-reality but everything around us was in George’s head, and several other heads at ILM. Only months later, would I know where I had been, and it would be a year before I saw what alien critters had flashed past when I’d opened a door.

It had always been a challenge for me to hit my mark, the position you’re meant to go to so that you’re in the right place at the right time. It also means that the camera can see you and you’re in focus. A mark can be anything – chalk, a pebble, a twig, a sausage sandbag. It had to be something I wouldn’t trip over because I couldn’t see it as I came close. Often I would rehearse the number of footsteps from my start to my end mark. Then I would toe it, feeling it under Threepio’s foot. It was fairly impossible to get it right. As time went on, I seemed to become reticent about approaching obstacles when I couldn’t see or judge how close I was. Perhaps Threepio’s fears were becoming mine. But the camera crew and the focus-puller were ever patient. They even created an elaborate T-mark in gold and black tape. It made me feel special – Threepio, too – though I still couldn’t see it.

Padmé’s sitting room was a memorable set. Dreamy pale blue and gold, the drapes moving gently in the breeze from the off-camera fans. Constructed to a height of about forty feet, it was magnificent and tasteful. Obi-Wan’s vehicle was parked at the bottom steps. George looked at Artoo in his navigation position, jutting out of the front.

“Take him out. We’ll do it digitally.”

“Why?” said Don.

“It’s too high in the shot.”

“I could drop it down for you.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

George looked miffed. He had grown to prefer digital.

EXT. CORUSCANT – PADMÉ’S APARTMENT – VERANDA – AFTERNOON

Newly arrived, the serious-faced Ewan mounted the steps, to be greeted by Threepio, who conducted the visitor towards his mistress. Natalie was gazing into a blue screen. Eventually she would be gazing at the Jedi Temple, burning in the distance. Threepio discreetly left them to it. Except there was nothing discreet about it.

The set was a gorgeous design, incorporating elaborate steps that curved in various directions, narrowing at the ends. The two humans spoke of their fears for Anakin and the galaxy. I needed to get out of shot. For once, I hadn’t checked where the edge of frame was. I soon found a different edge. I walked into the thin end of the steps. That dread feeling again, as I toppled forward. I managed to stop myself falling through a window, bracing myself on the ledge. I could only watch, as Don sprinted down the side of the set, below. He ran over sheets of hardboard that slid on each other and sent him crashing to the floor. I kept bracing, not wishing to join him. Suddenly.

“Are you all right, Anthony?”

Ewan’s concerned voice reminded me how caring some actors can be. But now Don had limped up and rescued me. The actors finally completed the tragic scene. It was the next day that I saw the alternative facts. Recording some of my own lines to picture in the edit suite, that scene came up by accident. It looked beautiful and very moving. Both actors appeared so concerned and fearful. There was Natalie talking earnestly with Ewan; Ewan listening to Natalie’s worries. Suddenly, a strange noise. They stopped talking. They looked around. They paused. Their hands flew up over their mouths. Not in shock – in mirth. The camera rolled as they suppressed their giggles. The sight of Threepio’s golden butt sticking out and about to defenestrate was too much, even for two such pros. At last, Ewan managed to control his voice enough to say, “Are you all right, Anthony?” Actors. But we would laugh together some days later.

INT. NABOO – SKIFF

Padmé sat mournfully at my side. I was piloting some kind of flying machine. I didn’t know what because it wasn’t there – ILM would add it later. We did each have rather splendid pilot seats and a sort of joystick, held down with sand bags. That was it. The rest was green. Natalie just had to look tearful as I pretended to fly.

In a later scene, Ewan would be in my seat and I was looking to leap into the other.

“Don’t worry. We can take you from yesterday’s scene with Padmé and put you in digitally.”

“But Anthony’s right here. Why doesn’t he just sit down?”

George gave Ewan a look. How we both giggled as we went into action with me sitting beside him. For real.

It was one of the most memorable moments of being on set. Hayden and Ewan were simply marvellous in their lightsaber fight. The two actors were more like dancers, as they played out the scene. Their choreographed steps and sweeping blades got faster and faster. Even without the digital effects that would enhance the whole thing, it was breathtaking to watch, and scary, and disciplined – and beautiful. Though they were both exhausted at the end, no one got hurt. What they did get was a round of loud applause from the crew. And me.

A wistful moment. Jimmy Smits was a delightful addition to the cast as my new master, Bail Organa. He was such pleasant company on set. He fondly talked about his early memories of Star Wars and See-Threepio in particular. But he was concerned. He felt bad about it – didn’t want to say the lines. It seemed like a personal thing. Certainly, it was for me. But I became devil’s advocate and reassured him that it would be okay, that Threepio was no more than a household appliance. All right, one that had attracted some degree of affection, over the years. But nevertheless, no more sensitive than a dishwasher. He wasn’t convinced. But he was a consummate professional.

INT. ALDERAaN STARCRUISER – HALLWAY – SPACE

ACTION!

“Have the protocol droid’s mind wiped.”

And yes, it was casually insensitive. But it was the script.

On another day.

INT. CORUSCANT – SENATE OFFICE BUILDING – MAIN HALLWAY – LATE AFTERNOON

“I could do with a good tune-up myself.”

We were in a sea of green. I rehearsed the simple action of me trotting towards camera, berating Artoo on my right. I was in costume but wasn’t yet wearing the head. I walked back to my start mark. Don locked me inside Threepio’s face and picked up the Artoo remote. Don is versatile. I turned and clocked the camera.

ACTION!

I busily puttered forward as before. Sudden confusion. My mind told me I was flailing in a giant bowl of breakfast cereal. Lots of snap and crackle. And I was falling. Bewildered. And scared. Don was running. Again.

The rehearsal had shown the crew just how much green was reflected in Threepio’s shiny surfaces as I walked straight towards the camera. It would take a lot of retouching in post. Why not place large sheets of black polyboards under the lens, sloping outwards at an angle. They had assumed I would see them, since they were now blocking my path. I didn’t. I walked straight into them. Of course they were concerned but, thankfully, I hadn’t damaged the costume. This time.

Another time.

“You can just talk. We’ll put Artoo in later.”

So business as usual, another blue wall, more blue floor. I was so used to working with the Artoo unit that I knew its height and could easily fake the eyeline. I noticed they’d just finished cleaning the carpet and spotted that they’d left the vacuum cleaner nearby. For the camera rehearsal, I dragged the domed machine along by its hose, chatting away as scripted. It was a lot shorter than my usual counterpart but that didn’t matter. His name was plastered on his forehead – Henry. He was cute. I thought my new double-act was amusing. So did the crew. Sad, but Henry didn’t make it into the movie.

Sad, too – it was all over for me. A sadness tinged with a certain relief. I had survived it all, and now it was finished. As a traditional gesture to an artist’s last day on set, the First AD announced that I had completed my role and would be leaving the shoot. The crew made some nice applause noises, and then they were gone, all of them, racing to another set-up on another stage.

I had been involved in all six movies, over many years. Now they were past and done – over. Don took off my Threepio head for the last time. In the quietness of this huge green space, I had thought we were alone. But Tippy Bushkin, our gentle and talented documentary maker, was standing in front of me. She wasn’t pointing her camera. She held out a bottle of champagne and a polystyrene cup.

“Congratulations.”

2012. It was lying on a bench, on a ferryboat to Manly Harbour, Sydney’s nearest surfing shore. Not that I was a surfer, just a tourist back in this great country. And Manly made an interesting sightseeing trip – like stepping back into the 1950s. But there it was. The Star Observer, Morning Herald or whatever. A newspaper, abandoned by a fellow passenger, left to flap in the salty breeze. Like a magic effect in some cheesy film, the wind fluttered it open at a page. I read the headline.

“George Lucas sells Star Wars to Disney.”

51 exhibits

2015. I was in New York, lurking round a corner, waiting to make my entrance – listening in shock.

Many years before, I’d been invited to front The Art Of Star Wars exhibition, at the Barbican in London – a terrific collection of artifacts from the movies. Here were objects that whizzed by on screen, with no time to admire them. Now guests could stand and stare. They could marvel at the intricate designs and the amount of careful detail, the surprise of the true scale of objects, the tiny Rancor, the huge model of the Star Destroyer that had filled the screen in A New Hope. Many of the artists involved were themselves displayed in video format, explaining just how these objects were created.

I felt a little sorry for Threepio, locked inside his glass box. It’s not always easy to protect exhibits. Souvenir hunters can reduce an artwork by degrees, unless it’s behind a barrier of some kind. Not everyone is respectful – some can’t resist pinching a piece of the real thing. And this was Threepio’s first appearance in a display case. It was interesting to see him standing so still. But I was on the other side of the glass, so moving about, at this moment, was not an option for him.

Then I noticed something peculiar. His knees were bare, his elbows similarly – just blackened spaces. Against all the laws of protocol, he was incomplete. I pointed out the lapse to the over-worked exhibition designer. She said Threepio always looked like that and nothing could change now. She rushed off. I noticed that the glass wasn’t actually locked, after all. I went off and rummaged in a backstage area and found bits of redundant computer cables. I cut and glued gaffer tape patches and sneaked them behind Threepio’s knees, slid them into his elbow joints. Now he was fit for the public. They’d never know these wires weren’t actually in the film and Threepio wasn’t about to tell them.

And the fans loved the exhibit from the moment they saw the stunning poster – Threepio peeking through an extravagant, gold picture frame.

Lucasfilm, under the leadership of their Director of Special Projects, Kathleen Holliday, had asked me to front the opening events which, with the help of the nascent 501st stormtroopers, were full of drama and wonder. Kathleen had seen me speak at an after-hours launch of Star Wars toys at FAO Schwarz in New York. Planning a few words of welcome, I narrowly escaped making an embarrassing gaff. Part of my address had been to suggest that guests go down to Broadway and see the stage musical of the film, Big. The show featured that giant piano keyboard danced on by Tom Hanks in this world-famous toy store. I ran my words past Howard Roffman. He winced. Apparently, though the ads were still running on TV, the show had suddenly closed as a bit of a flop. I desperately improvised some remarks about how many years it was since I first stood on a distant planet and said those immortal words.

“I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations.”

Better than any remarks about a defunct musical, the audience loved hearing Threepio’s voice in person.

It turned out that I shared his ability as a master of ceremonies, though he would always remain the complete master of etiquette and protocol – two skills rather more useful in the worlds of exhibitions than in the mayhem of the Saga.

Like hosting Star Wars – In Concert, live events bridged the gap between my fond memories of work in theatre and my life in films. I loved being able to share with a live audience. And guests seemed to be amused that my beautiful gold costume was locked inside a glass display case so, even if I’d wanted to wear it, I couldn’t. And that was fine by me. I had a silky gold tie made to wear at similar events – a gesture – and there were many similar events.

My close connection with the movies and my ability to present, took me around the world. Back in 2002 at The Powerhouse Museum, Sydney, Australia, Star Wars – The Magic of Myth, had arrived. And so had an attentive and select group of museum patrons. They were here to marvel at the inaugural event. All beautifully arranged and produced, in the absence of the Museum Director, the production was planned and timed, to the minute. Go. Lights down. Music. Thirty seconds in, lights up. First speaker enters on stage. Three-minute speech. Exits. Next speaker enters. Three-minute speech. Exits. Anthony Daniels enters. Three-minute speech. Exits. Intro Museum Director. Enters. Seven-minute speech. And so on. Being a professional actor, used to following directions, I followed this very tight schedule. I crossed out all the prepared comments and anecdotes I had planned to share with the audience.

With great discipline, I just had time to say that I was thrilled to be back in Australia to celebrate the arrival in Sydney of this superb Star Wars exhibition. My time was up. I exited. Polite applause. Now the turn of the Director. He’d literally arrived only moments before, rather jet-lagged from a European trip. He hadn’t heard my brief, hello everyone. They stuck his script in his hand as he walked on stage. He started with the words, “Thank you Anthony, for that fascinating insight into the film-making process.” Fortunately, I was round the back by then – not sure if the egg was on my face or his. In spite of my failing to share insights, the exhibition did prove hugely popular.

Most enjoyed by me, among the impressive array of costumes and props and videos, was a tiny booth in a quiet corner of the display. There was a miniature stage set in the darkened interior. A beautiful version of Yoda’s home forest perfectly replicated the moody scene from the movie. There were the gnarled trees and filthy pond, all wreathed in strands of mist that eerily floated above the surface. And there, half-hidden in the swamp, was Master Luke’s X-wing.

The guest was encouraged to raise it from the waters, as Luke had done in Empire, to find the Force within them, and use it. It was fascinating to watch adults concentrating on freeing the craft from the tangled clearing. They waved their hands in mystical gestures, thrusting them upwards, in growing frustration. Many of the younger guests, too, would become impatient and saddened that the Force was not with them – for today at least.

Then I would see a child stand and gaze and concentrate their thoughts. And magically, the craft would slowly rise at their unspoken bidding. They were entranced. I was entranced. Of course, I had learned how it all happened. But I wouldn’t spoil it for a child, who might have imagined that the Force was strong in them. For adults, I would explain.

The beautiful little scene was fitted with a movement sensor. Nothing would happen – the X-wing would stay water-logged forever – unless you stood very, very still.

I loved fronting another major Star Wars exhibition – one that concentrated on aspects taken for granted in the movies. In particular, it was aimed at getting kids to think beyond what was on screen and about the real science that they would come to know in the future of their planet. Star Wars – Where Science Meets Imagination, was the brainchild of the Boston Museum of Science, master-minded by Ed Rodley and Jan Crocker. It was hugely popular – and not just with kids. Such a wealth of props and gadgets and experiments and augmented reality gizmos to play with. How could Luke’s hover landspeeder actually work – because there was the real one from the movies and you could see the wheels. Could you construct a robot like See-Threepio – because there he was in his ‘naked’ state, inside a glass box, thankfully having been reassembled after his unfortunate experience in Matmata.

Dr Cynthia Breazeal was one of the expert brains behind the exhibit. Born in 1976, her work at MIT had been inspired by seeing A New Hope. In particular, she had been delighted by Artoo and Threepio. From that moment she wanted them to exist in her world – not just on the screen. Movie makers are only limited by their imaginations. Their inventions don’t actually have to work. Dr Breazeal has become a world expert in the field of socially intelligent, personal robots that can interact and communicate with humans. It was delightful to be working with her on the exhibit. But I was concerned that her astonishing research and development would put me out of a job. Reassuringly, she thought that Threepio was a hundred years ahead of his time. Good. I need the work. But now I’m not sure she was right. Robotics seems to be fast-tracking itself into the near future. But in her case, it all started with George’s imagination.

The whole exhibition experience was all educational fun. The kids asked lots of questions, mixing science and fantasy and their own imaginative ideas. They wanted to know if you can really hear explosions in the vacuum of space. Of course you can – but only in Star Wars space.

And here I was, November 2015, back in New York, at the Discovery Times Square. Star Wars and the Power of Costume had arrived. Again there were lots of museum patrons and friends. Naturally, it’s proper for the host to welcome the guests and thank everyone involved – of course it is – but when the guests have had quite a go at the fancy snacks and cocktails, it is possibly not the best time to rabbit on. There was nice applause for the host, when she eventually handed over the microphone, but the preliminaries weren’t over yet. A representative from another sponsor did the same thing in different words. By the time the Lucasfilm producer had waded through several prepared thoughts and pages, the crowd was quite raucous. They were having a good time – quite right, too.

But there was a problem. I was on last.

Next.

Now.

Those who noticed my arrival, applauded when I came out of my hiding space. Some of them listened briefly. They were simply not following the appropriate etiquette. I realised that drastic action was needed. I began to speak. They could see my lips were moving. Gradually they began to take notice.

“You will listen to Anthony’s opening remarks.”

They looked puzzled. I had to explain the process. Some guests needed individual training – to the amusement of others. Eventually they managed to intone together.

“We will listen to Anthony’s opening remarks.”

They had all remembered that scene from the movie – the one where Obi-Wan does his gesture thing to the inquisitive stormtrooper. After that, they listened and laughed and still had a good time. So did I – but I certainly needed a glass of whatever they’d been drinking, afterwards. Doing a Jedi mind trick is harder than it looks.

But that was later.

The day before, arriving at its new venue just off Times Square, I was hugely impressed by this latest iteration of the costume exhibit. Thrilling reflections of stormtrooper helmets suspended in an eternity of mirrors, dynamic postures of Darth Maul defiant with his double-edged sword, dramatic theatrical lighting and at last – the Droid Room. The Force had finally awakened and enough time had passed, that a new member of the droid family had joined us.

Oh dear.

Artoo and the normally exuberant BB-8 stared vacantly, head-on into the void behind me. No sense of movement. No attitude. Simply objects. But there was worse. With the opening events just a few hours away, the production crew had rushed to other areas for final touch-ups – there were mirrors to polish. I needed to help. If I thought the two shorter droids had a sad, unloved air, they were rolling drunk happy compared with Threepio. He slumped there in his own spotlight as if institutionalised, waiting for his meds. I’d have to have been switched off, to give a performance like that in the movies. I couldn’t leave him in that state. His propensity to view the future, or indeed the present, as doomed, was one thing – but his forlorn stance here was too much. I stepped in, took off my shoes and jumped up onto the black shine of his stage.

First were his arms. I gently uncovered the wire armature that held him in this droopy posture. Anxious that I might snap something, I twisted and pushed and adjusted. An arm raised up, an elbow bent, a hand suddenly gestured. Now the other side. His shoulders were immovable as he gazed forlornly at the floor. Threepio always looks directly at humans, employing a particular choice of his six million forms of communication – eye contact.

I’d noticed some production off-cuts so, as before, I scavenged and manufactured several foam inserts. Under his chin, inside his neck – nothing snapped. Eventually I slid off the stage, looked back. There was Threepio, as we know him. I put on my shoes, glad I was there to help my friend. I glanced back as I left. I’d like to think he smiled at me.

But that would have been weird.

52 merch

I should admit it – I just don’t get Bobble Heads.

I find them mildly disturbing but they’re bought by thousands of delighted fans around the planet. The much collected Funko Pops, too. What’s all that thing about giving these toys huge heads? On the other hand, I love my softly golden, Beanie Baby Threepio. A squidgy caricature of the character.

Merchandise. Merch. George almost invented it. Everything Star Wars, from bath soap to dangly earrings, and many a stuffed alien and action figure on the way. He famously created a “sandbox” concept. He wanted fans to use his film as a launch pad for their imagination, for them to be inventive with his story and with the merchandise – always within the laws of copyright, of course. Star Wars was his sandbox but everyone was welcome to come and play in it.

I was overcome with wonder at the creativity I saw on the film set. But now it came in miniature form – the toys. How amazing to receive boxes of them, that I would give away to friends or the local hospital. Amazing, since their value has now multiplied many, many times.

I was lucky to be in all sorts of TV commercial shoots, often for the superb Kenner toys. Making ads is serious business but under the leadership of feisty, funny producer, Barbara Barrow, we were a bunch of adults having fun. On a non-toy shoot with her, I did learn something useful. It was an ad for Puffs. Little boy in bed in the stars has a bad cold and can’t sleep. Artoo and Threepio arrive, bearing a box of the eponymous facial tissues. Problem solved. Except there was another problem.

The set was a real bed with real pillows and blankets and a real child. The rest was blue walls and floor. The stars would not be real. They wheeled an Artoo into position and keyed in the star-field effect, on camera. Anything blue became part of the galaxy, including Artoo. It was as though he was being X-rayed. The stars shone brightly through his arms and his head – and other bits. There were some red faces. Barbara was not happy. I got the morning off while they repainted the entire place green. That’s where I first learned about the use of blue screen, and its limitations. Little did I know that over the oncoming decades, I would see a lot more blue – and a lot of green too.

I don’t live in a See-Threepio-Star Wars shrine – it’s not my thing. Stuff takes up a lot of room. But I loved the honour of Threepio being part of the Star Wars postage stamp collection. Cute design, practical, self-adhesive, so no licking required. Flat, too, for easy storage in a drawer. There too, rather more bulky – but it makes me laugh – is the show-off, giant, shiny Pez dispenser. Monumental. But not to be shown-off too often.

Only one item stands discretely on a corner table. Over several years, I had been lucky to be involved in various animation series. Droids, Rebels, Clone Wars – they went on to become wildly popular in their own right. Such fun to perform. Usually I was on my own in a London studio. The director might or might not be on a laptop screen at my side, watching me on Skype. Sometimes it was just their voice through a headset. Threepio is already a slight exaggeration of a personality so there was no need to augment the simple graphics too much. But the dramatic situations could be even more extreme than in the movies. The cartoons were broadcast but also available on disc, for endless replays. I so enjoyed being a part of them all. In particular, under the expert and creative direction of Dave Filoni, the animation in Clones was exceptional.

But for me, it was the hysterically funny and well-observed The Yoda Chronicles that I cherish. I loved them so much, I would have done that job for no charge – but I didn’t tell them that. It was all in Lego characters and was just such hilarious fun.

The two Michaels and I would often be tearful with mirth. Usually I was in a London studio while director, Michael Donovan was in his in San Francisco. Brilliant and inventive writer, Michael Price, was often on speaker phone in his car on the 40 freeway in LA, driving to his other job – writing scripts for The Simpsons.

Once we’d done the voice work, the animators got involved. I so enjoyed seeing the rough-cut animations and being able to spot some additional speech opportunities that I could add. It wasn’t always perfect – a whole gag was based on the fact that Lego Chewie was too plump to follow Lego Threepio and squeeze through a gap in the Lego wall. Oops! Rewrite – all Lego characters are the same size.

We adored working together – jolly script conferences on the phone, followed by intense recording sessions. Eventually we would meet up on stage at Celebration. Such a joy to show off our stuff in front of a live audience. But now, a surprise gift from Michael and Michael and our Lego masters. A twenty-pound, twenty-inch high Lego likeness of Threepio – a wondrous piece of chunky pop art, in yellow bricks. It made it all the way back to London, in spite of some curious questions from British Airways. He stands there on a table as a key – a reminder of magic times.

And what a thrill to be in The Lego Movie – an action-packed cast of super heroes, all made of plastic brick. I eventually saw it in a state-of-the-art theatre on 42nd Street in New York. It seemed somehow a fitting place for such a whacky production. For me, it had been a very brief recording session back in London. Now I would see the results. The packed audience loved the ingenious film. But when Threepio briefly yelled from the Lego Falcon, the cheers drowned out the theatre’s super multi-track audio system – before the craft jumped to Lego light speed and was gone. It reminded me just how much people love Star Wars.

And I loved the association with Lego. They invited me to their production facilities in Billund in Denmark. I flew in their private aircraft, slightly amused at the Lego logo on the tail fin. The implication that I was in a plane made of bricks was briefly unnerving. But what an honour. I had such a good time addressing the teams. But an even better one, visiting the factory. Amazing to see machines relating to each other, stamping plastic, delivering supplies, collecting parts. Each one travelling smoothly on concealed tracks. All in complete harmony. Threepio would have been impressed. It was possibly proof of my growing empathetic relationship with him that I noticed my host switching off the lights as we left, leaving those poor droids to work in the dark.

At another Celebration, in London, I signed something that wasn’t quite the usual collectable. An airplane – not a real one but a sleek, fifteen-foot model. What a respectful homage to the character. All Nippon Airlines – ANA – were already flying a real plane in the style of Artoo-Detoo, all white with blue bands, that was instantly recognisable. It had flown us all back to London from the Los Angeles premiere of The Force Awakens. I knew there was a BB-8 version – white, with his signature orange decals. And now Threepio. Apparently, it had been a major challenge to turn the humanoid droid into a plane-shaped design. Early attempts left him looking as if he’d dropped dead and been placed in a coffin between two wings. So ANA’s inventive design team and Lucasfilm’s Howard Roffman rethought the whole thing. They cleverly placed iconic elements of Threepio’s “look” around the fuselage. Time passed. Now I had a beautiful plane to keep for myself – not a real one. But a four feet long model. A gift from ANA.

Time passed again. Now, I was addressing two hundred guests and press and television crews way below me as I stood at the door of the ANA Threepio plane. A real one – a brand new, shiny, yellow one, parked in a huge hangar in Tokyo. What a thrill, as I welcomed the crowd in fluent Japanese – days in the phonetic learning but also written in big black marker across the top step, just in case. Then I autographed the fuselage of the spectacular craft. Seeing the essence of Threepio on such a grand scale made me feel quite emotional. But here was a craft simply too big to take home. I can just about accommodate the four-foot version.

Rather smaller is the sat-nav I recorded. What a strange script. Just a list of words – pages and pages of words. The computer would eventually stitch them together with brilliant algorithms. They gave me a gizmo for my own use. It worked extremely efficiently and some drivers found it fun to have Threepio on board, as their navigator. But how weird to hear myself telling me where to go, in places I’d never visited before. I’ll admit that, in the end, the uncanniness of it all began to unnerve me. Eventually, I switched to another voice. Please don’t tell Threepio.

Another favourite piece. A beautiful blue box. Golden Threepio proudly presenting a bowl of fruit and cereal. Kellogg’s “C-3POs”. I have a pack of the original product – unopened. I wonder what it would taste like some thirty years later? Probably the same. The snack had started life as totally unsweetened and healthy, and they were indeed “O” shaped. It was a fun play on words and we shot amusing commercials around exotic Mono Lake in California. Those few tourists visiting this National Park were clearly astounded to find Threepio wandering about with a bunch of Rock Monsters.

They would have been amused, too, to see me taking a break in the open air. The crew suddenly arrived with a silver tray, bearing all the china necessities for serving tea and biscuits. They’d wanted me to feel at home in the middle of this lunar landscape. A thoughtful team effort. Threepio would really have appreciated the proper rules of etiquette that they exhibited towards me.

Less proper – it snowed. Fortunately, someone had a hair dryer. On full blast, it stopped me from freezing to a halt. The ads were great, the product not so great. They added sugar to the recipe and stuck two Os together. “Twin rings of honey sweetened oats fused together for a truly galactic breakfast.” We shot some more commercials in the sandy wastes around Las Vegas. It was warmer, but the producers were not amused when I insisted the shapes were “C-3P8s”.

For the product launch in Tampa, lights and lasers revealed an eight-foot box revolving on stage. It stopped in a whirl of smoke and colour in front of the applauding throng. It opened and out stepped Threepio, waving and smiling at the sheer whackyness of what I was doing. Of course, you couldn’t see I was smiling – but I was. Back at home, the “hero” box is the star – the hand-painted art box from the stills shoot. Wearing only the top half of Threepio, I clutched a delicious bowl of healthy-looking breakfast items. But there was a problem. The milk made the product go soggy as we shot. The solution – a gloopy white mixture purchased from a local pharmacy. The art director kept repositioning the fruit and the cereal. He used a cotton bud to push the white stuff around for the best effect, and kept sucking it clean – again and again. I knew he was flying home the next day. I wondered if he’d be okay – the gloop was a laxative.

It’s hidden in a drawer somewhere, out of sight – an example of possibly the worst piece of Star Wars merch, ever. I know it’s somewhere. It’s made of glazed ceramic in yellow and white. It haunts my dreams. Threepio reclines with his hands resting on his knees. His legs are parted to allow the insertion of a roll of sticky tape. It’s meant to sit on a desk – possibly a gynaecologist’s desk. I did enquire if they were ever going to make a sister version – Threepio on his hands and knees with a rather larger roll inserted behind.

Perhaps to be found in a bathroom.

53 forgery

I was amazed to receive fan mail. Amazed and flattered.

People, whom I had never met, were taking the trouble to write to me. To tell me how much they liked what I did in A New Hope. It was music to my ears. And every other bit of me. In my experience, there was not a lot of time for praise on set. Getting the next shot was paramount. But neither was there much appreciation afterwards. How lovely then, to receive through the post, unsolicited praise for Threepio, albeit attached to a request for an autograph. I tried to oblige, if there was a photo enclosed. I had nothing to send. No one supplied me with a stock of official photos.

Eventually, my sense of embarrassment was strong enough to make me create hundreds of cheap prints. My face on the left. Threepio’s on the right. Or maybe the other way. It was long ago. I left a space in the middle. Some fans enclosed a photo and an envelope already addressed to towns across America. As the film’s distribution continued over the months, these addresses would become more exotic – a simple indication of its global popularity. I signed the cards, addressed the envelopes, licked the stamps and slid them into the red letter box in the street. It seemed the right thing to do.

Then I found out that other members of the cast were actually selling their autograph. It sounds ridiculously naïve, but I was shocked. It didn’t seem right at all. Here were fans wanting some kind of innocent souvenir of their wondrous Star Wars experience – they were showing me their appreciation. The least I could do was to respond. Even now that feels quaintly innocent. Because I would gradually learn the facts.

Of course, many fans appreciate an autograph as a record of a meeting. But the growth in collecting scribbled names seems to be massive. The hobby attracts thousands, or maybe millions, of collectors – all craving the complete set. The commercial side of it has rocketed. Now, I too charge fans for my signature. I’d be crazy not to. I still sign many things as a courtesy but I occasionally attend conventions where it is clearly a commercial event.

I do try to give a few moments of real time to fans who have stood in long lines to meet me and others. But there’s always the concern of taking a pen to some treasured piece of memorabilia, often already emblazoned with signatures, hoping it’s not going to spatter and blob and ruin the cherished item. It’s quite a challenge, as I see the queue stretching away and my brain hurts, along with my hand.

My website, www.anthonydaniels.com, has never been commercial. No autographs to purchase through the mail – nothing but goodwill. I’m occasionally bothered by seeing fans encouraged to send requests to addresses, supplied by companies claiming to know my contact details. Their information is useless and simply serves to frustrate fans.

What my site does demonstrate, is a large gallery of forgeries gleaned from the Web. A glance over the small images shows the range of attempts to forge my signature. Some are quite close. Others add insult to injury in their pathetic attempts, dashed off with a Sharpie. But these fakes go on sale for alarmingly large sums. Maybe it doesn’t matter that it’s not the real thing, if a fan believes it is. I remember learning that, in medieval times, conmen would roam the country selling bits of St. Peter’s shinbone or pieces of the “True Cross” to Christian believers – chicken bones and wood shavings. There have always been scams, the unscrupulous taking advantage of the innocent, but the Internet has multiplied the issue by many, many times over.

FBI? A message from agent X. I was about to dump it in the Spam, along with offers to launder the inheritance dollars of a Nigerian prince. Then I noticed there was a phone number. I left it for a couple of days before I rang.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I direct your call?”

Gosh. This was really real.

I was soon talking with a real FBI agent, part of Operation Bullpen. They’d appreciate it if I would help them in the trial of an accused forger. They didn’t want to subpoena me – just asking nicely. Weeks later I was studying a large family bible. Each page was devoted to a name. Below were repeated attempts at an acceptable signature. The sides of the pages decorated with swipes of a suitably coloured Sharpie, where the accused had tested each pen. Now, I was in a courtroom in San Diego, witnessing that my signature had been faked on an item sold by the accused, standing there in dock. Somehow the sheer size of the projected image made me even more troubled. I could certainly confirm that it wasn’t my writing. His counsel asked how I could tell. Perhaps the fact that I had signed my name many times over the years gave me some kind of expert knowledge. But I did give the court a few technical pointers which strongly suggested that a hand, other than mine, had written my name. But mine wasn’t the only forgery in evidence that day. The room was filled with boxes of hundreds of pictures of any personality you could name – as yet unsigned. All – claimed the accused – for his personal use.

Operation Bullpen had begun with an undercover FBI agent sending the accused a marked poster and payment, with a request that it be signed, in person by Sir Alec Guinness. It eventually arrived back in the post, duly signed by Sir Alec who sadly, had been dead for many years. The perp got just three.

There have been all sorts of attempts to verify autographs. Certificates of Authenticity are just as easy to fake as the signature they testify. They are not worth the paper they’re written on – literally. Holographic stickers mean little. Really, the best way to know you have a genuine autograph is to see it written in person by that person. Impossible most of the time, but the only sure way.

On the other hand, if you believe what you have is real, then for you – it is.

54 red

“Hello. My name is Kathy Kennedy and I’m the producer of the next Star Wars film. Would it be all right if J.J. Abrams called you? He’s the director.”

I have had some phone calls in my time but this was one of the more exquisite. Then silence for a month. What was going on? The phone rang. It was like speaking with an excited school boy. J.J. had seen A New Hope when he was ten years old. Eventually I said – enough of the adulation. What did he want?

“Would you like to be in my movie?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like just to do the voice?”

“No.”

“Quite right.”

“But I would like a new suit.”

“Of course.”

It was a great start. Such full-on enthusiasm.

Now I was at Pinewood – wondering what was next.

“And please give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“So you can’t take photos of the pages.”

I was surprised. I can barely use my phone as a phone, let alone a spy camera. I handed it over to the Guardian of the Scripts who showed me into a small office. The room had a security camera peering down. And a young woman reading a book. She looked up.

“Hello. I’m Daisy. I’m playing Rey.”

Of course, it meant nothing to me. But there was a black book on the other desk. Perhaps I would find out a little more. I sat down and opened the cover. It was a shock – every page inside the thick volume was deep red, with black lettering, my name writ large, spread diagonally across the words. This was “The Script”.

It wasn’t easy. The dense story was hard to absorb. The red security pages made it worse – headachingly hard to focus on. It was a long read, but an intriguing one. Finally, I got an overall view and thankfully, and a little sadly, closed the book. I accepted Threepio had very little to do in this story. But at least he was there – and so was I.

Daisy was still reading as I left – young enough to be at least my granddaughter – and lovely. Now, I knew who Rey was, and what that would mean. I turned back, interrupting her concentration.

“Your life will never be the same again.”

Unoriginal – but true.

David Merryweather arrived at the flat with an exploded-view version of my suit, on his laptop. An electro-mechanical CAD genius, he was in charge of the redesign. It looked wonderfully hopeful on screen. The days of torture inside my “Iron Maiden” might be over at last. Eventually, we moved on to first fittings at Pinewood. No more glass fibre. The costume was 3D printed.

I stood there in various pieces of white plastic, as we discussed which bits worked, and the other bits that didn’t. Suddenly, J.J. rushed in. He dashed off numerous selfies, even though I was wearing an early prototype. He was still in schoolboy mode. His genius enthusiasm was overt and infectious. But we didn’t agree about everything. In particular, the arm. Threepio’s left arm. It was going to be red.

“Why?”

“It shows history. A back story.”

“Like the silver calf in A New Hope?”

“Exactly.”

“But that was so subtle that few people notice it.”

“Exactly.”

There was certainly nothing subtle about red. Clearly J.J. had got a thing about that colour. But he was the director. I eventually, in desperation, mocked up an idea in Photoshop. An arm with metal Band-Aid patches, riveted on. I liked it.

“No. Red.”

So the design team carried on, until I had a passable copy of the original suit. Though that vital artifact was locked in Lucasfilm’s archive, some communication problem between them and Disney barred David from seeing and measuring it accurately. Which was a shame. The lack of exact data added greatly to the task. David had to use a lot of guess-work and intuition. Most of which worked.

The best part was his rethinking of Threepio’s head fixings. The thirty-minute horror of lining up various screws and holes was gone. A simple fix had me encased in six seconds. Uncased in three. Now I would be able to see and breathe and cool down between each shot. What a gift.

Less of a gift for me was the script. I accepted that Threepio was very much on the periphery but I recognised that J.J. had a huge, difficult balancing act – getting everyone back into the story. I would have liked it if my friend had more opportunities to show off his talents and vulnerabilities. I thought Threepio was worth more. But I was already more than pleased to be part of this new enterprise.

And what a transformation from prequels to sequel. I would never forget the experience of working on the former. Here was utterly different. J.J.’s enthusiasm flowed all over and around the set. Everyone seemed so happy to be there. Every member of the crew had grown up with Star Wars – many not born at the time of the original. Whatever blockbusters they had worked on, they were so pleased to be a part of this one. It made for a real family atmosphere. That included hosts of background artists. J.J. would always welcome the Crowd with genuine affection and respect. He asked them not to share what they saw or heard – not to ruin the surprise. I don’t believe anyone ever did. They would tell me how proud they were to be part of a story so vividly remembered from childhood. They were angry at the drones that tried to snap spoiler photos of the sets and costumes for the newspapers.

It was a thrill to watch the ranks of stormtroopers going to set, each one draped in a black cloak against prying eyes, each with a concealing black bag in their hand – their helmet. They had the aura of a sinister religious sect on the movie, almost as thrilling a sight as their new white uniforms worn underneath, only revealed for the shoot itself. And the sets were thrilling, too. Where had all the green screen gone? We had reality – no more pretend. We had the real thing all around us.

But before that, there was the read-through. We sat in a large circle. I don’t know if the others felt as self-conscious as I did, but there was Peter studying the script. Harrison being hilarious and Carrie eventually retiring to a back seat, and Mark sitting next to me. An Artoo unit was in an open packing case on the far side of the group. Eventually, a select photo of the whole thing sped around the world. There we all were. Laughing. Smiling. Talking. Reading. Sadly, the only one with his back to the camera was me. How typical. But I was just amazed to be back again – and touched at the little round of applause from the team, when I chipped in with the first of Threepio’s few lines.

Carrie took us out to dinner that night. Her now-constant companion, Gary, joined us at the table. His tail wagged briefly as his tongue lolled flaccidly over the menu that he could only dream of being served. The meal was like a therapy session. Both actors were appalled at their roles – Mark in particular. He had brilliantly read the stage directions for us all that day at Pinewood – brilliantly, thrillingly, sight-read them – because he had no lines of his own in the script. He seemed traumatised in the hubbub of The Firehouse restaurant.

I tried to explain that this was surely the biggest build-up to an entrance – ever. He was still not convinced. Me? I understood that we were there to serve the story, the bigger picture, literally. I had developed the protective mantra of taking what I’m given, to a certain degree. Though it was nice to be back with the originals, I had hoped that somehow Threepio would return to be with his companion, Master Luke. But it was not to be. Though I rarely saw Mark again during the shoot, it was good to have Carrie back on set once more.

Threepio’s first task was to pull the covers off Artoo. He had been forgotten in a dusty corner of the bunker. This was the moment J.J. first saw the golden droid for real. He was delightfully excited, as one of his fondly remembered childhood figures came to life. Sadly, that innocent moment would be shattered.

In spite of the brilliant redesign, some parts of the suit still had little functionality, the hands in particular. There was Artoo draped in tarpaulins, there was Threepio reaching forward, there were the steps leading to sunlight above, there was their daylight brightness dazzling straight into my eyes – there was me swearing loudly, as I groped in the blinding darkness. Time after time. There was J.J. listening to my voice, expleting with frustration through his headphones. Simply not correct etiquette at all – it was a side of Threepio the young J.J. could never have imagined in his boyhood wonder.

How brilliant to meet Brian Herring and BB-8, the magnificent new droid he was puppeteering. I quickly labelled Brian, “Man In Green”, since he was dressed head-to-toe in a coloured suit that would eventually be wiped out in post. His co-operator, David Chapman, was remotely controlling the droid’s perky head from a distance. He was dressed in jeans. I labelled him “Dave”. Brian called me “MIG”, the original “Man In Gold”. Silly stuff – but much in keeping with our larky relationship on set.

Brian’s scripted, but extemporised, burblings and whistles were whimsical magic. The daft sounds he made were simply hilarious and, in context, completely understandable. I wanted J.J. to sample Brian’s vocal performance for BB-8’s screen voice. That didn’t happen. But it made scenes between us such fun. The only problem was that I had to remember to look at the little round droid at my feet, rather than at Brian’s animated face next to mine. Also, I had to try not to giggle.

However realistic was the set of the underground Rebel Bunker, it got a bit old after a while.

EXT. D’qar – REBEL BASE – DAY

It was a joy. Daylight. Fresh air. Greenham Common – another Anglo-American production. During the Cold War, it had been the local American nuclear weapons launch pad. Our perimeter fence now protected the set from snoopers, rather than the thousands of anti-nuclear protesters who had tried to storm the facility, back then. The missiles gone now, the more benign Falcon parked on the runway instead, the detritus of rebel conflict and giant vine roots dressing the manmade landscape where once, nuclear conflict had threatened to end our world. And yes, to my surprise and a twinge of guilt, there was the Millennium Falcon apparently risen from the ashes at Elstree decades ago. Should I return the pieces I had rescued, now mouldering in my attic? I decided not to mention it. But it was a sweet moment to see the iconic craft once more.

And a sweet recollection, revisited. A sudden harking back to that interrupted kiss, so long ago, another gooseberry moment, as Threepio obliviously crashed an emotional reunion between Leia and Han – Carrie and Harrison. Would Threepio never learn?

But here was one of J.J.’s master strokes.

EXT. Takodana – MAZ’S CASTLE RUINS – DAY

ACTION!

“You probably don’t recognise me because of the red arm.”

I so loved that moment, so typical of Threepio’s misreading of the moment, so typical of J.J.’s inventive thinking. And it seemed as if he had, indeed, heard me.

Throughout the shoot I had greeted him daily with the phrase, “No Forgiveness!” It was the red arm thing. I still didn’t approve. He was the director. He got his way. Eventually I created some large buttons – badges with a sinister blood-red arm suspended in the dark and those warning words across in red letters. J.J. laughed. But maybe he heeded the warning after all. How amazing – seeing the finished film for the first time at the premiere. There was Threepio, waving to the departing Falcon with his left arm – his once more, gold left arm. A gift from J.J. in post – a sweet and final gift, I thought – wrongly.

Eventually they wrote the story of the red arm as a comic book – The Phantom Limb. It was a sensitive tale, with some profound thoughts – a story of loyalty and understanding – of memories of memories – of self-sacrifice. I was genuinely touched when I read it. Later, at a Celebration, I was gave a dramatised reading. The audience listened in entranced silence. I think they liked it. So I’m surprised that many fans ask me about the genesis of the notorious red arm. Don’t they know it is touchingly memorialised in this moving account of droids with feelings?

A phone call. Customs officers at London’s Heathrow Airport were intrigued. What exactly was inside the package addressed to me? Package? What package? I had no idea. I wasn’t expecting anything. It seemed that a company, suspiciously called “Bad Robot”, was sending me something from California. I asked what it said on the customs declaration. There was a pause.

“Fudge Brownie Mix.”

Suddenly, I understood why the authorities were suspicious. I could hear the approaching police sirens. Jail time threatened. I laughingly explained who I was, what Bad Robot was, who J.J. was, and about his persistent generosity. They seemed to believe me and the box duly arrived. Indeed, it contained everything required to make a batch of delicious chocolate treats – with nothing added.

J.J. denied trying to get me arrested. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?

55 rogue

It was Lucasfilm. I wasn’t expecting a call.

“He’s a huge, huge Star Wars fan and he’d love to meet you.”

It seemed they were making a Star Wars spin-off story. The director was a chap called Gareth Edwards – a huge fan. I assumed he wanted an autograph, or a selfie.

“Why doesn’t he come round to the flat for a cup of tea?”

And so he did. What a lovely man, so exuberant, full of boyish enthusiasm for his new project. I didn’t ask what it was about – these things are hush-hush. But he couldn’t contain himself, in his need to lay out the full story for me, and it was really full. I didn’t time his flow of words. I managed to hold on to the plot for a while, but eventually just let the whole, darkly exciting thing wash over me. Then I suddenly caught up.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“And I’d really love you to be in it. Just to have Threepio walk through a scene…”

“What a neat idea.”

“Because you are so much an icon of the Saga, it would be really important…”

“I’d love to do it.”

“It would be just a cameo but I’d be really, really grateful…”

“I’m saying, yes.”

“I know it’s not what you would normally do but…”

“I said YES.”

He stopped. He had arrived under the assumption that it would be a difficult sell. He’d wound himself up to having to convince me. Now, he was stunned that I had been a pushover. But I loved the idea of this Hitchcockian moment. Why would I ever have said no to him? He looked relieved.

“Now would you like a cup of tea?”

It would just be one day at Cardington, deep in the English countryside. We drove up to the huge, imposing structure – a giant, lofty tin shed 180 feet tall. It had been a zeppelin hangar in the days when airships were the thing. On a dreary, grey day, it looked rather threatening – in keeping with what was happening inside.

The scene they were shooting was clearly very serious – lots of pilot types discussing strategy. I wandered off to find the two master-brains and helpers, David and Jonathan, in my E-Z UP tent. What a joy to see them again after our fun together on The Force Awakens. As ever, David couldn’t wait to show me the little refinements he had added to the suit. For a better effect, I got fully dressed and eyes lit to walk out of my tent. Very few people had seen me arrive in the morning. Now, heading towards sunset, the whole population of the colossal shed seemed to pause, to gaze – many seeing Threepio live for the first time. The effect was palpable, and very reassuring to my sense of pride in the character.

We shot various set-ups of troops running towards the giant exit doors, me just trying to keep up. Magically the grey skies cleared for a lovely sunset. The exit faced west. Finally, I stood there as the beautiful gold light flooded in and hit my suit. I said my two cents’ worth. Gareth’s lines, completely in character, leaving Threepio confused, bewildered and irritated – as ever.

INT. YAVIN 4 – HANGAR – DAY

ACTION!

“Why does nobody tell me anything, Artoo?”

Typical. But now I was out of a job, again. Sad – it had been such fun.

Fun too, earlier. Gareth had told me there was another droid in his film – K-2SO. Sounded like some dry-cleaning product to me. But I had a tinge of concern. Was I about to be upstaged by another BB-8-type ball? Alan Tudyk was cruising the food truck. Actors can generally be found near food outlets. Never sure of where the next meal is coming from, it’s wise to stock up when you have the chance – and it’s free. Now we were both nibbling away at some comfort junk.

So, this was the new droid on the block. Should I have felt threatened? No chance. Tall, elegant Alan was a hoot from the start. We hit it off together. I loved our bantering encounter there, and at the wondrous premiere, that would be many months away. Of course, he had to admit that ILM would paint over his physical performance, so he wasn’t actually real, like me. It seemed some people are happy to go digital. I said that wasn’t quite the thing. He winced. I was just being jealous.

I liked Rogue One. A lot. With one exception. The young Carrie Fisher moment. Inside my head, I was silently shouting at the back of her white dress and bunned hair – begging her not to turn around. But I did like the reaction from a surprised audience when Threepio turned up. He would have been proud. I know I gave Gareth a hug. Not sure if he ever got an autograph.

Or a selfie.

56 lost

After the rollercoaster of The Force Awakens, it was interesting to see each scene in The Last Jedi, fully written and plotted in advance.

Rian Johnson, the gentlest of directors with a Teddy Bear quality, had a way of listening to the cast with great respect and kindness. Of course, he didn’t always follow suggestions, especially if it was me.

He always wore a face of quiet content. As a fan, he was living the dream; thrilled and excited to be directing this latest episode of the Saga. But he was so self-contained that it was Jamie Christopher, the ebullient First AD, who was a memorably jolly voice on the set. And we had real scenery again. Once more, the Design Department had excelled in their creativity. Always my favourite set – any one with a flat floor.

INT. RADDUS – CONTROL ROOM

Such a super spaceship setting, with Billie Lourd being wickedly funny during rehearsals. She’d clearly inherited her sense of humour from Carrie. And there was Oscar Isaac again. Watching through Threepio’s eyes, I could study his acting technique, just so natural, chatting away as we rolled up to “Action!” gently segueing into whatever the scripted lines were. I delighted in being part of the scene with him and Laura Dern, so lovely, in spite of the cocktail dress and mad blue hair. The chemistry between them on set was visible. Though I had very little to do, I felt very much included in their scenes together. And it was fun to see the script build up Poe’s gentle irritation with “Shiny”. It made us both laugh.

More awesome than funny, was to stand close to a stunt guy. Hit by Leia’s blaster, he was smashed backwards into the wall, yanked on a hydraulic harness. Each time he picked himself up, ready for the next shot – literally. Each time, Threepio raised his hands in surrender. He is in awe of stunt actors. So am I.

Other sets were spectacular but not easy. Filming in the tunnels was horrible, underfoot was horrible, bumping into the chiselled walls was horrible. Even with the hidden red LEDs marking the path, it was horrible. It was a real labyrinth, okay when lit and peopled with crew, but returning from an on-set press interview, all the lights were out, the crew gone home. I was actually lost inside a sound stage – a bewildering moment. But, thinking back over the day’s scenes, where I had stumbled around, I eventually managed to navigate myself out, and home.

INT. CRAIT – MINE ENTRANCE – DAY

The surface was awful for Threepio to walk on, and probably also for everyone else, including BB-8. Eventually, it would be changed for the glossy glamour of Canto Bight. But that was later. And I wouldn’t be on that set – well, not in the usual way. How good to see Carrie back, happier with her script than last time. Nice to see Mark, too, but he seemed less happy perhaps. He was mostly doing his thing on a Celtic island, or on the back lot surrounded by shipping containers pretending to be a Celtic island. These massive steel boxes formed easy walls around different open-air sets. They had proved to be a good defence against prying eyes and peeking drones. There was no group read-through this time.

My first encounter with Carrie was in the medical centre on day one. Shot first in the schedule, this moment would come after Leia’s out-of-ship, in-vacuo experience. So now she was lying there in recovery, as Oscar, John, Kelly Marie and Threepio argued whether to mutiny – or not. I peered over at the cot, on the far side of the set. Was it Carrie? It certainly looked like her. But surely they wouldn’t have her asleep all day? What if she started snoring? Of course, it was a prop figure.

So perfect, so still in its tranquillity.

It was eerie.

57 Carrie

Of course, Carrie did die, tragically and unexpectedly, not that long after we finished filming – before she could see the results of her own brilliant work in The Last Jedi.

Quite frankly, in those latter days, Carrie seemed to glory in arriving for a walk-through on set first thing, looking like – well, let’s say she was not a morning person. When we began the glorious task of filming The Force Awakens she would arrive, papoosed in a down jacket against the chill of an unlit stage, her latest signature coiffure bound up in a matronly hair net. As ever, she clutched her comfort drink like a curious product commercial. It was part of her support system. Permanently grasped or stuffed, last minute, behind a concealing piece of scenery, that can of Diet Coke was a reminder that the secret location of our rebel base was in fact at Pinewood Studios, UK, planet Earth.

Her character hadn’t appeared in the prequels. I’d rather missed her, and the familiar presence of Mark and Harrison. But those productions were long gone. Now it was the seventh story in the canon. Life and times had moved on for all of us. We had become Legacy Players. I kept saying “heritage” but was told that applied to varieties of vegetables.

I sensed Carrie took some reassurance that there was at least one old face on set, a face she knew – mine – Threepio’s. At one point, Leia generously awarded him a warm oil bath as a gesture of thanks for a job well done. He was very happy. That scene never made it. But we had other moments together.

We quietly rehearsed our marks and lines. It was difficult to read our sides – the day’s script – printed black on red on tiny pages stuffed inside a plastic holder with our names loudly proclaiming our right to see these “eyes only” words. It was all surreal – chill and gloomy in the bleak work lights. But J.J. brought along his big brain and warm heart. We wandered through the scene, as he transferred what was playing inside his head to the actuality of the stage floor. Once everyone got the rough idea, we went back to our trailers for a couple of hours and breakfast. We relaxed while the lighting crew did their work. But I realised that Carrie was far removed from the fresh-eyed girl I’d met decades before. I found it a little unnerving. But I find looking in the mirror equally so, these days.

On set once more, there she was, beautiful, quietly commanding. Makeup and Hair had returned Carrie to the Princess I knew – a General now. Her eyes still spoke so softly, so eloquently. But the lines were sometimes elusive. I could certainly empathise. Relaxing back in our trailer-park world, she would be her gently funny self, sadly admitting that it was all more of a challenge than it used to be.

And so it continued into The Last Jedi in a similar way. At least now I was prepared for this gradual decline. What never seemed to change was her gentle, kind personality, her wit and amused self-deprecation. The loving affection from Rian and the cast and crew hopefully helped her to be as comfortable as was possible in her determination to get it right.

I can’t actually remember the first time or the last time we met. On set, at a party, over dinner, over dinner with Gary, her canine companion. It doesn’t matter. But back in 1976, trotting next to her in another rebel base, running to congratulate Luke for his heroic deeds, she giggled, clutching her bouncing boobs – more X-Rated than PG-13.

We laughed again, when it transpired that the crowd artists had no idea who Luke was or what he had done to a bad thing called the Death Star. They hadn’t seen the movie yet – no one had. Poor Mark jumped down from his X-wing and was forced to congratulate them as they ran past, as opposed to the other way round. The second take was better. Lots of well-dones and back-slappings for Mark and less boob from Carrie.

And we both laughed over a delicious pastilla a year later. The fancy-dressed maître d’ at Dar Maghreb on Hollywood Boulevard, robed like an extra from The Desert Song, fulsomely praised her performance in A New Hope. He slightly spoilt the moment for me. He added, that the only thing he hadn’t liked in the film was that silly gold robot. The man was English. Carrie doubled the tip. She was always generous and seemed very at home with English people in general. She’d studied at London’s Central School of Drama. I had auditioned for a place there, too. They’d turned me down.

It had been such a giggle, that night in Hollywood. And I slept well in my room in Westwood. Strangely, I didn’t dream of the Princess or the tubby English guy in his djellaba. I dreamed of my new culinary experience – the amazing Moroccan invention of pigeon and sugar and spices. And nuts.

After A New Hope shattered box office records, I watched Carrie and the others being interviewed and fêted around the world’s press. By the time we met again for Empire, she was a bright international star. She was just as kooky and kind as ever – but now in a different league. The kookiness started, first thing. The ADs gave her a call one hour earlier than normal, so her driver could wake her up with a pot of coffee, and get her to the studio and on set on time. As I said, Carrie had never been a morning person.

But I am one of the few who have looked into her beautiful eyes and had them look directly, deeply, warmly back into mine – and back into See-Threepio’s eyes, too. Like Mark, the reality and honesty of her performance coaxed the audience to believe my gold man was a real, valued companion, even though she would brutally switch me off in the Falcon’s cockpit.

She loved a live audience and played up mercilessly. I couldn’t ever get used to the glitter thing. At conventions she would sprinkle fans with the stuff – Pixie Dust. It got everywhere for days. It seemed like she wanted those encounters to go on for ever. Her fans loved it. Fan I might have been, but I found the stubborn sparkles more than irritating – or maybe she was paying me back for the time I greeted her on stage. With a hug.

I was hosting another Celebration somewhere, and interviewing all sorts of cast and crew. There was a great atmosphere, though it was a little hot, with all the stage lights aimed at me and the guests. Memorably, my introduction of Oscar-winning special effects maestro, Lorne Peterson, was hysterical, for me at least. It was a very wide stage and I gave him an appropriately grand intro for the lovely and talented man he is. The applause rose. And died. Nothing happened. I walked to the wings. There was Lorne happily waiting to be introduced. I hadn’t realised he was a little hard of hearing. So we started his bit with quite a giggle. He fascinated us all with his tales of being the head modeller on so many of the Star Wars sets. Hearing about his inventive creations was fascinating but I kept glancing down at my hand, to check we were on schedule. I’d written the afternoon’s sequence on my palm in blue Sharpie. It was all so simple then – no earpiece from Production, no video cue screen, no countdown clock. Just my hand and a Sharpie. Eventually, I waved goodbye to Lorne and went for the next intro. It was Carrie.

She was bang on cue when she heard her name and the ovation that greeted it. She came on stage to face her loving fans, looking sweetly casual in a sleeveless linen shirt. I walked across to usher her to the little interview set in the centre. I warmly placed my hands on her shoulders and gave her a friendly peck on the cheek. But I was horrified as we pulled away from each other. There on her little, suntanned shoulder was a perfect print of my schedule, in reverse. My sweaty palm had given her a rather odd tattoo. She loved it.

Her honesty and humanity overcame her much-discussed psychological issues, apparently inspiring countless others in the process. Her vulnerability and endless determination created one of the greatest screen icons, beloved by millions. Her abilities and talent surmounted her feelings of being, “more a writer than an actor”. Certainly her books showed her to be as thoughtful, incisive and witty in prose, as she was in person.

It’s sad to think that I will never see her again, except on screen – where she will live forever.

58 droids

Well, I wasn’t overburdened with Threepio. He did not figure large in Rian’s script.

After the prequels and The Force Awakens, I was used to being a side order; feeling like a beloved decoration that was brought out once a year to dress the Christmas tree – familiar but with no real purpose. There, for nostalgia’s sake only. So why not? And I was flattered to be asked.

Pierre Bohanna had been such a kind and generous mastermind in coordinating my suit’s rebuild that I was happy to get involved in his project. “Droid School”. Would I be willing to give a master-class to some of the cast? The Casino sequence was going to be huge, thronged with exotic characters and aliens. And there would be five waiter droids. The actors inside might have earned a living as waiters at some time, but it was doubtful they’d been droids before. Would I help them? Of course.

It was fun. We met in a cluttered section of Wardrobe and cleared some space in front of a large mirror – Nathan, George, Lucas, Zsole, Juan and me. For The Force Awakens shoot my code name on set was “Skinny Guy”. Of course, for my own comfort, I had got back into shape for each production. The gaps between films were temptingly filled with bouts of overindulgence. But here were five actors who really were slim, and naturally fitter than me, being considerably younger and very enthusiastic. At least we had that in common. I gave some chat about isolation techniques; being aware of what bits of your body were doing at any point – or not doing. Just as important, was how to navigate onto their marks, with no peripheral vision to guide them. Triangulation – find a prop, a person, a thing and use it as a location device, although other people would have to be hitting their marks at the same time. Then we played at dressing up.

They became elegant black knights. The edges of their dapper suits of armour were picked out in gold. Their illuminated wrists gave an extravagantly inventive effect to the cuffs – stunning. My planning notes had me thinking of them, not as mere waiters, but as head waiters, with their noses in the air. Now seeing their outfits for the first time, I was too late. Costume designer, Michael Kaplan, had already achieved the effect with a snooty upturn of their shiny black masks, a really neat personification of an aloof attitude. So all good – till we tried playing with some props.

The trays were strangely heavy – nothing cheap about this production – the glassware, heavier. And as for the decanters... So I had a word with Props and we found plastic versions of most things. Carrying weighty, fragile loads in a droid outfit is asking for trouble. Carrying a tray on your fingertips is bad enough, but perilous when those tips are not your own. Eventually, we stuck Velcro patches on the gloves and underneath the tray. That took care of the accident statistics. Most of the time.

I had been flattered to be their tutor. But Pierre went even further in asking, would I be the on-set Droid AD? A new experience for me. Of course, I said yes.

The once cindered grittiness of the Crait mines had been swept away. Now Pinewood’s 007 Stage was filled with such elegant magnificence. Not only the cavernous opulence of the scenery, but also the huge gaming tables, the resplendent pageant of strange and wondrous creatures, wearing the most imaginative evening attire Michael had ever created. In each direction, my gaze was captured by some outrageously creative stroke. Surely a Best Costume Oscar here – certainly an inspiration to the high street fashion industry. I was thrilled to be there. Especially since I wasn’t actually in the scene. I wasn’t in costume. This time I was Crew – equally grateful that the real Crew seemed happy to accept me as a novice member of their own.

Each droid waiter had two dressers. I was their AD. Amongst other responsibilities, making sure they portrayed the right degree of arrogance, helping to place them in shot, watching out for their comfort and safety. What a wonderful chance to pay back the care and attention I had received over the years. From Maxi and Brian and Don and Justin and, more recently, David and Jonathan and Sophie and Joe. So many patient kindnesses. Now it was my turn to care.

It was exhausting. Looking after five hot and disorientated individuals was a physical and emotional workout. The 007 Stage is the biggest in Europe. With the camera at one end and the gang of five spread all over the vast set, it was a four-hundred-yard dash there and back, on each take. At least I was wearing jeans. The hard-working quintet was steaming up inside their elegant plastic outfits. Forget peripheral vision – they couldn’t see in front either. And, of course, I quickly forgot who was inside. Which was Nathan? Where was Lucas? The droids were identical. But since I was minding all of them, it made no difference to me or, I hope, to them. But my main moment of fear came from something else.

Sound can be heavy on the budget if it’s added after the event, in post. Stuart Wilson was determined to record as much clean track as possible during each take. All the human characters had body mikes, and there was always Orin Beaton, gently hefting the long microphone boom above us. I had a go with it once, raising my arms above my head and pointing the mike, some twenty feet away. It was quite a workout, and I only did it for a moment. He was doing it on every take without ever getting the mike in frame.

Poor Stuart would go crazy listening to Threepio’s squeaks and clanks, as plastic clashed and rubbed with plastic. If he thought it was bad on the outside, Stuart should have experienced what I was hearing. Every noise carried straight to my ear through the fabric of the suit. I lived in perpetual cacophony, a situation exacerbated if I was wearing my tiny earpiece. Essential for hearing the other actors, I was tuned-in to anyone whose mike channel was open – whether they were acting the scene or merely keeping up their own energy levels by loudly singing or gossiping at full tilt. Then there were the times that my hearing aid – inserted in the side of my head – would explode with brain-piercing white noise. The effect was regularly fiendish. Stuart said it might be a transmitter issue, said he was sorry, would have denied it was pay-back for my squeaking and ruining his recordings. We had got on joyously together, after I’d told him to stuff his suggestion that I mime a complicated exchange with Oscar, after we’d just rewritten it. I snapped that I had enough on my plate with the suit and so – no. Remembering it now, I think he was right. I won’t tell him though.

But I did have to point out that if we turned off the tiny, tiny fans inside the masks of our waiter-droid team, they would steam up and die. A slight exaggeration but he got the point. In their search for perfect sound, his team laid carpet pieces wherever the floor wasn’t in shot. It cut down on the foot noise but health and safety became an issue. Nathan, or possibly George, was doing his thing when I saw his foot catch the edge of one of Stuart’s rugs. As the elegant droid shimmied forward, his foot went further underneath. He wasn’t aware inside his plastic suit. But I could see that he would shortly be enrolled in flooring material, resulting in a noisy crash to the ground thereby spoiling Stuart’s recording and risking severe damage to man and droid. Moments before I was about to do a lifeguard thing and leap to the rescue in shot, they cut the take. He was saved. I could finally unwrap him.

But that wasn’t the only tense situation for me.

For the opening shot, the camera hung below a bridge that stretched laterally across the elaborate gaming tables. It was supported on two wheeled columns, pushed by camera Grips. The crane raced forward. Crowd artists casually moved out of the way, as it shot past them. They had learned in rehearsal that moving out of the way saved them being smacked in the face by the speeding equipment. The elaborately choreographed move started as an elegant guest took a drink, before another guest swiped a glass flute of champagne off Zsole’s tray – right in front of the already hurrying lens. I steadied the tray as he held it in position then, at the last moment, left it in the Velcro-attached hands of my droid friend.

INT. CANTO bight – CASINO

ACTION!

SMACK!

CUT!

They cleaned up the broken glass and wiped up the liquid, as the camera bridge returned to its start mark. Next take we used plastic. But my heart was pounding as we set off again, and again, and again.

The movie industry can be an unfeeling mistress – so much shot, so much cut away. How sad that a scene I so hoped to admire in the finished film, was edited so savagely. There was some speech about arms dealers but then only a few of the iconic dresses flashed by. Several extraordinary headpieces flourished briefly. The tiny croupier’s part was now even smaller. The eerily compelling two-headed girl was gone. And our diligent brigade of waiter droids – reduced to a mere hint of snoot.

59 dread

A Star Wars film without Threepio! It was against the lore.

It seemed there was no place for even a hint of gold in this side story, featuring a beloved smuggler. I had taken part in every episode in the Saga but with Solo: A Star Wars Story, suddenly my trivial claim to fame was lost. Then, a new idea. I’d done it before. CZ-3, Lieutenant Faytonni – I could be an extra, crowd cameo, bit part player. The producers were thrilled at the idea.

And here I was, being chauffeured through the outskirts of London to the more rural setting of the flourishing Pinewood Studios. And there was my trailer. It had a name on the door, not mine. I was used to the security title I had been gifted on the previous films, along with all the other cast. They had fake names like “Keith” or “Tall Guy”. As we now know, I was “Skinny Guy”. But this was a spin-off story and so a different name on the door – “Human Slave”.

I had been called in for costume and makeup tests – all this for a slave, human or otherwise. But first I went on set to meet the two directors. Two sounded quite a novel idea but it must be working because they had almost finished principal photography – the actual filming part of a film. Phil Lord and Christopher Miller were so excited that I was joining their shoot. I was thrilled, too. Hugely welcoming, they introduced me to everyone around. Alden Ehrenreich was playing the lead character and equally friendly with his charming smile. And here was Chewie, Tall Guy, Joonas Suotamo, clad in his usual yak-fur suit. So good to see him again after the fun we’d shared on the previous shoots. And then I became tongue-tied. I had never been star struck before. No offence to the various stars I had encountered over the years – but this was special. Thandie Newton shook my hand warmly. I could only mumble a besotted, garbled hello before I tore myself away and an AD led me back to my trailer.

My costume was hanging in the little wardrobe. It seemed extremely complicated. Undershirt, overshirt, coat, bandages, scarf, hat, ugly boots – all mangled and filthy. Newly filthy. These were no ordinary threads, these were designer rags. Costume had spent ages drawing and cobbling together my ensemble. We laughed as they gleefully tore extra tatters in it all. Finally, I looked shipwrecked enough to go to Makeup.

I had been growing a beard. Well, stubble at least. I didn’t like it. It was a little itchy, and grey. However, it looked the part, but not enough. My face was gradually decorated with bruises and lines and scars. Then, the crowning glory, a disgusting straggle of a wig. It had been carefully crafted to look this way and it fitted me perfectly. As I stared at him in the full-length mirror I could see Human Slave was complete. Everyone around me in the trailer laughed and applauded my new look.

Back on set once more, it was show-and-tell time. Chris and Phil loved it. Costume, Makeup and I had passed the test. I would come back next week to add Human Slave to the scene. However, it would be two months before that actually happened.

Chris and Phil had left the production the next day – over “artistic differences”. None of my business. I had enjoyed our brief knowing but wondered what was next, as I scrambled my diary, clearing space for something I still assumed would happen. Eventually it did. Back again, I was surprised and amused. Human Slave was no more. My trailer was labelled “Tak”. I stood in front of the new, replacement director in my tatters, scars and newly regrown grey stubble. Ron Howard was a pleasure to meet, one of Hollywood’s stalwarts, ever since starring in TV’s Happy Days. He had arrived to pick up the shoot from where it had been interrupted. He approved of my “look” but wanted more grime. I would finally appear on set – in just a few more weeks. My diary was now officially a mess. But it was all fun. It was going to happen.

Weeks indeed passed when, for the third time, I had been transformed into the hapless Tak. Shrouded in my ghastly rags, I was driven from my trailer to set – another brilliant creation from the Art and Construction departments.

Murky yellow tunnels were thronged with people attired in clothes even more ghastly than mine. Various burrowing machines added to the threatening drama as I raced forward with my team. One was a tall, thin Wookiee but my friend Joonas was at the front, pushing a heavy cargo as I ran by. I passed into blinding white fog. I did manage not to fall down the steps, rendered invisible by the effect. After several takes it was over.

But now we were coming out of the tunnels into another extraordinary landscape. Cliffs of yellow stone towered over slimy, bubbling rock pools. Sulphurous gases belched across the surface, the ground a sandy, yellow mess. It was wonderful. And here on the back lot we were in daylight – a welcome relief from the steam-filled atmosphere below. And now I developed a new game.

Picking out various faces from my recent and not-so-recent past, I first approached our fanatical sound recordist, Stuart. Standing right in front of him, I said hello, in a voice he might not recognise. He looked at this ragged creature before him and politely returned the greeting. I stayed staring at him. He began to look uncomfortable. Then his eyes widened. He laughed in amazement.

“It’s YOU!”

It was such a joyful trick that I did it around the set, surprising everyone with my uncharacteristic appearance. Then it was time to work.

The script had been waiting in my trailer. Even with Ron Howard’s grip on the direction, I wasn’t sure about the scene. It was confusing. It was meant to be confusion. But Ron was very patient in explaining everything – almost. Who was Sagwa? What was he to Tak, or Tak to him? Did they have a history together? Perhaps a sequel would explain.

EXT. Kessel – MINES – DAY

ACTION!

“Sagwa! This way. Come on!”

Yelling, I bounced through and off the crowd of human slaves and alien creatures, with their strange, improvised weapons. The steam hissed and bubbled. Special Effects fired blaster hits to spark off the rock walls – careful to miss any passing actor.

CUT!

Of course we did it several times. Being a slave was exhausting. Some of the Crowd were growing rather tired and the ADs had to work equally hard to maintain the desired level of mayhem. Everyone escaped in the end but I would return for yet another day to ride upwards, with my fellow escapees, in a large freight elevator. That scene never made it. But I did. I had finally arrived at a legendary place of dread – for Threepio, at least. I had been sent to the Spice Mines of Kessel.

60 joy

Well, it was a free dinner. At my favourite restaurant, in London.

So I changed my tickets and got back to the UK, just in time to change my clothes. The Ivy has long been a sort of second home to me. This night, it was something of a family reunion. There was an empty seat next to mine but there was J.J. and Kathy, Oscar, Daisy and John and Kelly Marie. I was pleased to see them again. But what fun to meet Naomi Ackie and Keri Russell and all sorts of other jolly colleagues around the table. As always, lovely food and wine but I was trying to be careful, fat-shaming myself on a daily basis. Rumours were that we would be making Episode IX. Soon. Very.

I was delighted at the prospect of working with J.J. again. I just didn’t know what to expect after The Last Jedi. I knew nothing of the plot. Where could the story be going? How could anyone wrap up all the strands and tatters and make something complete and satisfying? Would Threepio’s last hurrah be a faint cry of disappointment? He and I were inured to being marginalised. But it really was nice to be asked back. And to be invited to dinner with the stars.

I muttered to the elegant Richard E. Grant that I had yet to see a script. He too. Worse. At least I had a name. He didn’t even know what he’d been cast as. Probably, he would be a baddie. But he didn’t have a name. So we had a drink. It was a great way to start what, for me at least, must be drawing to a conclusion. Those in the know at dinner, said warm words about Threepio’s role in this film. That merely increased my frustration at not seeing even an outline draft.

The empty seat next to mine at least had a name card – Chris Terrio. He wasn’t feeling well. He wasn’t coming. He was the writer. Was he avoiding me? I would have enjoyed discussing his excellent script for Argo, one of my favourite films. So inventive, funny and exciting – with more than a hint of Star Wars in the plot. I would have loved the opportunity to praise him. And ask him about his most recent work, Star Wars: Episode IX. It seemed I would have to wait.

Days passed. Still no script. I learned that J.J. wanted me to have the latest version from Chris, who was feeling better but who was chained to his laptop, tapping away. I would quickly learn what “latest version” meant. There would be many latest versions lying in my trailer each morning. Fresh new words for a new day. Each one a thoughtful, inventive improvement. Over the ensuing months, various updates would follow on coloured paper – Blue Version, Green Version, Pink Version, Beige Version and my favourite, pages with a yellow tint, “Golden Rod Version”.

I had emailed J.J. some months before it all started.

Sent: Wed, Jan 23, 2018, at 9:11 AM

From: Anthony Daniels

To: J.J. Abrams

Subject:

I'm getting antsy, since I have heard nothing about youknowwhat. Who do I talk to about my upcoming, finale role in a grand finale epic that will restore balance to the Force; asking questions like...How can I see my script pages (both of them) to get a feel of where/what in, 3PO is involved and get over any shock/surprise at external design modifications, especially paint finish! (Personally, I liked my rivet-sticking-plaster design from way back. Oh well…

Has the Director remembered that…

3PO works best in Conflict situations as a Useful Part of a Team where he is Personally (though a machine, a sentient one) in Danger; where he is the Voice of Reason, reflecting the audience’s concerns, and not just the sound of worry from a cupboard in a remote office;

that he shows up well, to the benefit of the humorous element of any epic, in well-crafted, wryly comic, characterful, (for ref, see Eps IV, V, VI, VII) scripted lines in interpersonal relations (benign or otherwise) with humans or machines with attitude; that in TLJ he showed signs of determination to stand up for the Cause of Proper Behavior against a human behaving badly (in his opinion); that his prognostications are always ignored, (he would be floored if anyone finally listened to him); that he regrets the passing of his favourite human – Master Luke;

that he longs for a peaceful life where he can gently translate and make tea;

that the audience enjoys references, in lines, attitude or otherwise, to his previous experiences in the Saga;

that he has accompanied that audience for 40 familiar years, over 3 generations, and should not leave either party feeling let down at the end of the Epic.

There must be more but I haven’t got there yet. Anyway, that’s enough homework for you today. And for me.

A

XX

Nothing. For weeks.

Sent: Sat, 21 Apr 2018 18:16:54 +0000

From: J.J. Abrams

To: Anthony Daniels

Subject:

You’re either going to love or hate how much you have to do in this new movie.

J.J. XoXo

So who knew what was coming?

Sent: Sat, Apr 21, 2018, at 11:28 AM

From: Anthony Daniels

To: J.J. Abrams

Subject:

I’ll settle for hate. It’ll be quicker.

A

XX

And nothing happened.

I would send out feelers but always got the response that J.J. wanted me to have the latest version. I tried to relax about it all. I trusted J.J.’s instincts. It was still rather frustrating.

Finally. A script. The only place allowed to read this precious text was in the security-ringed studios at Pinewood. Fortunately, Sean O’Connor was available to take me there in comfort. Sean – always my favourite driver over the last two movies. Mark had pinched him from me on several occasions but he wasn’t around today.

I sat on the terrace of the new Carrie Fisher Building on the East Lot. It seemed sweetly appropriate that I was reading the script there. A gentle softness to the day mixed with the sun, dappling through the newly planted greenery. I paused for a moment of bitter-sweet reflection, then realised that I had no idea how to work the electronic reader they’d given me. The spell was slightly spoilt as I went in search of someone more tech savvy, to explain.

Back in my spot, I began to read. And read. And suddenly three-and-a-half hours of my life had gone by. Never to return. Just like that. But it had been time well spent. And there was a distinct possibility that either J.J. had indeed read my words or that he already knew exactly what to do. I suspect both.

I loved the script. Chris had clearly steeped himself in the lore of the Saga – certainly, as far as my metallic friend was concerned. Threepio had been away a long time. Now he was back.

For some time, I’d made the mistake of watching YouTube rants about the previous two films – The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi. I could acknowledge some of the bloggers’ points. But so much vicious negativity. I knew that the fans had lovingly attached themselves to the Saga. I was genuinely sad that they felt their loyalty had been slighted.

This was the third time I was there to be part of a final Episode. A curious situation. Each one had enjoyed its own dynamic – some more happily remembered than others. The froideur of the Prequels was irrevocably archived in my mind. Here was a new start. To a final end.

Arriving at Pinewood for the first day’s shoot, I wondered what doom-laden atmosphere awaited me.

I found a warm bath of enthusiastic affection. So many old faces, colleagues from the past, all working on a terrific script that seemed heading for a very satisfying conclusion. I stopped watching YouTube.

I’d made several visits to the Costume FX Department at Pinewood to try out various new adjustments to the suit. While David Merryweather was still being his wonderful, enthusiastic creative self, Pierre Bohanna, head of the department, had asked Sophie Allen and Joe Fysh, from The Last Jedi, to come back in as my on-set team.

It was terrific to be working with such familiar and attentive companions again. They carefully dressed me up and I stuttered around the workshop, remembering that first try-out at Elstree around forty years before. The whole team seemed thrilled to watch Threepio trotting past their work stations. Someone’s pet dog was very intrigued. I suspect he thought I was a lamp-post – but the moment passed without incident.

And now I was on set. And like most films, we were shooting in an order that fitted practicality rather than linearality. It took a while to get the sequences in their proper order in my head, essential to avoid confusion. But at least being Threepio was familiar to me – well it would be, wouldn’t it? But here was a challenge of a different kind. It was our first scene.

The set looked so real and atmospheric. However, the terrain was hopelessly difficult to navigate, with its unstable and varied surface. Being enclosed, the temperature rapidly reached sauna levels. Joe was instantly there to mop my face. There was a new addition to the costume, a capillary cooling vest – a thin undershirt, woven with small plastic tubes. This could be attached to a bag filled with ice and water and a circulating pump. The effect was almost instantaneous and rather alarmingly efficient. With the desert location in mind, it was going to be a welcome gift.

We struggled through the terrain, all the actors quite fluent and in character as they shared the drama. I had been slightly unsettled at the last-minute arrival of any script. Lines don’t get remembered as they used to, in earlier times. The simplest phrases stumped me. Thousands of repetitions still didn’t get it into my head and out of my mouth inside the costume. So I gargled place-holder sounds, much to Oscar’s amused, arched eyebrow. The next day, I could say it all fluently without a pause. The three words that had eluded me – “a common emblem”.

It seemed I was having a memory wipe on a daily basis – a devastating thought for man and droid. Later, I could see the team brace themselves for a complicated conversation with Threepio. Surely they’d be there all day in that sweltering, claustrophobic set. They were amazed. Not a fluff. Not a hesitation. Word perfect. I was amazed, too. So, I suspect, was J.J.

And I was also amazed by the astounding creativity that was all around me. I’d now read about the huge, malevolent creature. I’d assumed it would be CG – computer graphics, created at ILM in San Francisco. I thought that we’d all be looking into empty space, maybe with a cardboard cutout for reference – perhaps a mop head. In reality, it was real. A giant, living thing that towered and menaced right in front of me.

Even more astounding, I finally had hands that corresponded to my own. Pierre’s team had worked hard to give me what I had lacked before. Threepio could pick up objects with ease. He could gesture freely. No more flapping and flailing at props, smacking them with double-sided tape to get a grip. If I could see it, I could grasp it. This proved vital from the start. The gruesome tunnels soon revealed their secret and I was there to handle it.

Suddenly, over the weekend, the entire unit had upped and dumped itself deep in the English countryside. Though it might only appear in documentaries, the sheer scale of this troop movement was literally as awesome as anything we were filming. And difficult. We were at the top of a wondrous escarpment, a huge hill shoved upwards by giant forces millions of years earlier. More prosaically, it meant the food and toilets and home comforts were far off, on flatter terrain. My trailer had been transported along with the others. Its home comforts of bedroom, shower, sitting room and kitchen were fifteen minutes away in Sean’s car. Like a child asking permission to leave the room, we all had to ask for a vehicle to take us to the less distant honey wagons – the toilets. A great leveller.

It was strangely grounding, too, to be performing a dramatic moment and seeing white van man casually driving down the main road below. Traffic whizzed by, seemingly unaware of the magic that was being created far above. For the most part we kept our privacy, thanks to the team of vigilant security guards. They did discover one infiltrator lurking in the bushes with a camera – “bird watching” apparently. She wouldn’t have got much. It was mostly the gang admiring the view with interest, and me trying to keep upright. Even the orbaks weren’t looking themselves yet as they thundered up and down – their silky, grey coats flying in the wind. But they and everything else was stunning and would be more so in the finished film, with ILM painting over the distant pastures. It was all so magical. Before it turned rather horrid.

The clear sky was suddenly filled with tiny flying things. A plague had descended, not biblical, just unpleasant. The tiny insects swarmed around us, cast and crew, they made no distinction. Now everyone was slapping themselves or waving. It was mildly funny but very irritating. The bugs were relentless. Joe and Sophie were draped in scarves as they put Threepio’s head around mine. I was madly blowing into the face as it came together, ensuring there’d be no bugs joining me inside.

Back in the studio, my star support team had suddenly disappeared. Daisy, John and Oscar had already raced away, as I tried to rush after them down the ramp of our transport. Slamming my arm into the low-slung architrave avoided making a mess of Threepio and me on the polished floor. I wished it could have been designed with a more droid-friendly slope. We did six takes as, each time, I grew more frightened and self-protective. I could never be a Stunt person – a fact enforced by chatting with Andy Wareham, who was.

We were on our marks in front of the lens, shortly after my hurtling descent experience. Threepio had recovered his poise but Andy’s chest was dressed with squibs and a wire, attached to a hydraulic ram. In mid-sentence, he vanished from sight so fast, my surprise was genuine – I didn’t have to act at all. Of course, I had to replace the live recording of my vocal reaction. The original was heartfelt but a bit… how rude.

It was thrilling to meet the Falcon again. Always in some different environment – outdoors in Blackwood or in a sound stage some fifteen minutes away at the ever-expanding Pinewood Studios. But now the star attraction was The Base, where our small band of fighters could gather their resources. It was so enormous that we indeed had an interior and exterior in different locations. Utterly believable in its natural grandeur, the interior was inside Stage Five. A bleakly silver box on the outside, an astonishment of scenic craft on the in. It was a daily treat to be working in such stunning surroundings. All achieved with scaffolding, timber, polystyrene, paint and plaster – and huge amounts of creativity from the Production Designers, Rick Carter and Kevin Jenkins. They had gone to extraordinary lengths to create a brilliantly believable reality. However, they obviously hadn’t had Threepio in mind.

Somehow, I had hoped for the solid floor from The Force Awakens set – the inside of a space station, flat, and not too highly polished. It was not to be. Mulch speaks to the gardener in me. But underfoot, when it is under Threepio’s foot, it is an accident in waiting. Any bump or rut can have him toppling within a nanosecond. Daisy and John would regularly leap forward to catch me, as I hit a tussock or a rock. In days to come, Daisy was right there to disentangle me from the extravagant clutches of the local transport – the treadible. John, marooned with me on a speeder twenty feet up and far from any external assistance, reattaching my fingers, sipping me water, relocating my busted shoulder, being my carer.

Most of the sets were a minefield of trip hazards for poor Threepio. Acres of highly polished black flooring were an unexpected death trap, with their very slightly raised panels, almost invisible. But if it’s there, Threepio’s toe will find it. And all the time, J.J.’s encouraging direction.

“Very good. Let’s do it again.”

And, by the magic of air travel and this magnificent production, I was suddenly back in a desert. Not Tunisia, not Arizona – we had arrived in the Kingdom of Jordan. How nostalgic to see again the corals where I had scuba-dived so long ago – this time, looking through the glass walls of a tourist boat in the Gulf of Aqaba, rather than finning myself through the warm and clear waters. But that wasn’t the set. Our set was sand. Our world was the desert planet of Pasaana.

Once again, I was staggered by the gigantic infrastructure that had been plonked down in this no-man’s land. Towering cranes and giant lighting rigs, huge tents that were Catering or Crowd wardrobe, kitchens, trailers housing Production and Cast and Makeup. The honey wagon was, as always, too remote for casual relief. Coffee intake had to be restricted. Peeing had to be planned. And the miles of road track had to be carved and constantly steamrollered into submission. But how insistently the winds tried to heal these scars back into the rippling wastes. This desert couldn’t wait for us to leave.

Our daily trek from the city eventually opened up to huge vistas on each side, the unearthly miasma of white dust bridging the red sand below to the craggy darkness of rocky outcrops above. Each escarpment ranged grey and greyer in the distant reaches, fading into infinity. This land, where civilisation flourished a thousand years before the West was ever thought of, was now our playground. Everything, a wondrous surprise.

But driving out to location on that first day, I got a strange feeling of déjà vu. This new terrain was unlike Tatooine, with its flowing dunes. The stretching vistas, more than ever before, in all the previous episodes of Star Wars, evoked the spirit of Ralph McQuarrie’s original concept painting; that work of art which had so shackled me to this story.

The flat, sandy wastes. The high, jutting mountain ranges. There were no planets visible in the cloudless morning sky, but leaving the location that evening, a full moon bathed the landscape in its cruel, bleak light. And strange, and sad to tell, there by the roadside in our headlights, a dead dog, just as on my first journey with Mark into the wastes of Tozeur, so many years before. It seemed like an omen for The Rise of Skywalker. A good one. Not so much for the dog, of course.

This was dawn on day two, on a new planet. I had forgotten just how persistent fine desert sand could be. It was hard to recognise anyone in their bandanas and shades. The cast had to remove anything protective for each shot. For once my suit was useful in shielding me from the sun and the cutting, flying sand. And Michael Byrch, my stunt double, protected me in other ways.

It was Michael, in a rubber copy of Threepio, batting along at seventy-five miles an hour – with no restraints, lest the vehicle tumble and he be trapped while attached. Me? Later, I stood tethered onto the most inventive fairground ride that hurled us around on the spot. In spite of the sun’s heat, I was nicely cooled by the array of wind machines that blasted us as we flew.

I had been roped in by Eunice Huthart, the Stunt Coordinator. I liked her brutal, loving, no-nonsense approach to her job. A voice like a dockyard crane on Liverpool’s quayside, she had the sweetest temperament but meant business. I so enjoyed working with her. She was determined to keep everyone safe. How different from my experience in Attack of the Clones. I was certainly glad of my daily workouts in the gym. My left biceps worked overtime to keep control of the rest of me. I couldn’t actually fall off the crazy ride but it was my left arm that kept me upright.

With one exception.

On a different rig, John and I had taken off, with Oscar driving at the front.

ACTION!

Fly, fly, fly.

CUT!

We braked so fast, in a wooosh of sand that I careened forward in a direction we hadn’t prepared for. My muscles ached loudly for the few seconds before our ride actually stopped and we ricocheted upright. Not so much whiplash as total bodylash. It wasn’t Oscar’s fault but the man on the clutch beneath him, who actually was doing the driving. I politely asked if we could park the thing a little less violently next time. And so he did.

It was all good fun. But careening around on a speeder for three days left me with sea legs. Talk about the planet being unstable, I was swaying everywhere. Of course, after sundown, maybe it was the arak. But it really did take a while to regain my balance. How reassuring, the next day, to be back on terra firma, even if it was a bit rocky.

But now the wind obliterated the distant vistas. Standing there, doing lines off-camera for Daisy’s close-up, I saw her eyes narrow against the sandy sunlight. She suggested J.J. and I remove our sun glasses, in sympathy. Being team players, we did. Moments later, we put them back on again. Daisy was on her own.

The script was as ever-changing as the terrain. Each new rewrite on a different paper of rainbow hue. I soon stopped mourning over cut lines, favourite moments, that I had loved from the first moment of seeing them on the page. One lost exchange with Poe haunts me still. The verbal attrition grew on a daily basis. Even hourly. Beloved scenes, gone. Much enjoyed and memorised lines, erased. All in the spirit of making a film of a reasonable length and on an affordable budget, with a wonderful outcome. I did fret that some of the script’s warmer moments were being too ruthlessly decimated but they were always substituted by something even better. I came to appreciate each thoughtful rewrite and addition that Chris and J.J. had wrestled over. I delighted in the playful rhythm of exchanges between the characters as we shot take after take.

The vastness of our play area was well secured with police at the roadside and soldiers, as part of the production. Careful navigation in these wastes was essential. Obscure code names pointed into the distance – signposts in the sand. Candelabra. XY. Coloured Sands. New Orleans. Bakersfield. Don’t Stop Gulch. Ship Rock – this was a thrilling treasure hunt on a grand scale.

In New Orleans I had ample time to consider my lot in life. As soon as I was dressed for the next shot, a sandstorm blew up at us – far more real than anything we’d attempted at Elstree, some forty years before. This had the crew scuttling for cover. We all thought it would blow through in moments. I stood alone on the rocky ledge as Joe and Sophie watched me from their tented shelter, clearly debating whether to brave it and come to undress me. Threepio gave them the thumbs up. I waved that it was all okay. I’m sure they were relieved.

I felt curiously safe inside Threepio. The wind pierced through in several places but the sand stayed mostly on the outside. I did feel a sort of Shackleton moment as the blasting air shrieked past. I stood and waited with my back to the onslaught. At least at Elstree they had been able to shut down the fans. Turn off the wind. Here it was an hour before the gale slowed and died. The crew crawled out of whatever protection they had found and we got the shot, as if nothing had happened. I’m not sure one hour had ever felt so long.

And every day, Mohammed’s four-wheel drive took me from my glossy hotel and the civilised streets of ancient Aqaba out into the desert wastes. His hacking cough was accompanied by the constant four-tone ring of his mobile phone. He was a good driver. He didn’t answer it – once he’d noticed my frown. So it kept ringing and he kept coughing. But both noises would be muted as the muezzin’s call to morning prayers filled the car with incomprehensible wailings; ancient religion delivered by an app.

Back in Aqaba, the producers surprised us all with a truly stunning party. The vast waterfront terrace of the Al Manara Hotel was turned into a lavish setting to celebrate the halfway mark in the schedule. A thank you to everyone involved. Food, and drinks, and dancers, and music and dramatic lighting and giant visuals which set off the hotel’s walls and the sandstone buildings across the inlet. Finally, a spectacular firework display coloured the skies above us – illuminating Egypt and Israel across the water. It was a seriously generous gift to us all. But a few nights later, some of us were treated even more royally.

How extraordinary to be invited to dinner with King Abdullah II and Queen Rania. With two of their family, they hosted fourteen of us round the table at the palace. I’d worried at not having packed fancy clothes for such an unexpected experience. Her Royal Highness looked stunningly serene in a beautiful dress. His Majesty wore jeans and sweater. Just like me. They were the most natural, charming down-to-earth hosts. We always ate well on the set but here the elaborate dinner was beyond exceptional, beyond exquisite. Memorable. Conversation was easy; ranging from the recent devastating floods through studies in ancient Japanese literature and the thriving film industry in Jordan. King Abdullah had helicoptered onto the set the day before and was truly, endearingly happy to see a Star Wars movie being filmed in his own back yard. And early the next day, we were back in the yard.

Till now we had been a small band of heroes. How thrilling to see the mass of strange species. Many were brought to life by soldiers, seconded away from their military role, to dress up and prance. It was all rather spectacular and vibrant. Until I got lost.

Poe and friends could always walk faster than Threepio. I could probably out-distance them on the flat in running gear but here, I had no chance. They raced through the colourful crowd of droopy-jowled Aki-Aki, as I did my best to keep up. But curse my metal body, I wasn’t fast enough. I’d suddenly lost them. I was adrift in a sea of wafting creatures. I turned around trying to catch sight of my friends. Where was Rey? Where was Finn? Surely Chewie would be noticeable. And yes. There he was – Joonas towering like a hairy beacon. I set off in my new direction and rejoined the gang. I barged into a few performers on my unrehearsed route. I mumbled sorry but I don’t think they could have heard me, as they swayed and sashayed to an ancestral beat.

From a distance, it looked too challenging. It was a wise choice to leave the climb to Michael. But as the set-up took so long, I had time to rethink. It felt wrong to not be inside the costume. I was happy enough to let Michael do the dangerous stuff but this was different. I took the long way round, to avoid footprints in the between the camera and Ship Rock. Now close up to the climb, it didn’t look so steep. I apologised to Michael for swiping his job away. He didn’t mind. He could relax, as Sophie dressed me in the bikini version, which allowed Threepio to romp up the rock surface. Well, sort of romp. I never actually made it to the flag pole.

What a glorious time in Jordan, shooting against extraordinary, unique vistas. What wonder to spend time off, driving along the rift valley and hiking through Petra. But alas, it was time to go home. Our charter waited patiently on the tarmac at King Hussein International Airport. We were VIPs. We didn’t have to stand in line with two hundred crew members. We were politely directed across the compound to the VIP entrance. Behind plate glass, a guard gestured. We followed his pointings to a glass wall. We pushed. We tried to slide it. We banged. Nothing. Our friend was still gesturing. This was not VIP at all. We stood there in the sun, in plain sight of the crew who were filtering smoothly through the non-VIP check-in lines. We acted nonchalant.

Then a glass sliding on its own. A space beyond was revealed by two surprised guards. Lots of fro-ing and to-ing and eventually we – Daisy, John, J.J., Oscar and team – were shuffled through to a bleak box room. A man was reluctantly making coffee and offering water. Reluctantly too, we had given up our passports. We were suddenly stateless, without papers.

Time passed.

In an impatient attack of cabin fever, Victoria Mahoney, our glamorous second unit director, dared to turn back into the Kafkaesque corridor. Brave soul. We sipped water and coffee and waited. Would we ever see her again? I began to wish I had asked for His Majesty’s phone number, in case of emergencies. It felt like one was unfolding around us.

The door opened. Victoria was back, laden with smiles and duty free. She had found the path. Left out of the door, second left, she had discovered something that actually looked like an airport terminal. We excitedly followed her breadcrumbs, making our bid for freedom from the cell that was the VIP lounge. The crew watched us finally arriving in their lounge. They didn’t snigger. Well, I don’t think they sniggered. They may have smiled.

It was a shock to arrive back in London. Christmas had been all but invisible in Jordan. England was festooned and baubled in every direction. But we had work to do before the holiday. The schedule became extraordinary. A late morning start had us on B Stage, in a tiny, cluttered interior set. It was packed with stuff. But one area was particularly interesting. It seemed to be a sort of shrine. No doubt all would be explained in due course. The claustrophobic set was utterly different from what awaited us for the night shoots. That was at the other end of the studio. Outside. What an astounding contrast!

They had built a totally convincing environment on the wasteland that was the back lot. This was Kijimi. A dangerous place, but Gosh! It was childishly exciting to explore the elaborate setting and revel in its design and construction. The team had created a marvel for us to wander in. But as evening turned to night, the December chill set in.

The wintriness was somewhat enhanced by the massive special effects units, blasting gusts of snow at us from all angles. As we crept through the cobbled passageways there was a real sense of tension, especially as the Knights of Ren were rumoured to be in the vicinity. It was dark and threatening and so exciting. And here was Keri Russell again, looking so different from our first meeting at The Ivy some six months before. I couldn’t imagine how she stayed warm in Zorri’s body-hugging outfit. Her costume’s tin hat may have helped but how droll to see our heroes, and me, clutching hot water bottles between takes. For me, it was quite cold enough. For Daisy, it would be a mild audition for what she would soon be facing in the crashing waves that would form the background of a terrifying encounter with Adam Driver. But now the real weather joined in, as heavy rain turned our surroundings into a swamp. Exciting as it was, we were all glad to finish at ten o’clock. That was the curfew – so as not to annoy the neighbours. Here we were, on a magnificently exotic planet and we were worried about the folks living next door. It was a lovely reminder that our film-makers were creating out-of-this-world, out-of-this-galaxy, magic moments, a few miles southwest of London. To finally finish with that wondrous set, we actually worked till eleven one night. But very quietly.

Indoors once again, it was a real memory-jogger to see swathes of red sand. Slightly irritating, too, since I’d only just cleared my wardrobe of the stuff, secreted in the folds of my clothes and seams of my shoes, from their travels in Jordan. Grainy souvenirs of a wonderful time. Now back at Pinewood, the crew had replicated the dazzling desert light as well as the sandy floor. An extraordinary recreation that refreshed my unforgettable, middle-eastern experiences. But here was something new.

The gritty interior of this grungy spacecraft was an amusing contrast to the whacky jumpers and Santa hats that the crew were delightfully boasting. I felt bereft at not owning a glittery Christmas sweater myself. But I enjoyed the outrageous outfits around me. Particularly, Simon White, a recent addition to my team. His energetic enthusiasm and complete dedication to my well-being was matched by his bravery in wearing something truly ghastly. It was like the last day of term. Which it was. Production was shutting down, going home for a seriously needed break.

The Santa hats were gone. We were back where we’d left off that night before Christmas; back on this ingenious set, with all its intriguing rubbish. Props had done another spectacular job. It was hard not to go up and finger various remembered objects. I paid a brief homage to a familiar droid – abandoned in the corner. Perhaps all droids are abandoned in the end. It’s their lot in existence. I was again astounded at the patient skill it must have taken to create this masterpiece, junk-filled place.

Then a pause. A wait. A major costume continuity error. Thank The Maker, someone was watching and remembering. Soon, costumes arrived. We were back in action.

I was suddenly finding the rhythm of the lines difficult, words so hard to remember, with a vocabulary I would not have chosen. I came up with a bunch of alternatives that we might eventually replace in post. Dear Daisy and John, my part-time first-aid team, were more loudly frolicsome than usual. Actors have different ways of preparing for a take. Personally, I like a few minutes of quiet to consider the what and where and how of the next scene. So I tried hard to concentrate as finally, the cameras moved around to my close-up. For Threepio, this was going to be a telling moment in his existence. Because, suddenly, I had uttered his last line in a Star Wars film. We weren’t finished shooting but in the cat’s cradle, mixed-up schedule, I was now silenced – for ever.

Back on another set, the next day, forgetting I had seen and heard myself for the last time, it was filming as usual. Of course, it was all out of sequence but in the final edit, we had shot the closing moments of the film itself. It was a rather moving experience. Especially for me. I could see that my future was changing. But as the end of this trilogy, it all felt so right and so fulfilling. Chris and J.J. had gathered in all the threads and tatters of the previous episodes and spun a mystery of their own; a wondrous coup of creative storytelling, a fulfilling and rewarding closure, for everyone.

And for me – it was over. A Monday night, the beginning of a week, the ending of a journey. Threepio’s last scene was in the company of two of his favourite companions, two of his favourite humans. How ironic that he had no lines. He, who had spoken the first words of the original story, who was ever loquacious and verbose, should be speechless, at the last.

It was a difficult moment. I could hear J.J. and the crew saying their warm goodbyes to Oscar. It was his last day, too. I was sorry not to be there in the group but Sophie and Joe were still helping me out of Threepio. Finally, for the last time, they handed me my tracksuit and trainers. I laced them carefully. I didn’t want to trip and fall on the stairs, as I came down from this iconic set, a place that had become so familiar over forty years and more. There was a strange almost silence around the stage. An AD whispered into her radio as I passed.

“He’s here.”

I had a sense of dread, that something I had known was coming, was finally here. It felt like an execution, a long anticipated, long denied – end. They had made a space. J.J. was talking into a microphone. His warm voice spread across the studio floor as the crew saw me coming closer, walking alone. No escape. I found a space. And stood. J.J. said kind, nice, thoughtful words about me. I couldn’t listen. I heard only warm sounds. He went on. I wanted him to stop because I wasn’t sure I could go on. My eyes were hot. I had never been embarrassed to be emotional as Threepio. But here, it was me. In front of people I admired, liked, respected and loved. Please let him stop.

And so he did. We hugged. He pushed the microphone into my hand, telling me which button to press, his last act of directing me in a film studio. I pressed the button. I managed to speak briefly of this, my third ending, of my thanks to Joe and Sophie for their patience and kindness, to the crew for their support and understanding, forgetting Tommy Gormley in my haste to hide myself away from a mounting bitter-sweet emotion that was filling my throat and choking my words. Tommy, our First AD who had so successfully masterminded each day’s shoot, commanding the set with a gentle and kind professionalism, keeping everything on track, albeit in an incomprehensible Glaswegian accent. How could I have left him out, as I thanked Kathy and her fellow producers, Callum Green and Michelle Rejwan?

But there, standing in front of me was my lighthouse, my beacon, my wayfinder. Someone who had shown me that making films could be a joy – a real joy.

J.J.

61 maestros

Everyone remembers that moment. The giant imperial Star Destroyer filling the screen above us.

I know I ducked down in my seat. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. It was an astounding piece of film magic. But it wasn’t the first dramatic moment, the first impact. Minutes before, the symphonic might of the Star Wars Main Title had crashed in. That music became instantly and eternally iconic.

1977. I hadn’t met John Williams until it was suggested I help promote an evening of symphonic space music. We met outside the Royal Albert Hall in London. It was winter – and cold. The gels inside Threepio’s eyes immediately clouded over with condensation. Decades later, in the scary, snowy streets of Kijimi, I would experience the same loss of sensation. John was now a blur. But the press photos did the job. It would be a sell-out, gala evening.

A day earlier, I stood on the podium, as myself. I’d never faced an orchestra before. Rather a scruffy lot, I thought. And this was the LSO, the famed London Symphony Orchestra that had scored A New Hope. So many talented musicians. And they were all peering at me, expectantly, waiting.

A music lover I may be, but no player. But this was that Main Title, a march, so played in a regular beat that even I could follow. But how to know when to end it all? When to sever that last chord? The orchestra were a little surprised that I asked them to play the last few bars several times. A different sort of bar was open backstage. Playing is thirsty work, apparently.

But that was the day before the day.

Now, I was concealed behind the centre stage entrance, dressed in gold – and nervous. More than five thousand music and Star Wars lovers had already thrilled to John conducting his other works this evening. I was the encore.

Ushers opened the doors and I walked out into the vast rotunda. The sound of the crowd was huge, all around me and high above. I felt like a victorious gladiator, though the fight had yet to start. I stopped and I stared. I forgot what we had rehearsed. I just stood there, absorbing it all. The musicians, all dressed up now, smart in black tie; the flowers, the brass railings, the spotlights and the joyful and elaborate warmth of it all. The giddy moment passed and I trotted forward.

John was there to usher me onto the podium. I stood, acknowledging the huge audience and their vociferous welcome. Then I turned to face the orchestra. The raging applause abruptly ceased. Silence. Control. A feeling of absolute power came over me, immediately followed by one of sheer panic. Once I made a down beat with the baton, so safely taped to my fingers, ninety musicians would be off and playing – no brakes, no turning back. But – down it went.

It was thrilling. A loud, wild ride. Obviously, the orchestra was following their leader, the First Violin. I was merely waving my arms in time to the music, faking that I was in charge. It was a breathless experience I thought would never end. But eventually we stopped, all at the same time. Relief.

Now the applause was extraordinary – overwhelming, joyous. I bowed. Then, remembering the etiquette I’d observed as a concert goer, I gestured to the entire orchestra to stand and take a bow too. They were all smiling. I shook hands with the leader. I smiled too. You couldn’t see that bit. There was John. I could certainly see his smile.

“I think you’d better do it again.”

And so we did. Now greater than before, the rapturous reaction. Me, with more élan. I was on a roll. Power suited me fine, and I had not earned it from a Jedi, either. I mumbled through the mask.

“Shall I do it again?”

“No. I think that’s enough now.”

With a better sense of timing than my own, John was still smiling.

And so it was over.

Power spent, I went home.

It was the greatest night of my life.

We did the same for John’s debut as director of the Boston Pops Orchestra. Over the years, I was lucky enough to attend his scoring sessions in London. I would watch him gentle the superb LSO into following his creative leadership. Sometimes, he halted proceedings to change a major to a minor or a crotchet to a quaver, or to add some strange new instrument into his inventive mix, such was musicianship.

George hadn’t ever wanted an electronic score for his film. John had suggested that an audience watching a strange space-orientated world would feel comforted by a classical style of music; scores written on the kind of structures employed by Beethoven and Holst. The influence of Erich Korngold too, one of the original and revered film composers. Rich, lush intricate music; easy to absorb, movingly melodic and thrillingly dramatic, John’s compositions would stir the emotions with every note. His music is as great a movie character as any Vader or Princess, his leitmotif themes enhancing the stature of every character they graced. He brought the timeless quality of classical structure and his genius, to enhance and complete George’s visions on screen.

Many years passed. I was hosting another performance of the magnificent touring event that was Star Wars – In Concert. Every show, I was thrilled again and again at John’s sensational compositions. Legendary Californian music producer, Gregg Perloff had created this magical event through his aptly named company, Another Planet. His belief in this mammoth project had paid off in delighting many thousands of music fans across continents.

Saturday, June 4, 2011. Tonight I was narrating on stage, at The Hollywood Bowl. Another sold-out performance. A surprise. Our maestro and delightful tour companion, Dirk Brossé, happily concluded the evening’s thrilling performance by handing over his baton, with heartfelt respect, to a very special guest.

The audience gave John such an ecstatic welcome, that he looked completely, genuinely, dazed. Evidently a much-loved and respected man. Also, one of the most humble, endearing, kind and thoughtful humans I ever met through the Saga. He stepped onto the podium. They played his tune.

1977 in London, I had been John’s encore. Tonight, at the iconic Hollywood Bowl, he had been mine. Neat. An honour.

A sadness.

George never asked him to write a theme for my friend, See-Threepio.

62 friends

I was attending a fan event, amazed that there was a group dressed up as stormtroopers.

Play acting. In time, it would be officially recognised as Cosplay. They were terrific. Their white plastic uniforms immediately brought back the threat they posed in A New Hope. Okay, they didn’t really seem to hurt anyone, but they could if they wanted to – and if they learned to shoot straight. The costumes said it all. And here were a bunch of friends enjoying being the bad guys, but careful not to frighten the kids. The kids loved them.

I enjoyed watching their interaction with the fans. They made quite an impact. I was bold enough to give them a few pointers about their posture and attitude. Their performance got even better. Knowing I was about to work on The Art of Star Wars exhibition, I called Kathleen Holliday, Lucasfilm’s Director of Special Projects at the time, to see if they could take part. And so they did. Their squad of white-clad troopers instantly added drama to the opening events at The Barbican in London. From then on, no Star Wars event is complete without the 501st.

The premiere of Rogue One made me gasp. As we entered the vast halls of the Tate Modern in London, the motionless white-clad soldiers, lining the blue, up-lit walkway was a theatrical coup. Hugely professional, they were doing it for fun. At various Celebrations, I’ve been awestruck by the Battalion, as they all come together in what looks like an army. But discipline can go too far.

I was hosting the launch of the Star Wars Special Edition in 1977. This re-release of the original trilogy was on disc and would divide fan opinions ever after. George had returned to the simple, innocent movies and reworked them in various ways, enhancing them with newly available, and rather expensive, digital improvements. Not everyone approved. Personally speaking, the issue of “who shot first” was not something that kept me awake at night. But for now, our presentation press event was being held at the British Academy building in London.

A group of troopers would again add to the drama. It was going to be a fun experience – Carrie would join me. Rehearsing by myself on stage, I was distracted by the eye-catching trooper that menaced from the auditorium floor, below me. I knew that such a magnetic image would distract the audience, too. I hopped off the stage and spoke to this daunting figure.

“It might be better if you stood by the entrance at the top of the theatre. Up there. If that’s all right.”

The trooper’s helmet turned slowly towards me. His dark lenses stared impassively. Then muffled words.

“I’ll have to ask my platoon commander for permission.”

Such devotion to duty.

I backed away.

Slowly.

The 501st is a magnificent organisation. They have great fun together. They make friends. They add drama to live events. They collect for charities. They regularly cheer up young hospital patients. I admire them. Hugely. Members come from all walks of life – doctors, truck drivers, meteorologists, surgeons, teachers, oceanographers, students, traffic consultants, builders – anybody who wants to take time away from their normal world. And, of course, the group welcomes all shapes and sizes; towering Ewoks and miniature Vaders, all having fun, with great respect to The Maker. George has famously allowed fans to play in his sandbox, to let their imaginations run riot with the inspiration that he’d given them through his films.

Back in 1975, I had been privileged to watch John Stears and his brilliant team construct the early Artoo units at Elstree Studios – fascinating stuff. I’d noticed the reference photos of Huey, Dewey and Louie on the workshop wall. Silent Running had been on my favourite-films list for years. Still is. Artoo did look to be out of a similar mould as that chunky trio. It was a clever piece of engineering but would go on to famously malfunction from time to time – actually, most of the time.

Increasingly over the years, I would see home-made Artoos at fan events. As time moved forward, these devices grew in numbers and in their mechanical competence. Totally reliable machines, often with added gadgets, unimagined in those early days. Most of them were better than the real thing, in a manner of speaking, and all made for the love of it. It’s fascinating to visit the R2-D2 Builders Club when they set up their displays at events around the world. Its status was confirmed when producer Kathy Kennedy hired two of its members, Lee Towersey and Oliver Steeples, to build and operate the little astromech droid in The Force Awakens and beyond.

Besides anything else they do, I am amazed that members of the 501st and the Builders Club have made replica See-Threepio suits. And they wear them. For fun.

So many fans share the same stories with me. I know each one is a unique experience that will always be special. Whatever age they first saw a Star Wars film, it somehow lodges in the memory as a seminal moment. But often, it’s the reminiscences from those early days that resonate the most.

Of course, many stories involve the whole family having fun together. Bunches of kids, parents, grandparents, all able to share the adventure. Each one finding something specific, just for them. Maybe they admire the Dark Side or have a crush on the Princess or Luke Skywalker. But some fans adopt the Saga for sadder reasons. Not everyone comes from a picture-perfect family.

Fans would often tell me the most personal things – an only child saw Luke and Leia as the brother and sister they had always wanted; Obi-Wan seemed like a comforting figure to a fatherless boy; Han was the older brother they craved. Other children immersed themselves in the whole story as a refuge from a home threatened with violence, divorce and trauma – a girl, doomed to months in hospital chemo units, was swept up in the heroic tale, in a galaxy where she was not in pain; a veteran wept on my shoulder as he told me how watching the Saga had kept him sane in the horrors of fighting in the Iraq War. And equally painful to read, in a tweet – “Your role in the Saga has helped me battle depression and bullying since I was young. Even when I didn’t have any friends, C-3PO made me feel like maybe I did.”

When A New Hope first hit the screens, that’s all it could hit. The local cinema screen, some smaller than others, all reflected the bright images that George had created. Often the projector’s beam echoed the lightsabers, as it turned the smoke-filled air into a solid ray of light. Parents puffed away on their cigarettes, as if the dramatic action wasn’t enough. It didn’t need nicotine. But they were hooked on both. The only way to see this film, or others less fêted, was at the cinema. Not such a bad thing. It added to the excitement of a shared experience with fellow fans. Friendships were formed, debate flourished. Dark Side or not, a huge camaraderie was born.

Video and discs would quickly make multiple viewings an easier option. The pause button allowing a close-up inspection of any moment – sometimes too close up. But favourite sequences could be played and replayed, and replayed again. Less well-loved scenes could be sped through, on fast forward. At least discs didn’t wear out like tape. Technology rapidly allowed fans to revel and dwell where they wanted.

Nostalgically speaking, somehow 1977 was a more innocent time as far as Star Wars was concerned. It was an unexpected boost after the depressing events of the previous years, with the Vietnam War hanging over everything.

I’ve never been to a drive-in. I still think I’ve missed out on the experience. I love the stories of too many kids, happily crammed in the back of the family saloon, getting their parents’ money’s worth out of the ticket price, jumbling up to get the best view of the screen outside, hearing the soundtrack on tiny, tinny speakers; the car’s window somehow becoming the Falcon’s viewport.

I love hearing about the police called out for a boy, missing all day, to see him casually come home by himself. He’d watched the first showing and was so excited, he’d hidden in the washrooms before sneaking out to watch the second and the third and the fourth. I didn’t learn what his worried parents had to say, or the police. I bet they understood. I hope they forgave.

For one young fan, life became even more thrilling. He lived a Star Wars moment. Amazed with what they had just experienced on screen, he and his dad got back in the car and set off for home. It was snowing. As they speeded up, the snow fell more heavily. Now it seemed the white flakes were flying towards them, bright in the headlights. And suddenly the boy was there, inside their cockpit with his dad – jumping to lightspeed.

And I enjoy seeing fans at conventions. I am astounded by their dedication and patience. But what I really like to see are friendships being born between strangers in the line; acquaintances made during the wait, interests and opinions shared, lasting bonds created.

Fans often thank me for their childhood, frequently becoming quite emotional, as they recall their first memory of seeing Star Wars with dad, or mother, or pals. It may have been a refuge – sometimes an inspiration. Eternally now, a part of their family history. All of their stories touch me. No matter how many times I hear those words, “Thank you for my childhood,” I honestly say back, “Thank you for being there.”

And I mean it.

63 heroes

It had been so easy to bond with Mark.

The challenge of working in the desert wastes and ghastly delights of our hotel in Tunisia brought us together – much like the relationship between Threepio and Luke. His bright Californian energy was infectious and charming. He was always “on”, which was a new experience for me – I’m not sure I have ever “joshed”. But I so admired his easy acting style. He was clearly at home in front of a camera. His warmth was natural, whether or not it was called for in George’s script. I truly felt that his attitude towards Threepio helped the audience believe that the golden droid was his real companion.

It was a pleasure, too, to meet Harrison, once Mark and I returned to the UK. His nonchalant sparkiness was a delight, as was his sharp intelligence. We shared vindaloos and stuffed naans together at Khan’s, my local good-value Indian restaurant. We ate rather more poshly French, with Sir Alec at La Poule au Pot.

Alec was always the most generous, gentle host, enlivening our meals with tales from his memories and interest in our futures. He may have regretted hosting a meal in a London taverna, where we all got a bit carried away, dancing and smashing plates. They don’t do that anymore, even in Greece. But it was brilliant fun.

The last addition to the group of heroes was, of course, Carrie. Totally at home in the English culture, she was always a lively delight – sweet, friendly, courteous and spunky. It was all good. But in the days following her arrival, I noticed a gradual change.

It was hard for me to be a part of the team. They were American. They had a common culture, language, terms of reference. They could see the expression on their faces, as they acted our scenes together. They could relate to each other. They wore clothes that made relaxing together easy, over a coffee break. Their hairstyles, constantly tweaked. They wore makeup that made them look good all day. I was British – pedantic. I wore a disgustingly hot costume that took ages to engineer me into, and out of, and left me looking boiled alive. They were far down the road in their cars before I limped damply from my dressing room.

I began to see a distance growing between us. They were a team, on film and in life. Good for them. Their raucous camaraderie was not just for their weekends and evenings. It continued on set – sometimes with rather distracting results.

All that joshing made it hard for me to concentrate. It was clear that, whatever the demands of acting face-to-face with another character, it was a lot harder if you were in a rigid suit with restricted vision. I had to rehearse and remember precisely where objects were placed and where other characters were standing – and remember the strange dialogue. I had a lot to say, more than others on screen, and it wasn’t easy dialogue to get inside your head. It all really did need my full attention. Of course, the gang would be a little louder as the effects of the night before wore off. They were usually friendly and courteous, though, on occasion, when pushed by various tensions that would not always be the case.

I do remember a fun time when Lucasfilm arranged for Mark to show me round Disneyland for the day. Excited at the thought of visiting this iconic American institution, I was a little apprehensive about meeting him again. I’d heard about his horrible car accident – his facial scarring. Luckily, I spotted him before he saw me. I got over the slight change in his looks. We didn’t mention it as we drifted and laughed through “It’s A Small World”. For me, the endless parade of dolls twirling and miming to a hypnotically simple song was something far worse than a car crash. It still rattles around my brain some four decades later. But I so admired Mark’s fortitude and constant enthusiasm and energy. My day at Disneyland was a revelation. And how quaint to think that neither of us could ever have foreseen the major connection that was waiting for us. But before that, we would share other good times together.

The prequels were different. The old gang absent. As we passed by each other on the set of The Rise of Skywalker, the final chapter in his family’s Saga, I gave Mark a quick hug. Kathy and J.J. had given him a lovely, appreciative speech in front of the assembled crew. It was his last day. His participation was complete. His role as Luke, done – at least as far as movies were concerned. I guessed how he felt. I had to dash off to dress for my next scene.

That night, I emailed him a fuller goodbye.

He replied.


From: Mark Hamill

To: Anthony Daniels

Sent: Wed, 19 Dec 2018 9.28pm

Subject: Re: Today

Thanks for the more than kind words, Tony. I grew so fond of our fictional relationship; it was hard to be separated in this new trilogy. You & R2 were my family & they certainly didn’t dare take Chewie away from Han. I was appalled that in the original script for VIII, I just walked by without even acknowledging you! I was grateful Rian let us at least have that brief farewell moment, even if it was only a nod & a wink. Perhaps it was fitting, as there are no words to convey the depth of Luke’s gratitude to his faithful sidekick, just as there are no words to express mine for you.

Thank you for a lifetime of fond memories, friend.

xoxo, mh

It was possibly the most touching message I and Threepio ever had.

64 closure

I realised that for some time I had harboured a kind of resentment. Well, several resentments.

“Did you get the part ’cos you fitted the costume?”

How many times had I felt trivialised – and not just by news reporters, often treated as not being much of an actor – that the suit did the performance – that there was no acknowledged connection between the droid and me – that I felt inferior to my fellow actors, lauded for their visible performances – that personally, I was not worth anything at all.

Everything around that first film had taken away my self-confidence and replaced it with anger. I also recognised that I had the extraordinary chance to work with a genius; a genius who could be socially awkward, neither particularly comfortable directing actors – nor generous with his praise of their work. But unquestionably a visionary. He created a profound and moving mythology for our time, a legend that still powerfully resonates, decades after its birth.

Notwithstanding his brilliant creation of a galaxy filled with fantastic creatures and droids, it transpired that even a visionary genius can make sensitive human life forms – such as myself – feel significantly under-appreciated.

Many months after A New Hope had opened, I asked to speak with him. He invited me to breakfast in London. We sat in the Richoux coffee shop on Piccadilly, near his favourite Hard Rock Cafe. We looked at the menu and ordered a croissant each. I had come to talk rather than eat.

I asked him why I felt so neglected, after what I had put into his film.

I wish I could remember George’s answer. I think he intimated that working with Threepio, and therefore me, had been difficult. I was thunderstruck. Hurt again. I must have wondered if he had ever tried on the ill-constructed fibreglass costume in the cold of the desert and the heat of Elstree.

“And you never said anything nice about my performance.”

George muttered.

“You were terrific.”

Astounded.

“Pardon?”

Louder.

“You were terrific.”

Shocked, I may have mumbled, thank you – but I was distracted by the waiter. The menu was out of date. The price of croissants had risen by a penny, over the weekend. Such is the reality of life outside the movies.

Whatever my hurts, I wouldn’t be writing here without the inspiration of George Lucas’s inspiration. He has shown me kindnesses over the years since that day. Sincerely grateful that I am, it’s perhaps understandable that I would have preferred to feel that respect from the start. But that morning in London, George did insist on paying for my croissant.

It became public knowledge that Sir Alec had grown a little resentful, that he was known only as Obi-Wan. His fabled career on stage and film seemed eclipsed; his versatile talents, shown in so many thrilling, touching, amusing, dramatic roles, were as nothing compared to the popularity of his performance of an old guru in a dressing gown. In spite of all the good things Star Wars had brought him, he regretted the way his triumphs had been subsumed. Alec had achieved so much. He wanted to be remembered for it all. I understood. I would never, could never approach his abilities but, in my own small way, I empathised.

Time passed.

Gradually, slowly, my mood changed. I began to realise the luck of it all. In spite of my initial reluctance to be a part of this endeavour, something grand but humbling had come out of it. I had been given the opportunity to use my skills as an actor, my profession, my passion, to create a character that would become one of the most iconic and beloved of our time. Also, I’d been given the gift of being part of something, much bigger than any one person, touching the lives of millions around the world, inspiring and uniting them. The appreciation I sought was there, day after day, from the fans – the audience. They liked the one thing I offered them. I had achieved something that few are given the opportunity to do. For that I must be – I am – eternally grateful.

I was in a limo in New York, trying to adjust the TV, with its irritating supermarket commercial about “wieners being 39 cents the pound”.

Suddenly. Loudly. Breaking News!

“Great Britain’s Sir Alec Guinness actor Obi-Wan Kenobi dies at eighty-six.”

I was saddened.

Alec had been kind to me and encouraging. He had given me a gentle friendship at the time I really needed it. I had spent weekends with him and Merula at their country home, with the dog and the goat. We had laughed over dinners and breakfasts. He had explained that Star Wars was an unusual project. I would find others would be different – better. He was like an uncle, with a very dry sense of humour and a waspish tongue, when appropriate.

Over the years, our knowing each other thinned to a whisper, as friendships often do. People move on. Up. Down. Sideways, like doors in a Star Wars film, opening and closing. It had been an honour. Now he was gone. I was moved to think that he had died before reaching that stage of acquiescence and understanding that I was finally approaching.

I had survived long enough to pass through those negative shallows and rise up. I was grateful that my offering of Threepio was enjoyed by so many, over generations. The fans had become friends, whether we’d met or not. They liked Threepio. I like him, too.

I have been proud to know him.

“Is it hot in the costume?”

“I do wish someone would ask me a question I’ve never been asked before.”

“What would that be?”

Smart kid.

But then.

“What will happen to Threepio in the end?”

I was stunned.

Silenced.

After his token presence in the later films, I suggested to J.J. that he should give Threepio a fitting, meaningful end in The Rise of Skywalker. A melting down, perhaps – a careless scrapping. In human terms, a death, for the Cause. He looked at me.

“Not on my watch.”

I surely recognise, I will someday leave the stage. I hope that I will do so in the knowledge that I have imbued See-Threepio with enough life that, with the love of the fans, he will go on without me.

an end