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. Baker
sfield. 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.
I Am C-3PO--The Inside Story Page 23