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 Ho
pe 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.
I Am C-3PO--The Inside Story Page 24