7/9/2017
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Bald, the Sequel
With Episode II out the door, Lucas took perhaps a week off and then turned full-time to Episode III, last chapter of the Prequel Trilogy. On Fridays I’d sneak out of publishing for each art department "show," which one artist described as “a gallery opening every week.” George would go from left to right, scanning dozens of artworks pinned to foam core boards, making comments, perhaps choosing a drawing to be one creature or a particular city or vehicle, or approving for functions unknown. Unlike the artists, I had nothing on the line. I was there only to observe how Lucas worked creatively, building up his story, his visuals, and his ideas in concert with their concepts, generated from what he’d told them about the script, idea, or story the week before: it was a symbiotic relationship. George might mention a volcano planet; someone might paint a strange creature on that planet; George might add that creature to that scene or a different scene.
Lucas was patient, and the artists enjoyed working with him. They kept long hours, often pulling all-nighters fueled by Red Bull to bridge Thursday to Friday. As the concept art department hit full stride, their number grew to about 12. Iain McCaig came onboard early on, welcomed back, a master of character design, who had come up with the look for Darth Maul on Episode I, among others.
While working on the script, Lucas traditionally went on what Jane Bay called his “writing retreat”: that is, he would write in seclusion at home in his converted carriage house from Monday through Thursday, in pencil on his yellow legal pads, taking phone calls only when necessary. On Fridays, he would come in for the art department meeting and the rest of his Lucasfilm business.
As preproduction progressed, Licensing also needed to know about the script, details about characters and creatures and vehicles, in order to initiate product development to coincide with Episode III’s release window. Lucas was understanding of licensing’s needs and those of publishing; after all, he was going to make a fortune off of it. While usually being accommodating, McCallum nevertheless had a great contempt for Lucasfilm Corporate, which he often and mostly referred to as the “Dark Side.” He couldn’t wait for licensing, marketing, PR, and the rest of us leeches to be moved to Big Rock Ranch. The farther away, the better. From what he told me, I gathered he felt that licensing and corporate basically made his job of running the nuts and bolts of production harder, from building up the egos in production/ILM/etc. in the fan magazine (by running articles/interviews on ILMers and actors), to gumming up the works in other ways—for instance, the documentary team would want access to record B-roll, or the development of one creature or character or vehicle might take priority over another, or need to be fast-tracked, because its anticipated manufacturing time would take longer or be more complex, etc.—all of these being things a usual movie production didn’t have to deal with.
If production designer Gavin Bocquet, costume designer Trisha Biggar, or stunt coordinator Nick Gillard were in town, Rick would therefore close the art dept. down to only essential personnel in order to obtain important answers from Lucas. At least once or twice, Rick invited one or two HODs (head of departments) to fly over from the UK expressly and strategically to get those answers. When Rick placed Biggar or Bocquet in a room with Lucas, the latter knew they’d reached a critical juncture; it was Rick's way of putting pressure on him—because without timely decisions from Lucas, preproduction/production would fall hopelessly and expensively behind schedule, something neither of them wanted.
At some point I asked Rick if I could write The Art of Episode III book, since I was going to all the meetings. He was fine with it, but wanted me to explain to George what I had in mind, briefly. So after one art session on the third floor, Rick re-introduced me. This time, George looked me up and down. I was being scanned while I made my pitch: “I want to organize the art-of book chronologically,” I said (something like this). “We could tell the story of how you and the art department work together, how things slowly come to pass organically. It’ll be a companion piece to the Making of book, by another writer, which he’ll also tell chronologically; I’ll edit that one, and the two books will work together as companion pieces.”
His scan complete, George said, “Okay.”
Clone Drones
During those Friday meetings, art department coordinator Fay David must have noticed my hair was thinning on top, because she asked me if I wanted to be one of the “actors” in Lucas’s pickups for THX 1138. She figured I wouldn’t mind having my head shaved in order to resemble one of the clones in that film.
That fall of 2002, Episode III art meetings would be followed by short THX pickup meetings. George and the artists would discuss, for example, how to create the vehicles digitally; he became enthusiastic while explaining how they’d created THX’s “Lola” back in 1970, modifying a physical car to resemble a futuristic one. (In his teenage days, Lucas had worked as a mechanic on racing cars, and the excitement was still there.) He wanted Erik, Ryan, and Robert to understand that the hero of the film, THX (Robert Duvall), was driving a standard or even substandard car, while trying to outrun much sleeker, faster pursuit vehicles. (This would also be the case for Luke’s landspeeder in the first Star Wars film. At first, the English art department built a spacious Cadillac-style vehicle for the farm boy; Lucas then instructed them to modify it, to make it much smaller, for Luke wouldn’t have been able to afford anything but a beat-up model, which he’d then tinkered with and souped up on his own.)
At a subsequent meeting, Robert (Barnes) showed frame grabs from a digitized version of the film. Where there'd been a wall in the original, he’d painted in hundreds of bald-headed clones (who would be played by us recruits) in an auditorium-like multi-level structure under a ceiling spotted with blue halo lights. Next, the animatics team became involved, with supervisor Dan Gregoire showing Lucas a 3-D Lola. In a short test the animatics team had rendered the previous night, we saw THX in his Lola racing up a ramp into a tunnel.
Lucas wanted more cars in the shot, but was pleased. He was enjoying this animatics stage—a kind of three-dimensional digitally created moving storyboard that he could work with before handing it over to ILM, which would then make the shot or sequence photo-real. He was on the cutting edge of technology. By using a small group of five or six animatics artists, George could plan out precisely what he wanted, so his much more expensive ILM team would take the least amount of time to do their work. The process also provided him with more control.
To prepare us dozen recruits, we were given appointments on the third floor rear balcony where a makeup artist from ILM, Alvin (hence it was called “Alvin’s barber shop”) shaved our heads. It took only a few minutes to transform us. Pictures were taken for our film IDs; we were measured for our clone costumes; later a Call Sheet was emailed. (We were also advised to shave our upper chest hairs as the tunics had an opening beneath the collar line. Alvin wasn’t doing those…)
Early one November morning in 2002, I was the second or third to arrive on one of the minimalist sets constructed on the ILM soundstage. Because I was on hand, I was told to be one of two clones at a terminal and to pretend to operate it, while a real camera dollied by behind us, with Lucas directing.
When all of the other clones were on set, we did many drone-like activities together, such as shuffle forward or mill about aimlessly or stand about in groups pretending to have conversations. Our group of about 14 could then be multiplied later to become hundreds, if necessary. During one shot, we were supposed to be fleeing an explosion (in the assembly factory scene).
“Jonathan, raise your feet more while you run,” George shouted.
The first AD also shouted his words, my one piece of direction for the pickups.
The most complex shot, which I wasn’t in, was three or four clones leaping from a scaffolding when THX drove through its underpinnings during the climactic chase.
Most everything was against green screen. Even objects, such as the computer or mechanical arms I was supposed to be operating, were forms/boxes outfitted in green.
It was a grueling 12-hour day for those not used to being on a set (like me), but it was a great experience to become a few pixels in that underrated movie. The experience also taught me more about the norms of production, which were dramatically different from those of Lucasfilm corporate, and which would serve me well: production was much more regimented. Things were done quickly and without complaining with very clear chains of command; it was more professional, a well-oiled machine, but also more uptight (people often compare film sets to military outfits). If you screwed up in production, you were gone. (But it was still an improvisational place: Lucas and McCallum were relaxed enough to add one clone, a bald ILMer who walked onto the stage, late that afternoon; it took only minutes for them to find him a costume so he could join our mindless band).
Afterward I decided to stay bald for a while. But I must have looked awful, because that Christmas, for licensing’s Secret Santa, a colleague gave me a wool cap to cover my head, which leads me to…:
Life at Lucasfilm IV: Licensing
Under the aegis of Roffman, Paul Southern, Lucy Wilson, and the other licensing executives, the general feeling in licensing was one of freelancers fairly content to be working together. In these early days, I was oblivious to underlying tensions and the more convoluted politics, but anyone could see that because most of us worked with outside licensees, no one had much insight into what anyone else was doing. There was a certain fragmentation, like mercenaries with a common goal—keeping our jobs—but we participated in a few activities that brought us together.
At Skywalker, every Wednesday in the Carriage House, it was someone’s turn in licensing to make breakfast. To do so, we were given a budget of $100. Some people actually cooked eggs or pancakes in the kitchen; another brought in McDonald’s Happy Meals. My fourth or fifth week it was my turn and, because Geneviève can cook and make pastries, I was able to bring in madeleines, cakes, and chocolate chip cookies. Thanks to her skills, I met more of my colleagues… (congratulate the messenger, I guess?).
There were periodic licensing giveaways, too. Because so many items poured through product development—every toy, T-shirt, clock, pen, model kit, poster, etc.—they had constant storage problems. There was a huge warehouse to archive product, but to liberate office floor space, extra material and the occasional prototype would be lugged into a room. They’d invite in the whole department, and we’d carry away as much as we wanted in boxes. Big ticket items were chosen by lot, but usually they couldn’t give away all of it. I managed to supply every Star Wars–fan nephew, niece, and neighbor for years (my daughters weren’t interested).
Each year for the holiday season, licensing would reserve space in a restaurant in Larkspur or Olema or somewhere, and we’d have a celebratory lunch and exchange Secret Santa presents, a few of which would inevitably cause controversy. Someone “gifted” a nibbled, cold burrito; feelings would be hurt for one reason or another (a sensitive lot; eventually we’d switch to a less personal method, White Elephant, which was also more fun). One time Roffman gave out small Star Wars–character statuettes, accompanied by a short poem he’d written about everyone in the department. It may sound hokey, but... well, it was supposed to be.
One of the things everyone appreciated in licensing was what we didn’t do: we had very few meetings—we’re talking not more than one a month, at least collectively; publishing would have a single meeting a week to go over book covers, primarily. Licensing wasn’t overly controlling, wasn’t overly bureaucratic—and, despite the usual griping, was a good place to work, with a number of professionals, from easy-going to eccentric to corporate hack to artistic. In short, Licensing was the usual motley crew of humans, but a talented one.
Next: Big Rock Ranch: Curt, Steve, John, and Terry
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