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Tears, shoe polish and leotards: Anthony Daniels' life on the set of Star Wars

Anthony Daniels landed the role of a lifetime when he was cast as iconic robot C-3PO in the very first Star Wars film in the Seventies. But turning up for his first day at work, he realised that filming inside a shiny tin can might be harder than it looked
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In 1975, a young writer-director called George Lucas set out to make a science fiction film called Star Wars, a space opera that would go on to change the genre, and filmmaking as a whole, forever. In the role of the gold, butler-like robot C-3PO was Anthony Daniels, a British stage actor who immediately fell in love with the affectionately nicknamed Threepio. Daniels would go on to play Threepio in every Star Wars film that followed, but on his first day of filming, on set in Tunisia (a stand-in for desert planet Tatooine), he started to wonder whether he had bitten off more than he could chew. In an extract from his book, I Am C-3PO: The Inside Story, Daniels looks back on the challenges of performing encased in metal.

So this is what a film set actually looked like.

We had arrived pre-dawn at the salt-flat location of Lars Homestead – the desolate place where Luke was raised. It didn’t look like much. The sheer flatness of the surroundings was the most impressive thing about it. It went on for ever.

In the foreground was a domed dwelling with steps leading down, some mechanical junk, a large crater about three feet deep, more junk in the distance, moisture vaporators, the sandcrawler close by – its hefty tank tracks reaching to a height of around thirty feet, then scaffolding. The rest being up to movie magic.

All that stuff was going to be in front of the camera. Behind it were the assorted accessories of dollies and tracks and things I didn’t recognise. Somebody pointed out my tiny caravan in a clutter of tents and trucks. It wobbled a bit as I climbed inside, reminding me of the budget holidays of childhood, with that strange smell of plastic walls and whiff of toilet. My under-suit was already laid out for me. I got changed. Black tights and a leotard that zipped up the back. Fake wires, painted and patched at the knees and elbows would, I learned, cover any gaps in the gold suit. Now, a pair of blue and white rubber deck shoes, a black balaclava hood and a cream towelling robe finished my new look. I was prepared – and a little apprehensive – as I stepped out and down.

The tent was nearby, a sort of scouting jamboree canvas affair, more practical than glamorous. Behind the flaps, Maxi had laid out the unfamiliar pieces of my robot suit with forensic tidiness, on two trestle tables. It all looked rather daunting. I remembered my brief, agonising try-out at Elstree. But Maxi was in firm control. And we had a helper. Then shortly, two more. It was clearly going to be a tougher task than any of us had imagined.

And so we started.

Lucasfilm/Fox/Kobal/Shutterstock

First, the rubber girdle embroidered with wires. It zipped up the side to create a bendable corset. Next, the thin, plastic, golden pants came in two halves, the “space eroticism” pieces stuck together with gold tape. So far so good. But now came something far trickier.

The right leg.

Thigh and shin were attached by a sort of bungee cord that allowed the pieces to move, yet remain connected. I took off my shoes. Now a strange manoeuvre, devised by Maxi, had me sliding my foot in and down the backward-facing piece, before he revolved it to allow my foot to slip out the other end. My deck shoe back on again, he slid over a thin, plastic, gold cover and taped it in place. Next, the calf piece was pinned tightly to the shin. Too tightly. Ouch! One leg to go. It had already taken a while.

Now I was standing upright, on two legs, complete from the waist down. Another helper was called in. I slid my arm through the proffered shoulder, attached to the chest. The other shoulder, attached to the back, was eased on. The team gently brought these two torso pieces together, sandwiching me inside. I squeaked in pain, the edges pinching my neck. It didn’t end there.

As the growing squad wrestled the two halves into one, onto me, I tried not to vocalise the nipping and scratching from the fibreglass shell. They weren’t trying to hurt me. The costume was doing that.

If the crew were to be abducted by aliens, I would have to beat myself against a rockface to smash my way out

Finally the cuirass locked into place and four screws imprisoned me – literally. If the crew were to be abducted by aliens, I would have to beat myself against a rockface to smash my way out. But now, the arms slid on, held up by the addition of my new-minted gloves. The neck slotted into the torso’s collar. Maxi held up the face and connected wires, now taped to my hood, that led from the battery pack on my back to Threepio’s eyes. More hands offered up the back of the head. A mighty tussle began.

If the chest had been a challenge, it was nothing compared to this. Like an Easter egg, the head was in two parts that slotted together fairly easily. The real drama came with the two bolts that locked the thing into one and joined it to the neck. Three holes had to be in perfect alignment to close the bolts on either side. The whole team got stuck in.

They seemed to forget I was inside as they pushed and pulled Threepio’s head and mine. A hand covered the mouthpiece making it hard to breathe. I made mooing sounds from the inside, alerting them to the problem. I heard a muffled “sorry” as the hand changed position. But trying to locate the bayonet fitting in the plastic neck that kept moving away was clearly a nightmare, especially from where I was standing. But finally, a satisfying Click. They had done it. At last. There were no more pieces left on the tables. It had taken two hours – twenty minutes for the head alone. The six-month preparation had clearly not been long enough. Certainly, a try-out period would have ironed out some of the glitches. But now Maxi flipped the tiny switch under the battery pack. I saw a corona of light around the edges of my vision. I could see the tent flaps being pulled aside. I wobbled forward.

Threepio stepped out into the world, for the very first time.

Lucasfilm/Fox/Kobal/Shutterstock

I sensed that the newly risen sun was burnishing the golden outfit. I could see the crew around me, gazing, amazed, in awe. Even the hardened professionals were impressed – very. The locals were stunned – totally. I stood there enjoying this rare attention. It didn’t last.

Standing still was one thing. Within moments of trying to move to the set, my left foot felt like it was being sawn off by the, now crumpled, gold cover on my deck shoe. The weight of the fibreglass leg was crushing it into me with my every step. I finally got to my mark, after Maxi had stuffed some foam padding up my ankle. A foretaste of what was to come. But that wasn’t the end of the indignities.

Standing where I had been placed, I felt little bumps and knocks. Twisting my head as much as possible, I saw what was happening.

“Just dirtying you down a bit. OK?”

It was the stand-by painter, dabbing and daubing on my bright new suit. He dipped his brushes and cloths in various pots of shoe polish and wax to get the required effect of used beaten-upness that George wanted. It seemed such a shame to mar the beautiful factory finish, but of course, I had no say. That was fine by me, but at least I knew why someone was besmirching my costume. Worse was the camera crew coming over. They’d already decided I was too shiny.

“Hold your breath, Tones.”

There was a swishing sound as they sprayed me in the face. The slight chemical odour of dulling spray haunts me still.

Before they rolled, I asked Continuity, Ann Skinner to take a Polaroid picture of me, or rather, of Threepio. I needed a reminder of what he looked like, because it was a very different view from the inside. She held up the little photo in front of me, eventually getting it into my limited field of vision. I stared at the eloquent face blankly gazing back at me. I was ready. Except I clearly wasn’t.

EXT. TATOOINE – DESERT – LARS HOMESTEAD – AFTERNOON

ACTION!

“My first job was programming binary load-lifters.”

It wasn’t my first line but my lips and my memory just couldn’t do it inside the distractions of my crazy new outfit. After the third attempt at trying to say the line as written, George walked over to me, clearly rather irritated at my time wasting.

“Don’t worry about the voice. We can fix it later. You can say anything you want.”

George walked over to me, clearly rather irritated at my time wasting

I was amazed – and a little confused. I was used to the discipline of, eventually, saying what was in a script. But I was new to the world of movie making.

George stepped back behind the camera.

ACTION!

“Why sir, my first job was bewawa bewawa bewawawa.”

CUT!

“Terrific.”

Actors often forget the words but rarely the rhythm.

“You look amazing!”

I was a movie star – a thrill to behold. How many of the crew came up to admire me in my fancy dress. They beamed into Threepio’s face. They tried to look me in the eye, as they smilingly congratulated me on my appearance, but tended to end up addressing my nose, or an ear. They meant well. They were really impressed. All the attention took my mind off my new world – mine alone for the next twelve weeks.

Shooting distracted me, too, but in the minutes and hours between set-ups, it was more difficult to ignore my isolated situation. Time passed. When not actually shooting, I stared out at the endless flatness around us. A whistle blew. I turned toward the sound. Lunch. A lemming flow of crew was moving towards the shaded area, with its tables and chairs and buffet of hot and cold offerings. It was some way off. Maxi came into view.

Anthony Daniels and C-3PO

Evening Standard

“Can I bring you something?”

Given my enclosed situation, what did he have in mind? I mumbled that I would quite like to be with the others. He looked doubtfully at the distant gathering. I wobbled over. They sat. I stood. As the crew ate, I stared out at the flatness. We shot until the sun was gone.

They began to gently unhinge me from the suit. I almost fell to the ground, squatting down, bending my knees for the first time in eight hours. Sitting was a forgotten luxury – peeing, too. Wiping my face. Breathing easily. None of these simplicities had been possible for so many hours. I remember gently weeping, unobserved, at the range of emotional and physical assaults on my body and mind. Without any real guidance, I had been required to offer up an acceptable performance of – to say the least – an unusual character. I had probably made a complete fool of myself. Without feedback, I felt my performance must have seemed ridiculous. And I had been locked away from human society and tormented – unintentionally. In my shower, I was shocked to see the wealth of cuts and scrapes and bruises on my skin – in some very sensitive places. I wished my cell-like room had a bathtub to soak my aching limbs.

It had been a long time since breakfast but I can’t remember what I ate that night – the chicken, or the fish. I don’t think I had much appetite.

This had only been Day One.

Perhaps I should have been a lawyer.

I Am C-3PO: The Inside Story (DK, £19) by Anthony Daniels is out now.

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