"VideoDoc: 3-Dimation" is a 32-minute documentary I produced for my college senior project in 1977-78. "VideoDoc" is short for "Video Documentary," and "3-Dimation" is short for "3-dimensional animation," which was, at the time, what Will Vinton called his particular brand of clay animation. About a year after I made this documentary, Vinton changed the moniker to Claymation (which, although trademarked, has become a generic term for clay animation). The video contains interviews with Will Vinton and several of his associates, including clay animators Don Merkt and Barry Bruce and musicians Bill Scream and Paul Jameson. Screenwriter/composer Susan Shadburne, who was Vinton's wife at the time, also appears.
I originally recorded the documentary on 3/4" videotape, and later had it dubbed to an MP4. My apologies for the less-than-stellar video and audio quality. I've posted the video here primarily for posterity.
At the time I taped the interviews and made this video, I was a full-time college student and part-time production assistant for Will Vinton Productions. After I graduated college, I was promoted to full-time production manager, and continued working in that capacity and others until about 1982. Vinton and I remained friends until his death on October 4, 2018.
Writer/videographer/producer/director: Rick Cooper
Interviewer: Kathy Gardner
Narrator: Julie Jones
Thursday, July 16, 2020
Saturday, May 16, 2020
The incredible true story of Jeff, the one-legged drummer
The first thing I noticed about Jeff when I spotted him in ed psych class wasn't his fake leg; it was his kind face. He had big, deep eyes and an easy smile that made you want to earn his friendship. Which is exactly what I set out to do.
Jeff and I were classmates in the education program at Lewis and Clark College in the fall of 1983. I was working toward a secondary English teaching certificate; Jeff was in the deaf education program. One day after ed psych, I approached Jeff and introduced myself. He stuck out his hand, told me his name, and invited me to join him for coffee at the student lounge across campus.
We were soon friends, and after a few meetings outside of class we learned that we had something else in common besides the ed program: we were both drummers. When I asked Jeff if having a fake left leg made drumming difficult, he said it wasn't really a problem because it was just his hi-hat foot, and operating the hi-hat pedal wasn't that difficult.
Eventually I felt we were good enough friends that I could ask him how he'd lost his leg. His answer was the stuff of nightmares.
One spring evening, Jeff told me, when he was an eighth grader at Western View Middle School in Corvallis, Oregon, he and some friends found a ladder propped up against an outside wall of the school and decided to climb up on the flat roof. Once on the roof, they thought it'd be fun to do something they'd heard was popular with college kids and adults: streaking. Taking off all one's clothes and running a short distance, preferably without getting caught.
So Jeff and his friends took off all their clothes and streaked across the roof of Western View Middle School.
Unfortunately, the not getting caught part didn't turn out so well. Unbeknownst to the streakers, a teacher was working in his classroom late that evening and heard the commotion on the roof. The teacher went outside and started circling the building to see if he could find the source of the noise. When he spotted the streakers, he yelled at them, "Hey you kids, come down from there!"
Rather than heading back toward the ladder to climb down and turn themselves in, Jeff and his friends decided to run toward a side of the roof where they thought they could jump off and run away. Jeff was the first to jump off.
He was also the last to jump off.
As he was falling toward the ground, some twist of physics or fate conspired against him and threw him backwards, toward the side of the building. And there, unfortunately, on that particular side of the building, was a big plate-glass window.
Jeff fell backwards through the window, shattering the glass—and slicing his left leg almost completely off.
"Your shock and pain must've been horrific," I said to Jeff.
"Almost as bad as my embarrassment," he replied. "Remember, I was naked."
Oh, yeah. Naked. And bleeding to death.
Jeff and his mostly severed leg were rushed to the hospital, where surgeons determined that the leg was too damaged to reattach. He would need a prosthetic.
Ten years later, Jeff was enrolled in the education program, aiming to become a teacher of the deaf. I, on the other hand, was looking toward a new career (following my three-year stint as production manager for Claymation film producer Will Vinton) as a secondary English teacher.
After we finished our respective programs, I landed a position teaching English and U.S. history at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis—the home of Western View Middle School, where Jeff had lost his leg. Jeff, meanwhile, found a job in Portland. When I informed him I was now living in his hometown, he said he'd come see me next time he was in Corvallis to visit his parents.
A few months later, when Jeff came to see me at my new home, I finally got a chance to see how he was able to play the drums. He was pretty good, and it appeared to me that his fake leg didn't hinder his hi-hat prowess one iota. In fact, after seeing him play with that leg, I decided to practice a bit more so as not to be outplayed by a monoplegic.
Jeff and I got together one or two more times after that, and then we lost touch with each other, likely because of our respective jobs, relationships, and the physical distance between Corvallis and Portland.
A few years later, I was one of several teachers chaperoning a weeklong trip to Washington D.C., with 64 Corvallis eighth-graders. One of the other teachers, Chuck Wenstrom, happened to teach history at Western View Middle School. I told him I knew a guy who, when he was an eighth-grader at Western View, went streaking with some friends on the school roof one night and lost a leg when he jumped off and fell backward through a window.
I was completely unprepared for Wenstrom's reply. "I was the one who told Jeff and his friends to come down off the roof," he said. "But I didn't mean for them to jump off. They were supposed to climb back down the ladder they used to get up there. You can't imagine how badly I felt about Jeff losing that leg."
He was right: I couldn't imagine. And neither of us could imagine how Jeff felt.
I'll never forget Jeff's kind face and easy smile, and I'll always wonder whether they were, at least in part, a product of the pain he had to endure and the obstacles he had to overcome as a result of his accident. If so, it was perhaps the best possible outcome of one of the worst imaginable tragedies.
Jeff, wherever you are and whatever you're doing, I wish you happy trails. On safe ground. With your clothes on.
Jeff and I were classmates in the education program at Lewis and Clark College in the fall of 1983. I was working toward a secondary English teaching certificate; Jeff was in the deaf education program. One day after ed psych, I approached Jeff and introduced myself. He stuck out his hand, told me his name, and invited me to join him for coffee at the student lounge across campus.
We were soon friends, and after a few meetings outside of class we learned that we had something else in common besides the ed program: we were both drummers. When I asked Jeff if having a fake left leg made drumming difficult, he said it wasn't really a problem because it was just his hi-hat foot, and operating the hi-hat pedal wasn't that difficult.
Eventually I felt we were good enough friends that I could ask him how he'd lost his leg. His answer was the stuff of nightmares.
One spring evening, Jeff told me, when he was an eighth grader at Western View Middle School in Corvallis, Oregon, he and some friends found a ladder propped up against an outside wall of the school and decided to climb up on the flat roof. Once on the roof, they thought it'd be fun to do something they'd heard was popular with college kids and adults: streaking. Taking off all one's clothes and running a short distance, preferably without getting caught.
So Jeff and his friends took off all their clothes and streaked across the roof of Western View Middle School.
Unfortunately, the not getting caught part didn't turn out so well. Unbeknownst to the streakers, a teacher was working in his classroom late that evening and heard the commotion on the roof. The teacher went outside and started circling the building to see if he could find the source of the noise. When he spotted the streakers, he yelled at them, "Hey you kids, come down from there!"
Rather than heading back toward the ladder to climb down and turn themselves in, Jeff and his friends decided to run toward a side of the roof where they thought they could jump off and run away. Jeff was the first to jump off.
He was also the last to jump off.
As he was falling toward the ground, some twist of physics or fate conspired against him and threw him backwards, toward the side of the building. And there, unfortunately, on that particular side of the building, was a big plate-glass window.
Jeff fell backwards through the window, shattering the glass—and slicing his left leg almost completely off.
"Your shock and pain must've been horrific," I said to Jeff.
"Almost as bad as my embarrassment," he replied. "Remember, I was naked."
Oh, yeah. Naked. And bleeding to death.
Jeff and his mostly severed leg were rushed to the hospital, where surgeons determined that the leg was too damaged to reattach. He would need a prosthetic.
Ten years later, Jeff was enrolled in the education program, aiming to become a teacher of the deaf. I, on the other hand, was looking toward a new career (following my three-year stint as production manager for Claymation film producer Will Vinton) as a secondary English teacher.
After we finished our respective programs, I landed a position teaching English and U.S. history at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis—the home of Western View Middle School, where Jeff had lost his leg. Jeff, meanwhile, found a job in Portland. When I informed him I was now living in his hometown, he said he'd come see me next time he was in Corvallis to visit his parents.
A few months later, when Jeff came to see me at my new home, I finally got a chance to see how he was able to play the drums. He was pretty good, and it appeared to me that his fake leg didn't hinder his hi-hat prowess one iota. In fact, after seeing him play with that leg, I decided to practice a bit more so as not to be outplayed by a monoplegic.
Jeff and I got together one or two more times after that, and then we lost touch with each other, likely because of our respective jobs, relationships, and the physical distance between Corvallis and Portland.
A few years later, I was one of several teachers chaperoning a weeklong trip to Washington D.C., with 64 Corvallis eighth-graders. One of the other teachers, Chuck Wenstrom, happened to teach history at Western View Middle School. I told him I knew a guy who, when he was an eighth-grader at Western View, went streaking with some friends on the school roof one night and lost a leg when he jumped off and fell backward through a window.
I was completely unprepared for Wenstrom's reply. "I was the one who told Jeff and his friends to come down off the roof," he said. "But I didn't mean for them to jump off. They were supposed to climb back down the ladder they used to get up there. You can't imagine how badly I felt about Jeff losing that leg."
He was right: I couldn't imagine. And neither of us could imagine how Jeff felt.
I'll never forget Jeff's kind face and easy smile, and I'll always wonder whether they were, at least in part, a product of the pain he had to endure and the obstacles he had to overcome as a result of his accident. If so, it was perhaps the best possible outcome of one of the worst imaginable tragedies.
Jeff, wherever you are and whatever you're doing, I wish you happy trails. On safe ground. With your clothes on.
Saturday, May 2, 2020
That time I fell off a ski lift
Ever wonder how it would feel to fall off a ski lift?
I used to—until it happened to me.
I was 18 and a freshman in college. In fulfillment of my "Physical Education" requirement, I had enrolled in a downhill skiing course, which consisted of eight weekly lessons, every Saturday, on the slopes near Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.
At over six feet tall and with unusually long legs and a short torso—in other words, a high center of gravity—I'm not well built for skiing. But for the first five weeks of class, I held my own and managed to keep from falling or doing anything terribly embarrassing. I usually skied with my dorm RA (resident assistant), Ron Starker, a nice guy with a good sense of humor and a great laugh. We were friends then and still are today. (You'll soon understand why I felt it important to establish that up front.)
On the sixth Saturday, Ron and I were riding the ski lift together, as usual, and looking forward to skiing on our own for a change, without the instructor. The instructor had told us she thought we were good enough to take on one of the more challenging slopes by ourselves, and we were determined to prove her right.
As the ski lift approached the jump-off point, Ron and I got ready to exit our chair and set off on our adventure. But then something happened. As Ron stood up and dismounted the chair, the chair bounced back up and smacked me in the butt, causing me to lose my balance just as I was trying to dismount. I remember seeing Ron ski off to safety as I was tumbling backward and down, down, down into the snow-lined depression around the base of the massive steel turnaround pylon.
I landed on my back in the snow—just enough snow, apparently, to break my fall and not my back. I wasn't sure if I was dead or alive, but my eyes were open and I could feel my limbs, so I figured there was a good chance I had survived the fall, although I wasn't sure how.
The ski lift stopped, and frantic faces started appearing all around the rim of the pylon hole, peering downward at me. One of them asked if I was OK, and I said "I think so." I really wasn't sure, because I had, after all, FALLEN OFF A SKI LIFT. Do people survive such things?
Within what seemed like seconds, the Ski Patrol showed up. (Ironically, just two years earlier my rock band had played a Ski Patrol benefit dance at Timberline Lodge. Maybe these guys were among the attendees—and beneficiaries?) Within a few more seconds, they somehow managed to send a couple of guys down into the hole with a stretcher, strap me onto it, and hoist me up to the surface. I told them I felt fine, but they wanted to make sure I hadn't broken anything or suffered a concussion or internal injuries. So I waited patiently (what else could I do?) while they checked me over...and over...and over, with two dozen faces—including Ron's—peering anxiously down at me.
And with the ski lift motionless above me, full of people wanting to get started skiing.
It was excruciatingly embarrassing.
Finally deemed intact, I was released from the stretcher and got back on my feet. I think there was some applause, but I'm fuzzy on the details after this point because I was 100% focused on just getting the hell out of there. I strapped on my skis, nodded to Ron that I was ready to go, and off we went toward the slopes.
The easy slopes.
I used to—until it happened to me.
I was 18 and a freshman in college. In fulfillment of my "Physical Education" requirement, I had enrolled in a downhill skiing course, which consisted of eight weekly lessons, every Saturday, on the slopes near Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.
At over six feet tall and with unusually long legs and a short torso—in other words, a high center of gravity—I'm not well built for skiing. But for the first five weeks of class, I held my own and managed to keep from falling or doing anything terribly embarrassing. I usually skied with my dorm RA (resident assistant), Ron Starker, a nice guy with a good sense of humor and a great laugh. We were friends then and still are today. (You'll soon understand why I felt it important to establish that up front.)
On the sixth Saturday, Ron and I were riding the ski lift together, as usual, and looking forward to skiing on our own for a change, without the instructor. The instructor had told us she thought we were good enough to take on one of the more challenging slopes by ourselves, and we were determined to prove her right.
As the ski lift approached the jump-off point, Ron and I got ready to exit our chair and set off on our adventure. But then something happened. As Ron stood up and dismounted the chair, the chair bounced back up and smacked me in the butt, causing me to lose my balance just as I was trying to dismount. I remember seeing Ron ski off to safety as I was tumbling backward and down, down, down into the snow-lined depression around the base of the massive steel turnaround pylon.
I landed on my back in the snow—just enough snow, apparently, to break my fall and not my back. I wasn't sure if I was dead or alive, but my eyes were open and I could feel my limbs, so I figured there was a good chance I had survived the fall, although I wasn't sure how.
The ski lift stopped, and frantic faces started appearing all around the rim of the pylon hole, peering downward at me. One of them asked if I was OK, and I said "I think so." I really wasn't sure, because I had, after all, FALLEN OFF A SKI LIFT. Do people survive such things?
Within what seemed like seconds, the Ski Patrol showed up. (Ironically, just two years earlier my rock band had played a Ski Patrol benefit dance at Timberline Lodge. Maybe these guys were among the attendees—and beneficiaries?) Within a few more seconds, they somehow managed to send a couple of guys down into the hole with a stretcher, strap me onto it, and hoist me up to the surface. I told them I felt fine, but they wanted to make sure I hadn't broken anything or suffered a concussion or internal injuries. So I waited patiently (what else could I do?) while they checked me over...and over...and over, with two dozen faces—including Ron's—peering anxiously down at me.
And with the ski lift motionless above me, full of people wanting to get started skiing.
It was excruciatingly embarrassing.
Finally deemed intact, I was released from the stretcher and got back on my feet. I think there was some applause, but I'm fuzzy on the details after this point because I was 100% focused on just getting the hell out of there. I strapped on my skis, nodded to Ron that I was ready to go, and off we went toward the slopes.
The easy slopes.
 |
| A Timberline Lodge skier who probably didn't fall off the ski lift. (Photo: tripadvisor.co.uk) |
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
My Claymation ad
Here's an ad I designed for the company I worked for at the time, Will Vinton Productions. It appeared in an issue of Variety sometime around late 1979 or early 1980. The scene is from the documentary Claymation. "Outrageous" was the one word uttered (by a bullfrog) in the 8-minute Claymation film Mountain Music (1975); and "Between feature productions" referred to the just-released The Little Prince and Friends (an 84-minute "feature" compilation of Rip Van Winkle, Claymation, and The Little Prince, narrated by Alistair Cookie) and our planned but never completed Metamorphos Man.
To my knowledge, we never received a single call in response to this ad. However, within a few years, Vinton was doing virtually nothing but TV commercials (California Raisins, M&Ms, etc.). Maybe it was just a delayed reaction? : )
To my knowledge, we never received a single call in response to this ad. However, within a few years, Vinton was doing virtually nothing but TV commercials (California Raisins, M&Ms, etc.). Maybe it was just a delayed reaction? : )
Saturday, March 28, 2020
Susan Orlean and me
In the late 1970s, long before she became a staff writer for The New Yorker and a bestselling author of such nonfiction books as Saturday Night, The Orchid Thief, and The Library Book, Susan Orlean worked for the Portland, Oregon, newspaper Willamette Week. That's when I met Ms. Orlean, who was in her early 20s at the time—just as I was. I met her through my job as production manager for Claymation film producer Will Vinton Productions. Ms. Orlean had called Will to ask if she could interview him, and Will had passed her on to me, as he occasionally did in such situations.
I called Ms. Orlean and set up a time for us to get together for lunch at a popular Northwest Portland restaurant called The Wheel of Fortune (later renamed Ezekiel's Wheel, probably to avoid copyright infringement). I had no idea what Ms. Orlean wanted to talk about, but I was game for anything.
Anything, that is, except what she ended up wanting to talk about: skeletons in Will's closet.
She wanted dirt.
It wasn't that I was unaware of such skeletons or dirt (although the few examples I was aware of were relatively benign); it was that I was unwilling to help this ambitious and assertive young muckraker to tarnish my boss's—my friend's—reputation, for the sake of bolstered newspaper sales or a Pulitzer (ha ha).
So I was a bit peeved when Ms. Orlean's intent became clear, and matters were not improved when, after we had finished lunch, she looked at me expectantly and said, "I'm not sure how these things work; do you pay, or do I, or...?"
Me, pay? I thought. For an interview you requested?
I managed to utter something about how maybe Dutch would be best, and she reluctantly agreed. I guess in those days Willamette Week didn't pay its hungry young writers very well. We paid our checks, said our goodbyes, and that was the last I ever heard from her. And no story about Will ever appeared in her newspaper. I guess since I hadn't given her what she came for, she decided not to write anything. Which was fine with me.
When I got back to the office and related my experience to Will, he just smiled and said, "Ah, one of those."
Two decades later, I'm driving down I-5 and listening to NPR. Susan Orlean is on, reading an excerpt from her nonfiction book, Saturday Night.
She's good. Her book sounds good. No skeletons, no dirt. She's destined for greatness, I think, shaking my head and smiling to myself.
Maybe I should've bought her lunch?
I called Ms. Orlean and set up a time for us to get together for lunch at a popular Northwest Portland restaurant called The Wheel of Fortune (later renamed Ezekiel's Wheel, probably to avoid copyright infringement). I had no idea what Ms. Orlean wanted to talk about, but I was game for anything.
Anything, that is, except what she ended up wanting to talk about: skeletons in Will's closet.
She wanted dirt.
It wasn't that I was unaware of such skeletons or dirt (although the few examples I was aware of were relatively benign); it was that I was unwilling to help this ambitious and assertive young muckraker to tarnish my boss's—my friend's—reputation, for the sake of bolstered newspaper sales or a Pulitzer (ha ha).
So I was a bit peeved when Ms. Orlean's intent became clear, and matters were not improved when, after we had finished lunch, she looked at me expectantly and said, "I'm not sure how these things work; do you pay, or do I, or...?"
Me, pay? I thought. For an interview you requested?
I managed to utter something about how maybe Dutch would be best, and she reluctantly agreed. I guess in those days Willamette Week didn't pay its hungry young writers very well. We paid our checks, said our goodbyes, and that was the last I ever heard from her. And no story about Will ever appeared in her newspaper. I guess since I hadn't given her what she came for, she decided not to write anything. Which was fine with me.
When I got back to the office and related my experience to Will, he just smiled and said, "Ah, one of those."
Two decades later, I'm driving down I-5 and listening to NPR. Susan Orlean is on, reading an excerpt from her nonfiction book, Saturday Night.
She's good. Her book sounds good. No skeletons, no dirt. She's destined for greatness, I think, shaking my head and smiling to myself.
Maybe I should've bought her lunch?
 |
| Susan Orlean |
Friday, March 13, 2020
My trip to the Academy Awards
In early 1978, I was working part time as a production assistant for Claymation film producer Will Vinton Productions while finishing up my senior year of college. The film we were working on was a 27-minute version of Rip Van Winkle, based on Washington Irving's 1819 short story. Despite screenwriter (and Will's wife) Susan Shadburne's almost miraculous transformation of the story into something significantly more engaging and relevant than Irving's quaint, time-worn tale, I remained unconvinced that the film would transcend mediocrity. When I shared that opinion with Will, he responded rather forcefully: "This movie is going to win so many awards, you're going to be blown away."
He was right.
We finished the film in late 1978, and immediately started sending it out to film festivals around the world. It won at least a bronze and sometimes a silver or gold in virtually every one. Then we screened it at a theater in Los Angeles just before the December 31 deadline to qualify it as a potential Academy Award nominee (still a long shot, I thought)...and waited.
I was, as Will predicted, blown away.
He was right.
We finished the film in late 1978, and immediately started sending it out to film festivals around the world. It won at least a bronze and sometimes a silver or gold in virtually every one. Then we screened it at a theater in Los Angeles just before the December 31 deadline to qualify it as a potential Academy Award nominee (still a long shot, I thought)...and waited.
Nominated!
On February 20, 1979, James M. Roberts, the Executive Director of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, sent Will a telegram notifying him that Rip Van Winkle had been nominated for an Academy Award.I was, as Will predicted, blown away.
 |
| A scan of a photocopy of the telegram Will Vinton received notifying him that our Claymation short film Rip Van Winkle had been nominated for an Academy Award. |
\As the nominee, Will would automatically get two free tickets to the Awards—one for himself, and one for Susan. Additional tickets, we soon learned, might be available for purchase by other members of the crew. We waited with bated breath for further word, and eventually it came: we would get six more tickets, at a cost of $20 each.
Cool. Except for one thing: there were not six, but seven of us (besides Will and Susan) who wanted to go to the Academy Awards. We would have to draw straws.
As luck would have it, I drew the short straw. I would not be going to the Academy Awards. Booo!
However, fate had another idea in store for me: after pondering for a few days whether he really wanted to attend the Awards, animator Barry Bruce decided against it. He would sell me his ticket. At cost.
I was in eighth heaven. I had watched the Academy Awards ever since I was a kid, but I had never dreamed of attending—and now I was not only going to attend, but I would be there as a member of the crew that had produced a nominated film. I couldn't even wrap my 23-year-old brain around such an incredible stroke of luck.
Then reality started kicking in. As a recent college grad with bills to pay and a student loan to start paying off, I didn't have much disposable income. I would have to come up with about $200 more to help me cover the tux rental, plane ticket, hotel room, and food. I decided, against my better judgment, to ask my conservative (read: frugal) parents, who had rarely, if ever, lent money to any of their four kids. Fortunately, they were almost as excited as I was about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they agreed to the loan. I was on my way.
Cool. Except for one thing: there were not six, but seven of us (besides Will and Susan) who wanted to go to the Academy Awards. We would have to draw straws.
As luck would have it, I drew the short straw. I would not be going to the Academy Awards. Booo!
However, fate had another idea in store for me: after pondering for a few days whether he really wanted to attend the Awards, animator Barry Bruce decided against it. He would sell me his ticket. At cost.
I was in eighth heaven. I had watched the Academy Awards ever since I was a kid, but I had never dreamed of attending—and now I was not only going to attend, but I would be there as a member of the crew that had produced a nominated film. I couldn't even wrap my 23-year-old brain around such an incredible stroke of luck.
Then reality started kicking in. As a recent college grad with bills to pay and a student loan to start paying off, I didn't have much disposable income. I would have to come up with about $200 more to help me cover the tux rental, plane ticket, hotel room, and food. I decided, against my better judgment, to ask my conservative (read: frugal) parents, who had rarely, if ever, lent money to any of their four kids. Fortunately, they were almost as excited as I was about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they agreed to the loan. I was on my way.
 |
| A scan of a photocopy of my ticket to the Academy Awards. |
As the ticket said, the event was to be "formal," meaning...what? Don't wear your torn jeans, frayed T-shirt, and holey Pumas? To me, "formal" was what I had to wear to church every Sunday when I was a kid—slacks, a white shirt, and a clip-on tie. But I had been to a couple of proms, and "formal" for them meant a tuxedo. And virtually every man I had ever seen on the Academy Awards was dressed in a black tux, so I figured I had probably better not stray too far from the norm. On the other hand, did I want to look just like everyone else?
Not a chance. I decided against renting a black tux. Instead, I rented a brown one.
Big mistake. I failed to consider how conspicuous I might feel, being the only guy at the Academy Awards not wearing black. But for the moment, at least, I was reveling in my token act of rebellion.
The night before the Academy Awards show, Will arranged for some of us to join the producers of another nominee in the Animated Short Subject category, Special Delivery, for drinks at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a faux classy old pink building. Accompanying the Canadian producers of the film, Eunice Macaulay and John Weldon, was Marshall Ephron, the former host of a satirical TV show called The Great American Dream Machine, which I used to watch on Oregon Public Broadcasting (our local PBS station). Even though these folks were "the enemy"—one of our two competitors for the Oscar—we got along famously (almost famously?) and enjoyed their intelligence, wit, and graciousness. We decided not to hate them if they won.
The next morning, Will, Bill, and I drove to the house of an animator friend of Will's, John David Wilson (who had animated the opening credits for Grease) and his wife, Angel. After a pleasant but otherwise uneventful visit, Bill declared to me on our way back to the car that he was in love with Angel—who was, admittedly, quite angelic. But married. (Sorry, Bill!)
Not a chance. I decided against renting a black tux. Instead, I rented a brown one.
Big mistake. I failed to consider how conspicuous I might feel, being the only guy at the Academy Awards not wearing black. But for the moment, at least, I was reveling in my token act of rebellion.
Hollywood!
We all decided to stay in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, which had been the site of the first Academy Awards, in 1929. It was old and rustic and the beds were uncomfortable, but we liked the history—and the relatively low rates. Music composer/producer Bill Scream (his "professional" name) and I shared a room.The night before the Academy Awards show, Will arranged for some of us to join the producers of another nominee in the Animated Short Subject category, Special Delivery, for drinks at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a faux classy old pink building. Accompanying the Canadian producers of the film, Eunice Macaulay and John Weldon, was Marshall Ephron, the former host of a satirical TV show called The Great American Dream Machine, which I used to watch on Oregon Public Broadcasting (our local PBS station). Even though these folks were "the enemy"—one of our two competitors for the Oscar—we got along famously (almost famously?) and enjoyed their intelligence, wit, and graciousness. We decided not to hate them if they won.
The next morning, Will, Bill, and I drove to the house of an animator friend of Will's, John David Wilson (who had animated the opening credits for Grease) and his wife, Angel. After a pleasant but otherwise uneventful visit, Bill declared to me on our way back to the car that he was in love with Angel—who was, admittedly, quite angelic. But married. (Sorry, Bill!)
The Academy Awards!
Once back at the hotel, we all got dressed in our tuxes and then met outside by the pool for a photo. The driver of the limousine was kind enough to take a moment and shoot this goofy snapshot just before we all piled into the limo (yes, all eight of us) and headed across town to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, where the Awards ceremony would be held. |
| Left to right: Executive Producer Frank Moynihan (of Billy Budd Films, New York), his wife Annie, music composer/producer Bill Scream, animators Don Merkt and Joan Gratz, screenwriter (and Will's wife at the time) Susan Shadburne, Will, and 23-year-old me (in total shock and awe). Not in attendance: animator Barry Bruce and music composer Paul Jameson. (Photo by limo driver) |
I shot this photo of Will and Susan just after the above photo was shot. Cute couple, eh?
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| Will Vinton and his wife, Susan Shadburne, just prior to the 1979 Academy Awards ceremony. (Photo by Rick Cooper) |
On the way to the Pavilion, the streets were lined with curious spectators, straining to get a glimpse at their favorite movie stars inside the limos as they passed. It was both thrilling and a little weird being inside one of those limos, seeing people's excited, hopeful faces and not wanting to disappoint them. And of course we inevitably did disappoint them, because we were nobodies. Impostors.
Nobodies and impostors having the time of our lives. At one point during the drive-by, Executive Producer Frank Moynihan, the eldest and arguably most responsible member of our entourage (he was a former priest), slyly took off his jacket and spread it across the window closest to him so no one could see inside—resulting in mayhem outside, as onlookers strained even more desperately to see the obviously ultra-famous person inside who didn't want to be seen. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar for best comedic moment.
The limo driver parked the big car in an underground parking structure just across the street from the Pavilion, and we all piled out and headed up the stairs toward our next gauntlet: the red carpet, lined on both sides by hundreds of excited, hopeful fans seated on—or standing on—bleachers. There were movie stars and celebrities ahead of us and movie stars and celebrities behind us, so it was reasonable, I suppose, for the crowd to assume we must be movie stars and celebrities. Which was really kind of a sad joke, I thought, not only because we weren't movie stars and celebrities, but because even if we miraculously were to win the Oscar for Best Animated Short, we would still be nobodies because who cares about the stupid Best Animated Shorts, which are just the Academy's lame attempt to appease small-time filmmaker wannabes, who really just need to go back where they came from and leave Hollywood to the actual filmmakers?
None of us harbored any illusions about who we were, what we did for a living, where we did it, and what big-ass impostors we were, infiltrating the Academy Awards like teenagers sneaking in the exit doors of a theater to catch the latest installment of Star Wars. We didn't belong there, and we knew it. But as long as we were there, we were going to savor the moment, ignore what anyone else thought of us, and maybe have even a better time than all the ultra-serious, image-conscious, career-centered folks who belonged there.
Once inside, we split up and headed in different directions to find champagne, explore the Pavilion, people watch, or, in Will and Susan's case, connect with friends from Will's previous trip to the Awards in 1975, when he won an Oscar for Closed Mondays. Myself, I stuck close to the entrance, where I not only had ready access to all the champagne I could inhale (hey, we might lose), but I could watch all the famous people enter the Pavilion. Now it was I who was the excited, hopeful onlooker.
The only difference being that I was wearing a tux.
A brown tux.
In a sea of black tuxes.
Noticing this now, and realizing for the first time how I did, in fact, stand out, I felt my cheeks flush. I felt not only like an impostor, but like a grotesquely inappropriately attired impostor. What in hell was I thinking when I decided to rent a brown tux?
There was nothing I could do about it now, and probably no one cared anyway (assuming anyone even noticed), so I decided I might as well forget about it and just enjoy myself. Back to my people watching—and inhaling champagne (maybe this'll help me feel better about wearing this stupid tux!).
What people was I watching? Well, just a few feet to my left was Yul Brynner, chatting away with Mia Farrow. And coming through the doors and down the red carpet toward me were Robin Williams, Steve Martin, Robert Wagner, and Natalie Wood (who would tragically die by drowning just two years later). Frankly, it was a little overwhelming, this gangly, geeky kid, standing there amidst this constellation of big stars. It was all I could do to try looking like I belonged.
And the Winner Is...
You know when you watch the Academy Awards and the cameras show mostly people in the front few rows? That's where the nominees sit, while everyone else is relegated to the nosebleed section. So, as the producer of Rip Van Winkle, Will (and Susan) got to sit with all the luminaries, while his crew (yours truly and the rest of us) sat up in the balcony, pretty much out of camera range. Just in case, however, I kept a big, shit-eatin' grin on my face, because I knew my parents and a few friends were watching, and if a camera did happen to tilt up my way, I wanted to look like I was having a grand old time.
Which, in fact, I was. Until the winner of Best Animated Short was announced. The Oscar went to our new friends from Canada for their truly wonderful, creative little gem, Special Delivery. It's a good thing we had shared drinks the night before, so there would be no hard feelings. But still...losing smarted a little.
A Few More Stars
On our way back to the limo, I spotted a few more movie stars: Christopher Reeve (who had starred in the 1978 blockbuster Superman), Maggie Smith (who had just won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in California Suite), and Jon Voight (who had just won an Oscar for Best Actor in Coming Home). At this point, Will and Susan were off to the Governor's Ball while the rest of us took the limo to a restaurant somewhere in Hollywood for a late dinner. The only thing I remember about the restaurant was that the waiter—a handsome dude who looked like he would rather be acting—threw all our flatware noisily on the table in a big pile and said something like, "You look like the kind of folks who prefer to do it yourselves." We all laughed politely, not wanting to further upset him. After that, we headed back to the hotel and tried to calm down enough to catch a few winks before flying home in the morning.
It wasn't easy. I don't know about everyone else, but my head was still spinning from all the excitement—and disappointment. I think I slept a total of about ten minutes that night.
Back to Reality
Even though we "lost" (nearly everyone I spoke with afterward said to me, "Well, you won just by being nominated!"), I was still floating several feel off the ground when we returned home. My head was so high from the experience that even if my feet were on the ground, I couldn't see them. And that wasn't a good thing, because my head had a tendency to float with the clouds as it was. Much as I tried to persuade myself that everything was fine, that my head and feet would come back to earth eventually, I was in serious need of some grounding. And being a 23-year-old dude with an abundance of testosterone and a booster shot of confidence, I naturally sought that grounding in, um, somewhat risky behaviors. And I'm not talking about drugs here (although alcohol helped lubricate more than a few of my encounters).
Fortunately, no permanent harm came to anyone as a result of my last gasp of adolescence, but eight months later I was married (and nine years later, divorced—and, finally, I would say, grounded).
One last fun thing happened as a result of the nomination: my hometown newspaper, the Lake Oswego Review, published an article about me in their semi-monthly supplement, The Lake Oswegan Magazine. It didn't help get my feet back on the ground, but it did, perhaps, make some of my former classmates wish they had been nicer to me on the playground (I'm looking at you, Craig Gordon!). Of course, now that they can see the color of the tux I wore to the Academy Awards, the taunting will start all over again... : )
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Will Vinton: The King of Clay Animation
Here's an article I wrote (essentially a Q&A with Will Vinton) in 1982 for Stop Motion Animation II.
Will Vinton and His Animated Shorts
Here's an article I wrote in 1983 for a magazine called Design for Arts in Education. I also shot most of the photos.
The Oscar Built of Clay
In the winter of 1975, I was a sophomore majoring in communications at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. Among the courses I was enrolled in that semester was one called Writing for Publication, taught by a dynamic young instructor named Edd Whetmore (RIP). One of the assignments he gave us was to interview someone interesting, write an 1,200-word article about him or her, and submit it for publication.
I knew immediately whom I wanted to interview. As a huge fan of the locally produced clay-animated short film Closed Mondays, which I'd seen several times at The Movie House in downtown Portland, I had been looking for an excuse to meet the film's producers, Will Vinton and Bob Gardiner. Now, thanks to Mr. Whetmore, I had that excuse. And I could use my status as a writer for the college student paper, The Pioneer Log, as my "press pass."
Then I learned that Closed Mondays had been nominated for an Academy Award for best animated short subject. Damn, I thought. Now it'll be impossible for me to get an interview with these local celebrities. They'll be swarmed with interview requests from all the papers and magazines.
Nevertheless, I decided to give it a go. I found Vinton's phone number in the Portland phone directory, called him, and asked whether he would be open to an interview. Miraculously, he said, "Sure," and suggested we meet for lunch the following week at his office in Northwest Portland.
I couldn't believe my luck. Here was this semi-famous filmmaker, who might be on the verge of winning a freaking Oscar, agreeing to an interview with some 19-year-old college punk who may or may not be able to write—and definitely wouldn't be getting his article published, considering all the competition by professional journalists with actual credentials and connections to actual publications.
After Vinton and I met, I typed up a draft of the article on my manual typewriter, shared the draft with Vinton in person at his home in the Northwest Portland hills (where Vinton and Gardiner had shot Closed Mondays), took notes as Vinton suggested a few changes, and then went home and typed up a new draft incorporating the edits.
I sent the article to the first publication I could think of that might be interested: Northwest Magazine, which was the Sunday supplement to Oregon's biggest newspaper, The Oregonian. Considering that the magazine had a purported circulation of around 400,000, this was an extreme long shot for a first-time writer. I was certain the editor would read the first sentence, laugh uproariously, make several paper planes out of my article, and gleefully fly them all into the nearest round file.
Fortunately, another long shot came through for me: Closed Mondays won the Oscar. The next day, the editor of Northwest Magazine called me and said he wanted to publish my article, but could I please get a few more quotes from newly minted Oscar winners Vinton and Gardiner and add them somewhere near the end of the article? Oh, and maybe take a photographer to Vinton's house and get some nice black-and-white stills? There would be $75 in it for both me and the photographer.
"Um, sure," said the starving college student, while wetting his pants because his very first article was going to be published—in none other than Oregon's biggest magazine in Oregon's biggest newspaper.
There's more to the story (isn't there always?), but I think that's enough ado for now. Here's the article. (Apologies for the poor-quality scans and obvious seams—all DIY by yours truly, who accepts all the blame.)
I knew immediately whom I wanted to interview. As a huge fan of the locally produced clay-animated short film Closed Mondays, which I'd seen several times at The Movie House in downtown Portland, I had been looking for an excuse to meet the film's producers, Will Vinton and Bob Gardiner. Now, thanks to Mr. Whetmore, I had that excuse. And I could use my status as a writer for the college student paper, The Pioneer Log, as my "press pass."
Then I learned that Closed Mondays had been nominated for an Academy Award for best animated short subject. Damn, I thought. Now it'll be impossible for me to get an interview with these local celebrities. They'll be swarmed with interview requests from all the papers and magazines.
Nevertheless, I decided to give it a go. I found Vinton's phone number in the Portland phone directory, called him, and asked whether he would be open to an interview. Miraculously, he said, "Sure," and suggested we meet for lunch the following week at his office in Northwest Portland.
I couldn't believe my luck. Here was this semi-famous filmmaker, who might be on the verge of winning a freaking Oscar, agreeing to an interview with some 19-year-old college punk who may or may not be able to write—and definitely wouldn't be getting his article published, considering all the competition by professional journalists with actual credentials and connections to actual publications.
After Vinton and I met, I typed up a draft of the article on my manual typewriter, shared the draft with Vinton in person at his home in the Northwest Portland hills (where Vinton and Gardiner had shot Closed Mondays), took notes as Vinton suggested a few changes, and then went home and typed up a new draft incorporating the edits.
I sent the article to the first publication I could think of that might be interested: Northwest Magazine, which was the Sunday supplement to Oregon's biggest newspaper, The Oregonian. Considering that the magazine had a purported circulation of around 400,000, this was an extreme long shot for a first-time writer. I was certain the editor would read the first sentence, laugh uproariously, make several paper planes out of my article, and gleefully fly them all into the nearest round file.
Fortunately, another long shot came through for me: Closed Mondays won the Oscar. The next day, the editor of Northwest Magazine called me and said he wanted to publish my article, but could I please get a few more quotes from newly minted Oscar winners Vinton and Gardiner and add them somewhere near the end of the article? Oh, and maybe take a photographer to Vinton's house and get some nice black-and-white stills? There would be $75 in it for both me and the photographer.
"Um, sure," said the starving college student, while wetting his pants because his very first article was going to be published—in none other than Oregon's biggest magazine in Oregon's biggest newspaper.
There's more to the story (isn't there always?), but I think that's enough ado for now. Here's the article. (Apologies for the poor-quality scans and obvious seams—all DIY by yours truly, who accepts all the blame.)
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Claymation: Making Movie History with Mud & Magic
I wrote this article in 1980, while serving as production manager and publicist for Will Vinton Productions. CineMagic was a periodical founded by filmmaker (and all-around nice guy) Don Dohler and geared toward budding filmmakers interested in creating their own special effects. The impetus for the article was unabashedly promotional; we had just released The Little Prince and Friends in theaters and wanted to sell enough tickets on the film's opening weekend to get a mention in Variety (mission accomplished!). While we billed the movie as the world's first Claymation feature film, in reality it was a compilation of three short films—Rip Van Winkle, Claymation, and The Little Prince—tied together with introductions and commentary by a clay-animated "Alistair Cookie."
My writing here is embarrassingly amateurish and the editing a bit sloppy (typos and inaccuracies), but I'm going ahead and publishing it here anyway for, um, posterity. My sincere apologies to anyone I might offend in the process...
My writing here is embarrassingly amateurish and the editing a bit sloppy (typos and inaccuracies), but I'm going ahead and publishing it here anyway for, um, posterity. My sincere apologies to anyone I might offend in the process...
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Robin Trower and me
I first became aware of legendary blues-rock guitarist Robin Trower in 1974, when his album Bridge of Sighs was released. It was summer, and I was at a kegger in a big field, listening to Portland band Morning After (while maybe quaffing a beer or two). One of the songs they played was Trower's "Day of the Eagle," which I liked—a lot.
The next year, I found myself playing drums in a Portland band called PowerPlay, and one of the tunes we covered was "Day of the Eagle." It was as much fun to play as it was to listen to. We also covered Trower's "Daydream" and one or two others.
Flash forward three decades, and my wife and I are dancing to Robin Trower live, on a stage right next to the dance floor, in a small venue in Albany, Oregon. It was a Sunday in May—Mother's Day, in fact—and I believe we had paid $14 each for our tickets. Trower played all his greatest hits, including "Day of the Eagle," "Daydream," "Too Rolling Stoned," and "Bridge of Sighs," and we had the best Mother's Day ever (speaking strictly for myself, of course).
A few years later, in February of 2008, I attended another Trower concert, with my brother and a friend, at the Roseland Theater in Portland. Trower again played all my faves, and my socks were again knocked totally off. Trower was in his 60s at the time, and he could still rock like the 20-something arena rocker he became after the release of Bridge of Sighs.
My brother had to head home right after the concert, but my friend, a guitarist who had previously spoken with Trower following other concerts, wanted to chat with Trower again about some sound-effects pedal setup or something. There happened to be a meet-and-greet happening downstairs after the show, so we headed down there and got in line.
Trower was there within minutes after the show ended, and started enthusiastically signing albums, CDs, T-shirts, and all other manner of concert and tour memorabilia, while chatting cordially with his fans. We finally made it to the front of the line, and I had Trower sign my wife's ticket stub from a Trower-Tull concert she had attended in LA back in the mid-70s. I told him Jules had been wanting to get it signed ever since that concert, and Trower replied, "Well, tell her thanks for waiting so long!"
I thought that would be the end of it, but after my friend was done talking to Trower, Trower's manager invited my friend and me to pose with Trower for a photo. Nobody had a camera, so the manager guy borrowed my cheap little flip phone to take the shot. Unfortunately, the picture is too fuzzy to be recognizable, even if you squint really hard and use your imagination, so I won't bother sharing it here. I will, however, share a YouTube video of Trower performing "Day of the Eagle" and "Bridge of Sighs" back to back at a 2005 concert in Germany. Enjoy!
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| Portland band Morning After (1973-78; image courtesy of Bob Stull, GuitarCrazy.com) |
Flash forward three decades, and my wife and I are dancing to Robin Trower live, on a stage right next to the dance floor, in a small venue in Albany, Oregon. It was a Sunday in May—Mother's Day, in fact—and I believe we had paid $14 each for our tickets. Trower played all his greatest hits, including "Day of the Eagle," "Daydream," "Too Rolling Stoned," and "Bridge of Sighs," and we had the best Mother's Day ever (speaking strictly for myself, of course).
A few years later, in February of 2008, I attended another Trower concert, with my brother and a friend, at the Roseland Theater in Portland. Trower again played all my faves, and my socks were again knocked totally off. Trower was in his 60s at the time, and he could still rock like the 20-something arena rocker he became after the release of Bridge of Sighs.
My brother had to head home right after the concert, but my friend, a guitarist who had previously spoken with Trower following other concerts, wanted to chat with Trower again about some sound-effects pedal setup or something. There happened to be a meet-and-greet happening downstairs after the show, so we headed down there and got in line.
Trower was there within minutes after the show ended, and started enthusiastically signing albums, CDs, T-shirts, and all other manner of concert and tour memorabilia, while chatting cordially with his fans. We finally made it to the front of the line, and I had Trower sign my wife's ticket stub from a Trower-Tull concert she had attended in LA back in the mid-70s. I told him Jules had been wanting to get it signed ever since that concert, and Trower replied, "Well, tell her thanks for waiting so long!"
I thought that would be the end of it, but after my friend was done talking to Trower, Trower's manager invited my friend and me to pose with Trower for a photo. Nobody had a camera, so the manager guy borrowed my cheap little flip phone to take the shot. Unfortunately, the picture is too fuzzy to be recognizable, even if you squint really hard and use your imagination, so I won't bother sharing it here. I will, however, share a YouTube video of Trower performing "Day of the Eagle" and "Bridge of Sighs" back to back at a 2005 concert in Germany. Enjoy!
Saturday, February 8, 2020
Dallas "Gumby" McKennon and me
If you ever watched the 1960s TV series Daniel Boone, you might remember Cincinnatus, the long-haired, bearded, slightly off-kilter shopkeeper played by the late Dallas McKennon. McKennon was also known for performing the voices of Gumby, Archie, and dozens of other TV and movie characters.
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| Dallas McKennon (source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dallas_McKennon |
It was McKennon's work on Gumby that brought him to the attention of my boss, Will Vinton, when he was casting voice actors for the Claymation version of the children's classic The Little Prince (on YouTube here). Will ended up casting McKennon in two roles: the Blue Fox, whose friendship the Little Prince had to earn with patience; and the Lamplighter, who lives on a planet blessed (or cursed?) with 1,440 sunsets per day.
I remember McKennon, who was about 60 at the time, as a kind, jovial fellow with a ton of talent and energy. He was fun to watch in action, insisting on doing as many takes as necessary to get the parts right. I admired his professionalism, and liked him a lot personally. He seemed to like me, too, because following the recording/filming session, he extended an open invitation to me to visit him at his home in Cannon Beach, on the Oregon coast.
About a year later, I was living in Tolovana Park, just south of Cannon Beach, and had invited some people over for a Claymation film showing. I had borrowed a 16mm projector from a local school, but for some reason the projector was missing the takeup reel—and there was no way to show the films without one. Immediately I thought of McKennon: with all his experience in film, he might have a spare reel he could lend me.
So, audacious jughead that I am, I found McKennon's number in the phone book, called him, and asked if he happened to have a 16mm takeup reel. He said he was pretty sure he had one lying around somewhere, and if I wanted to come get it he'd go look for it and have it ready for me when I arrived. Ten minutes later I was at the front door of McKennon's house—a beautiful, two-story contemporary with massive picture windows facing the iconic Haystack Rock—and he was there to greet me, takeup reel in hand.
I know it's silly to idolize celebrities, to imagine that they are somehow more special than the rest of us, but here was this guy I had grown up watching/hearing on some of my favorite TV shows, taking time out of his busy day to do a virtual stranger this odd little favor. I was not just extremely appreciative, but maybe a little weak in the knees—and struggling not to show it.
I said thank you; he said you're welcome and invited me to call again anytime; and I was on my way, takeup reel in hand, a smile on my face, and the Gumby theme song in my head.
I remember McKennon, who was about 60 at the time, as a kind, jovial fellow with a ton of talent and energy. He was fun to watch in action, insisting on doing as many takes as necessary to get the parts right. I admired his professionalism, and liked him a lot personally. He seemed to like me, too, because following the recording/filming session, he extended an open invitation to me to visit him at his home in Cannon Beach, on the Oregon coast.
About a year later, I was living in Tolovana Park, just south of Cannon Beach, and had invited some people over for a Claymation film showing. I had borrowed a 16mm projector from a local school, but for some reason the projector was missing the takeup reel—and there was no way to show the films without one. Immediately I thought of McKennon: with all his experience in film, he might have a spare reel he could lend me.
So, audacious jughead that I am, I found McKennon's number in the phone book, called him, and asked if he happened to have a 16mm takeup reel. He said he was pretty sure he had one lying around somewhere, and if I wanted to come get it he'd go look for it and have it ready for me when I arrived. Ten minutes later I was at the front door of McKennon's house—a beautiful, two-story contemporary with massive picture windows facing the iconic Haystack Rock—and he was there to greet me, takeup reel in hand.
I know it's silly to idolize celebrities, to imagine that they are somehow more special than the rest of us, but here was this guy I had grown up watching/hearing on some of my favorite TV shows, taking time out of his busy day to do a virtual stranger this odd little favor. I was not just extremely appreciative, but maybe a little weak in the knees—and struggling not to show it.
I said thank you; he said you're welcome and invited me to call again anytime; and I was on my way, takeup reel in hand, a smile on my face, and the Gumby theme song in my head.
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
Claudia Weill, Claymation, and me
Producer/director Claudia Weill's popular, award-winning first film, Girlfriends, was released in 1978, the same year my employer, Will Vinton Productions, released a documentary called Claymation (see two-part YouTube video at end). Other than their release dates, the two films have little in common. Girlfriends is a feature film about a Jewish photographer who experiences loneliness once her roommate moves out of their apartment in New York City; Claymation is a short film about how we made clay-animated movies.
Nevertheless, for some reason Claudia Weill wanted to see Claymation, and she wanted to meet one of the people who worked on it. Despite my being merely a production assistant on the film, Will asked if I would do the honors. Having seen and liked Weill's movie, I eagerly agreed.
Weill was going to be in Portland for a publicity tour stop, so I set up a private screening for that date at a movie theater near the studio called Cinema 21.
On the arranged date and time, I met Weill outside the theater, and we went inside to find seats (an easy task, since we were the only ones in the theater). Oddly, Weill chose to sit behind me rather than next to me. I didn't take it too personally, however, as I knew she was a big shot and I was just a lowly production assistant, somewhere between "best boy" and "key grip" in the film credit hierarchy.
Nevertheless, for some reason Claudia Weill wanted to see Claymation, and she wanted to meet one of the people who worked on it. Despite my being merely a production assistant on the film, Will asked if I would do the honors. Having seen and liked Weill's movie, I eagerly agreed.
Weill was going to be in Portland for a publicity tour stop, so I set up a private screening for that date at a movie theater near the studio called Cinema 21.
On the arranged date and time, I met Weill outside the theater, and we went inside to find seats (an easy task, since we were the only ones in the theater). Oddly, Weill chose to sit behind me rather than next to me. I didn't take it too personally, however, as I knew she was a big shot and I was just a lowly production assistant, somewhere between "best boy" and "key grip" in the film credit hierarchy.
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| Claudia Weill (source: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0918041/mediaviewer/rm527654400) |
Weill sat quietly and attentively during the screening, and it was all I could do to resist turning around periodically to check her expressions. Resist, I did, however, until the film was over. At that point I turned around and asked her, "So, what did you think?"
Her answer took me by completely by surprise.
"There was no mention of Eli Noyes anywhere in the film. His Clay or the Origin of the Species was where it all started, was it not?"
I was flummoxed. Speechless. Of course I'd heard of Noyes' groundbreaking clay-animated film, which was nominated for an Academy Award in 1966. But our film was specifically about Claymation, a style of clay animation exclusive to and trademarked by Will Vinton Productions. It was not—and didn't pretend to be—about clay animation in general. I couldn't believe Weill had chosen to attack our film because it was about our work and not Noyes'—nor anyone else's. Was she joking? Jetlagged? In a crappy mood because of all the traveling she had to do to promote her film?
I struggled for an appropriate response. "Um...uh...well, this film is about our particular brand of clay animation, which we call Claymation. If it were about clay animation in general, we certainly would've mentioned Noyes' work."
Weill wasn't satisfied. "Eli Noyes happens to be a friend of mine, and his film broke the ground upon which you're making your films. I would've thought you might mention him, at least."
Before I could come up with another stumbling, half-assed reply, Weill got up, thanked me for my time, and left the theater.
I guess she hadn't been impressed.
But then, neither was I. Weill might've been a decent filmmaker, but in my opinion she fell a little short of being a decent human being.
When I told Will what had happened, he shook his head and muttered something about prima donnas. And he, too, was incredulous that Weill thought Claymation should've mentioned Noyes.
Two years later, however, when Will commissioned me to write a book about Claymation, I remembered my run-in with Weill and decided that, rather than risk pissing her off again, I would be sure to mention Noyes and his film. Here's what I wrote:
Happy now, Ms. Weill? : )
Part one of a two-part YouTube video of Claymation:
Part two (featuring my face in clay at the end—I'm the one with the long hair and mustache):
Her answer took me by completely by surprise.
"There was no mention of Eli Noyes anywhere in the film. His Clay or the Origin of the Species was where it all started, was it not?"
I was flummoxed. Speechless. Of course I'd heard of Noyes' groundbreaking clay-animated film, which was nominated for an Academy Award in 1966. But our film was specifically about Claymation, a style of clay animation exclusive to and trademarked by Will Vinton Productions. It was not—and didn't pretend to be—about clay animation in general. I couldn't believe Weill had chosen to attack our film because it was about our work and not Noyes'—nor anyone else's. Was she joking? Jetlagged? In a crappy mood because of all the traveling she had to do to promote her film?
I struggled for an appropriate response. "Um...uh...well, this film is about our particular brand of clay animation, which we call Claymation. If it were about clay animation in general, we certainly would've mentioned Noyes' work."
Weill wasn't satisfied. "Eli Noyes happens to be a friend of mine, and his film broke the ground upon which you're making your films. I would've thought you might mention him, at least."
Before I could come up with another stumbling, half-assed reply, Weill got up, thanked me for my time, and left the theater.
I guess she hadn't been impressed.
But then, neither was I. Weill might've been a decent filmmaker, but in my opinion she fell a little short of being a decent human being.
When I told Will what had happened, he shook his head and muttered something about prima donnas. And he, too, was incredulous that Weill thought Claymation should've mentioned Noyes.
Two years later, however, when Will commissioned me to write a book about Claymation, I remembered my run-in with Weill and decided that, rather than risk pissing her off again, I would be sure to mention Noyes and his film. Here's what I wrote:
...in 1965, a film student named Eli Noyes, Jr. resurrected clay briefly in a short film called Clay or the Origin of Species, a kind of time-lapse rendition of evolution with creatures metamorphosing and evolving in assorted outrageous ways. Although relatively basic in style and execution. [the film] was a respectable effort, serving as a bulldozer for greater works.Oh, and I found his film on YouTube:
Happy now, Ms. Weill? : )
Part one of a two-part YouTube video of Claymation:
Part two (featuring my face in clay at the end—I'm the one with the long hair and mustache):
Monday, January 27, 2020
Ornella Muti, the Ovulation Method, Frank Fink, and me
Full disclosure: I never practiced the Ovulation Method with Italian actress Ornella Muti. I never even met her. In fact, I had never even heard of her, until she ordered 10 copies of a book I published called The Ovulation Method Handbook, back in 1988.
Further, I never would've known who Ornella Muti was, if not for my German housemate, Frank Fink, who spotted my box of books addressed to her and recognized the name.
"Ornella Muti?" he said. "The beautiful Italian actress? What are you sending her?"
"Italian actress?" I said. "I had no idea. She ordered some Ovulation Method books from me."
Frank looked at the address on the label. "A hotel in Chicago? What's she doing there?"
"I dunno," I said. "Maybe making an American movie?" (In retrospect, my guess might've been right: a movie starring Ornella Muti, Oscar, was shot in Chicago around that time.)
"Why does she need so many Ovulation Method books?" Frank asked.
"I dunno. Maybe they're for her and nine of her friends?"
"Wow," Frank said. "Every guy I know in Germany is in love with Ornella Muti."
"Want me to add a note to my box asking for an autographed photo?" I asked.
"Sure!" Frank said.
So I did. And Ornella Muti sent me an autographed photo, inscribed to Frank.
It made his day.
Further, I never would've known who Ornella Muti was, if not for my German housemate, Frank Fink, who spotted my box of books addressed to her and recognized the name.
"Ornella Muti?" he said. "The beautiful Italian actress? What are you sending her?"
"Italian actress?" I said. "I had no idea. She ordered some Ovulation Method books from me."
Frank looked at the address on the label. "A hotel in Chicago? What's she doing there?"
"I dunno," I said. "Maybe making an American movie?" (In retrospect, my guess might've been right: a movie starring Ornella Muti, Oscar, was shot in Chicago around that time.)
"Why does she need so many Ovulation Method books?" Frank asked.
"I dunno. Maybe they're for her and nine of her friends?"
"Wow," Frank said. "Every guy I know in Germany is in love with Ornella Muti."
"Want me to add a note to my box asking for an autographed photo?" I asked.
"Sure!" Frank said.
So I did. And Ornella Muti sent me an autographed photo, inscribed to Frank.
It made his day.
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| Ornella Muti in 2000. (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ornella_Muti) |
Thursday, January 23, 2020
Our piece of art by Mrs. Harmon Killebrew
Most baseball fans have probably heard of the late Harmon Killebrew, a prolific power hitter who was inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 1984. At the time of his retirement after a 22-year career in Major League Baseball, Killebrew had hit the fourth-most home runs (573) in major league history, and was second only to Babe Ruth in American League home runs.
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| Harmon Killebrew in 1962 (source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harmon_Killebrew) |
On the other hand, I'm guessing not many baseball fans have heard of Killebrew's wife of 30 years, the late Elaine Killebrew. Jules and I hadn't, either, until we bought a piece of her art from a Philomath thrift store.
The artwork, a sort of shadowbox painting of an old barn in the snow, appealed to us because it reminded us of barns we'd seen around our rural neighborhood. We also liked the technique, which gives the appearance of depth as it was rendered on three successive panes of glass, and the frame, which was fashioned from old barn wood. At just $10, it seemed like a low-risk, high-reward investment.
The artwork, a sort of shadowbox painting of an old barn in the snow, appealed to us because it reminded us of barns we'd seen around our rural neighborhood. We also liked the technique, which gives the appearance of depth as it was rendered on three successive panes of glass, and the frame, which was fashioned from old barn wood. At just $10, it seemed like a low-risk, high-reward investment.
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| Our piece of art by Elaine Killebrew (1977) |
It wasn't until we got the piece home that we noticed that it was signed and dated. And it wasn't until a few days later that we realized that the name Killebrew was...familiar. How did we know that name?
A quick Google search gave us our answer: Elaine was the ex-wife of baseball great Harmon Killebrew. But just to be sure this was the same Elaine, we decided to do some more checking. Jules found one of the adult Killebrew children on Facebook, and I found another one on Twitter. Both confirmed that the piece was, indeed, their mother's. But just to be absolutely sure, we did some more checking online, and found a digital copy of a check written in 1981 from Harmon to Elaine and endorsed on the back by Elaine. The signature on the painting appears first below, followed by the check. Jules and I are no handwriting experts, but these signatures sure look like a match to us.
Wanting to know whether the artwork had any monetary value beyond the $10 we paid for it, Jules emailed all the information we had about it, plus the images seen here, to Antiques Roadshow sports appraiser Leila Dunbar. Dunbar replied that, because she deals primarily with sports memorabilia associated directly with the athletes themselves, not their spouses, she would feel uncomfortable offering us an appraisal.
We're fine with our little treasure having only intrinsic value to us. However, we're still interested in finding out, if possible, whose barn is depicted in the piece, and where it's located. Any guesses?
A quick Google search gave us our answer: Elaine was the ex-wife of baseball great Harmon Killebrew. But just to be sure this was the same Elaine, we decided to do some more checking. Jules found one of the adult Killebrew children on Facebook, and I found another one on Twitter. Both confirmed that the piece was, indeed, their mother's. But just to be absolutely sure, we did some more checking online, and found a digital copy of a check written in 1981 from Harmon to Elaine and endorsed on the back by Elaine. The signature on the painting appears first below, followed by the check. Jules and I are no handwriting experts, but these signatures sure look like a match to us.
Wanting to know whether the artwork had any monetary value beyond the $10 we paid for it, Jules emailed all the information we had about it, plus the images seen here, to Antiques Roadshow sports appraiser Leila Dunbar. Dunbar replied that, because she deals primarily with sports memorabilia associated directly with the athletes themselves, not their spouses, she would feel uncomfortable offering us an appraisal.
We're fine with our little treasure having only intrinsic value to us. However, we're still interested in finding out, if possible, whose barn is depicted in the piece, and where it's located. Any guesses?
Tuesday, January 21, 2020
My gold watch
In March of 1980, after serving three years as production manager for Claymation producer Will Vinton, I decided to pursue my dream of being a freelance writer. I was 24 years old and ready to get on with my real career. Filmmaking was a lot of fun, and working with Will and his small crew was an experience beyond anything I had ever imagined.
When I informed Will of my plans, he wasn't happy. Among other things, he and I had made great strides to secure funding for our planned Claymation feature film Metamorphos Man, and I think he was disappointed that we wouldn't be seeing it through together.
Nevertheless, on the day of my "retirement," Will and the rest of the crew (Barry Bruce, Don Merkt, and Joan Gratz) took me out to lunch at a nearby restaurant. After we were done eating, Will presented me with a small, wrapped gift, which he insisted I open then and there.
It was a gold pocket watch.
OK, it wasn't actually gold, but it looked like gold. And I was touched. I was leaving before he was ready for me to go, and here he was taking me to lunch and giving me this nice gift. Also: How many people get a gold watch after only three years on the job?
But wait, there's more. Inscribed on the outside of the watch were the letters "WVP," for Will Vinton Productions. Nice. This gold watch was turning out to be quite the keepsake.
Then I opened it and saw another inscription, on the inside cover: "You've decided to go away; now go." It was a line from The Little Prince, a Claymation version of which we had just released a few months earlier. The heart-rending line is uttered by the Prince's rose, as he is preparing to leave their planet to explore other planets.
Now I was really touched. Despite my premature departure, Will had seen fit to give me a one-of-a-kind keepsake that I would treasure the rest of my life—just as I would treasure his friendship.
And we did remain friends, up until Will's passing on October 4, 2018 (another premature departure). If I were to write a book about him, I'd title it You Have Decided to Go Away, Now Go: Remembering Will Vinton. But I'm skeptical I could write a book that would do this remarkable man justice.
When I informed Will of my plans, he wasn't happy. Among other things, he and I had made great strides to secure funding for our planned Claymation feature film Metamorphos Man, and I think he was disappointed that we wouldn't be seeing it through together.
Nevertheless, on the day of my "retirement," Will and the rest of the crew (Barry Bruce, Don Merkt, and Joan Gratz) took me out to lunch at a nearby restaurant. After we were done eating, Will presented me with a small, wrapped gift, which he insisted I open then and there.
It was a gold pocket watch.
OK, it wasn't actually gold, but it looked like gold. And I was touched. I was leaving before he was ready for me to go, and here he was taking me to lunch and giving me this nice gift. Also: How many people get a gold watch after only three years on the job?
But wait, there's more. Inscribed on the outside of the watch were the letters "WVP," for Will Vinton Productions. Nice. This gold watch was turning out to be quite the keepsake.
Then I opened it and saw another inscription, on the inside cover: "You've decided to go away; now go." It was a line from The Little Prince, a Claymation version of which we had just released a few months earlier. The heart-rending line is uttered by the Prince's rose, as he is preparing to leave their planet to explore other planets.
Now I was really touched. Despite my premature departure, Will had seen fit to give me a one-of-a-kind keepsake that I would treasure the rest of my life—just as I would treasure his friendship.
And we did remain friends, up until Will's passing on October 4, 2018 (another premature departure). If I were to write a book about him, I'd title it You Have Decided to Go Away, Now Go: Remembering Will Vinton. But I'm skeptical I could write a book that would do this remarkable man justice.
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| The outside of my gold watch. Inscription: "WVP" (for Will Vinton Productions) |
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| And the inside: "You've decided to go away, now go." |
Jean Auel, Brian Bressler, the Sea Sprite Motel, and me
In 1980-81 I managed a small motel on the Oregon Coast called the Sea Sprite. Situated just south of Cannon Beach's iconic Haystack Rock, the motel sat right on the edge of the beach and featured five rooms and a cabin. The manager's quarters were a two-bedroom house with partial ocean views—a pretty sweet setup for a beach lover and struggling writer who needed a small but steady income to supplement his paltry freelance earnings.
The motel had recently been renovated, and its owners, Stephen and Cindy Tuckman, eager to show it off, decided to have an open house—to be hosted by yours truly. The open house would be held in one of the upstairs units and the date was set for a weekday afternoon, to reduce the possibility of losing any rental income.
As a partner in the real estate firm North Coast Properties, Stephen Tuckman may well have been looking to win or retain a client or two with this open house. One of the clients he invited was Jean Auel, author of the recently published novel The Clan of the Cave Bear, which was on its way to becoming a major bestseller. I'd heard of Auel and her book but hadn't read it—and didn't have time to before the day of the open house. Not that it mattered, I thought; I was pretty sure such a famous person wouldn't show up for such an inconsequential gathering at such a podunk location.
I was wrong. Not only did Auel show up, but she was the only person to attend the open house besides myself and the Tuckmans.
When Stephen introduced me to Ms. Auel, I stuck my hand out to shake hers and lamely muttered something about how I hadn't read her book but was hoping to read it real soon. She returned a half-hearted shake, and while doing so turned her head away from me as if checking to see who else was there. I decided then and there not to ever read her book, as popular as it might be. And of course I had no idea at the time just how popular her "Earth's Children" series would become: between 1980 and 2011, Auel published six novels, selling 45 million copies in 18 languages. For her fourth book, Plains of Passage, Crown paid her an advance of $25 million. In short, she is one of the most successful authors—male or female—of all time.
And I knew her when, ha ha.
What does Laugh-In comedian Brian Bressler have to do with all this? He wasn't a guest at the open house, but he was a guest of the motel a month or two later. Having been a regular viewer of Laugh-In in the early '70s, I recognized Bressler immediately when he came to the office to register—and I told him so. At first he seemed a little chagrined that he had been recognized (he was on vacation, after all), but then he warmed up and started swapping bad puns with me. Shortly he was telling me more about himself than he probably wanted to, like that he was currently a salesman for Kensington Clothing—rather a steep fall, I thought, after being a regular on Laugh-In (as well as a one-time guest on the Johnny Carson show). Then he mentioned that he was planning to host a Monty Python video festival at his beach house in Manzanita (what the hell was he doing renting a motel room if he had his own beach house?), and asked if I'd like to attend. I told him I'd see if I could get away that evening, but couldn't promise anything since the motel business was so unpredictable.
I didn't make it to the party, but no matter: our paths crossed again about two years later, after I had moved to NW Portland and was working as a freelance writer and apartment painter. Bressler and some old acquaintances of mine from my years with Claymation producer Will Vinton—Michele Mariana, John Morrison, and Gary Adams—were performing together around Portland as the comedy quartet BAMM!, and I had written a review of one of their performances for a local paper, The Neighbor. One evening I invited the members of BAMM! over to my house for a Claymation movie showing and libations, and I made the mistake of asking them how long BAMM! had been together. Bressler's reply:"I can't speak for these guys, but I've been together my entire life."
It's too bad Bressler never wrote a book...
The motel had recently been renovated, and its owners, Stephen and Cindy Tuckman, eager to show it off, decided to have an open house—to be hosted by yours truly. The open house would be held in one of the upstairs units and the date was set for a weekday afternoon, to reduce the possibility of losing any rental income.
As a partner in the real estate firm North Coast Properties, Stephen Tuckman may well have been looking to win or retain a client or two with this open house. One of the clients he invited was Jean Auel, author of the recently published novel The Clan of the Cave Bear, which was on its way to becoming a major bestseller. I'd heard of Auel and her book but hadn't read it—and didn't have time to before the day of the open house. Not that it mattered, I thought; I was pretty sure such a famous person wouldn't show up for such an inconsequential gathering at such a podunk location.
I was wrong. Not only did Auel show up, but she was the only person to attend the open house besides myself and the Tuckmans.
When Stephen introduced me to Ms. Auel, I stuck my hand out to shake hers and lamely muttered something about how I hadn't read her book but was hoping to read it real soon. She returned a half-hearted shake, and while doing so turned her head away from me as if checking to see who else was there. I decided then and there not to ever read her book, as popular as it might be. And of course I had no idea at the time just how popular her "Earth's Children" series would become: between 1980 and 2011, Auel published six novels, selling 45 million copies in 18 languages. For her fourth book, Plains of Passage, Crown paid her an advance of $25 million. In short, she is one of the most successful authors—male or female—of all time.
And I knew her when, ha ha.
What does Laugh-In comedian Brian Bressler have to do with all this? He wasn't a guest at the open house, but he was a guest of the motel a month or two later. Having been a regular viewer of Laugh-In in the early '70s, I recognized Bressler immediately when he came to the office to register—and I told him so. At first he seemed a little chagrined that he had been recognized (he was on vacation, after all), but then he warmed up and started swapping bad puns with me. Shortly he was telling me more about himself than he probably wanted to, like that he was currently a salesman for Kensington Clothing—rather a steep fall, I thought, after being a regular on Laugh-In (as well as a one-time guest on the Johnny Carson show). Then he mentioned that he was planning to host a Monty Python video festival at his beach house in Manzanita (what the hell was he doing renting a motel room if he had his own beach house?), and asked if I'd like to attend. I told him I'd see if I could get away that evening, but couldn't promise anything since the motel business was so unpredictable.
I didn't make it to the party, but no matter: our paths crossed again about two years later, after I had moved to NW Portland and was working as a freelance writer and apartment painter. Bressler and some old acquaintances of mine from my years with Claymation producer Will Vinton—Michele Mariana, John Morrison, and Gary Adams—were performing together around Portland as the comedy quartet BAMM!, and I had written a review of one of their performances for a local paper, The Neighbor. One evening I invited the members of BAMM! over to my house for a Claymation movie showing and libations, and I made the mistake of asking them how long BAMM! had been together. Bressler's reply:"I can't speak for these guys, but I've been together my entire life."
It's too bad Bressler never wrote a book...
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| Brian Bressler on Laugh-In (circa 1973). |
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