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.

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:

...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):

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.

Ornella Muti in 2000. (Source:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ornella_Muti)

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.

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.

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?

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.

The outside of my gold watch. Inscription: "WVP" (for Will Vinton Productions)

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...

Brian Bressler on Laugh-In (circa 1973).

"Grandma Rose" Naftalin and me

In the early 1980s I supported myself by doing some freelance writing...and, um, painting apartments. Sometimes the apartments were occupied, so I had to paint around the occupant's furniture—and sometimes the occupant herself, if she couldn't leave.

Such was the case with one apartment I painted in Northwest Portland, a unit that happened to be occupied by Ms. Rose Naftalin, the 85-year-old former owner of the famed Rose's Deli and Bakery. I remembered my parents taking us to her restaurant a few times back in the mid '60s, and I went back several times as a young adult, mostly for the delicious Monte Cristos and gigantic donuts.

When I first started painting her apartment, Ms. Naftalin was fairly reserved, speaking only when I spoke to her, and then only cursorily. Gradually she started opening up a bit, and by the time I was finished she was a veritable chatterbox.

She told me she had written and published a cookbook called Grandma Rose's Book of Sinfully Delicious Cakes, Cookies, Pies, Cheese Cakes, Cake Rolls & Pastries (Random House, 1975), of which she was obviously quite proud—and rightly so, since it sold more than 100,000 copies. She also told me she had reluctantly sold the restaurant when she got too old to keep running it, but that he didn't really regret selling it until she learned that the new owners had started cutting costs—by substituting margarine for butter, artificial vanilla for real vanilla, and so on. I could see fire in her eyes as she was sharing this revelation, and it made me a little angry, too. It didn't seem fair to me that someone could buy a business like Rose's, with no real investment in the business other than their money, and keep the name but change the recipes—for the worse. Doing so not only misleads customers, but taints the otherwise good name of the previous owner, whose investment was far more than just financial.

The Rose's Deli and Bakery on NW 23rd closed in 2011 after 55 years in business, but three other Rose's are still in operation—in downtown Portland, in Sherwood, and at the Portland International Airport. Each of their online customer rankings are about three stars. I suspect if Rose were still running the business, they'd all be five.

Rest in peace, Rose Naftalin.

Rose Naftalin (Photo: Wikipedia,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rose_Naftalin

Marcus Borg, Jesus, and me

Among the many fascinating courses I took as part of my master's degree in interdisciplinary studies* was one called "Jesus." The professor, Dr. Marcus Borg, was an internationally known New Testament scholar, author or co-author of 22 books about the historical Jesus and Christianity, and a fellow of the Jesus Seminar. I figured he knew his stuff.

Turns out, he knew his stuff so well that he, more than any other person, book, documentary, or personal insight I'd come across, was responsible for souring me on Christianity. And he did it simply by stating that the four gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—were written at least 60 years after Jesus died (assuming, of course, that he ever actually lived), and that they differ enough in their accounts of Jesus' life and teachings that they are wide open to interpretation.

In other words: Nobody was writing about Jesus while he was alive, so all accounts of his life and teachings were based on oral accounts passed down over a period of at least six decades—making them not only unreliable and wildly inconsistent, but highly suspect. Why should anyone take them as "gospel"?

When I pointed all this out to Borg in a paper I wrote, he replied something to the effect of "Don't be hasty; there's still a lot of truth and meaning in the story." Pfft. If I want a story to believe in and center my faith on, I'd rather it be one that isn't the product of a 60-year game of "telephone."

So thank you, Dr. Borg, for disabusing me of any illusions I had held about Jesus or Christianity. Thanks, too, for serving as my major advisor, and for your helpful feedback on my...unorthodox master's paper, Contemporary Mystical Experiences.

*Religious studies, English education, and journalism 

Cliff Robertson and me

Cliff Robertson is perhaps best known for his role as the mentally challenged young man Charly, in the 1968 film of the same name (based on the bestselling novel Flowers for Algernon). Robertson won a best actor Academy Award for the portrayal, and I thought it was well deserved. As Charly, Robertson was, by turns, convincingly mentally challenged, then more normal, then a genius, then back to normal and, finally, mentally challenged again.

Cliff Robertson as Charly

Prior to Charly, Robertson had appeared in several other films, including Picnic, Autumn Leaves, and Days of Wine and Roses; and subsequently he starred in dozens of other films and TV shows and was the face and voice of AT&T in TV commercials.

He also performed voiceovers for several films, including the 1979 Claymation short film The Little Prince, for which Robertson voiced the part of the Pilot. I was the production manager on the film.

When we were preparing for the Portland premier of The Little Prince, Will decided he would ask Robertson if he would like to attend, in exchange for our covering all of his round-trip expenses and offering him a stay at Will's mother-in-law's beachfront condo at the Inn at Spanish Head. To our surprise, Robertson accepted the offer and agreed to attend the film's premier. However, instead of staying at the coast, he wanted to stay at the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland.

A week before the premier, Will asked me if I would do the honors of picking Robertson up at the airport and driving him to the Benson. I panicked. What would I pick him up in? My car was a 1962 Plymouth Valiant; who in his right mind would chauffeur a big-name movie star around in such an old, plebeian vehicle?

Problem solved: I would ask my dad if I could borrow his 1974 Mercedes sedan.

Dad said yes, but Will said no. He didn't like the idea of the studio putting on airs for anyone, movie star or not, and he thought my old Valiant, bench seats and all, was a perfectly acceptable limo for transporting Robertson from the Portland airport to his hotel. Case closed.

Fine. I reluctantly agreed to the plan, feeling both anxious about the Sisyphean task ahead of me and ashamed that I had concocted the Mercedes ruse.

As such things inevitably go, the task grew even larger. Robertson was bringing his 12-year-old daughter, her best friend, and his daughter's 22-year-old nanny. He wondered whether I would mind, after dropping him off at his hotel, showing the girls some of the sights in and around Portland.

This man was not only a movie star but our guest of honor; what could I say except "Um, yes?"

I was in deep doo doo.

Or at least that's what I thought. The dreaded day arrived, and everything went without a hitch. The pickup and drop off were uneventful, Robertson was an almost impossibly gracious passenger, my day as a tour guide was fun, the girls were delightful (even though they teased the nanny and me about being "perfect for each other"), and the premier—held at Portland's beloved Movie House Theater—was a huge success.

The next day, I was enlisted to drive only Robertson back to the airport; the girls and the nanny were staying another day. This promised to be the hardest part of the whole ordeal, because I would have to come up with interesting things to talk about with someone who had, compared to me at least, done everything, been everywhere, seen everything, and had his pick of accomplished and fascinating people (read: not me) to spend his free time with.

Once again, I was wrong. Robertson was not only nonchalant about spending an hour in an ugly old car with a 24-year-old nobody from nowheresville, but he seemed to actually enjoy engaging in relatively mundane conversation for a change. And I do mean mundane: I told him I really liked him in Charly, that I had read the book and thought he nailed the character; I asked him what his current project was (a film titled, coincidentally, The Pilot, in which he was playing the part of an alcoholic airline pilot); I asked for his autograph (he obliged, on the back of a Will Vinton Productions business card)...you know, ordinary conversation...with an extraordinary passenger.

OK, maybe there was one hitch on the way to the airport. While I was driving through NW Portland, Robertson spotted the Nob Hill Pharmacy and asked if I would stop there so he could pick up some "stomach medicine." Was my insipid conversation giving him indigestion? I'll never know for sure, because when he got back in the car he apologized and said he'd been having stomach problems for a while. But he didn't specify how long a while...

Cliff Robertson, circa 1979. (Source: https://batman.fandom.com/wiki/Cliff_Robertson)

My 1982-83 articles in The Neighbor

While living in Northwest Portland in 1982, I supported myself by painting apartments for a friend's company and writing freelance articles for a local monthly newspaper called The Neighbor. The editor of the paper was a super nice guy named Mike Ryerson, and the publisher a colorful character named Bud Clark, who four years later would be elected mayor of Portland. Ryerson and Clark were also the masterminds behind the bestselling poster, "expose yourself to art," which is yet another story.

Bud Clark "flashes" a sculpture in downtown
Portland. (Photo and poster by Mike Ryerson)

One of the articles I wrote for the paper was a review of a performance by a Portland comedy quartet called BAMM!, which consisted of former Laugh-In comedian Brian Bressler, Gary Adams, John Morrison, and Michele Mariana. Mariana, a friend from my years with Will Vinton Productions (for whom she had voiced several Claymation characters, including The Little Prince), had given me free tickets to the show, during which I hastily—and almost illegibly, in the semi-dark—scribbled notes for my review.

This two-page article, photographed with my iPhone because it was too big for my scanner, is the result. (Apologies for the fold and the skewed angles.)

Another article I wrote was about an 81-year-old former showgirl named Fern Jones, whose apartment I was painting when she started telling me a few of her rather amazing life stories. I got out my tape recorder and recorded our conversation while I was painting, and later submitted my article to The Neighbor. Here's the three-page article (again, apologies for the fold and the skewed angles).

And finally, here's a short review I wrote for The Neighbor on the Storefront Actors' Theatre play "Emergency Room"—which I confess I never saw. I'm not quite sure how I was able to write a review of it, having never seen the play, but no one seemed to notice...