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.
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