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? : )
Showing posts with label The Little Prince. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Little Prince. Show all posts
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, 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.
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." |
Friday, January 10, 2020
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.
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...
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| Cliff Robertson as Charly |
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...
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| Cliff Robertson, circa 1979. (Source: https://batman.fandom.com/wiki/Cliff_Robertson) |
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