Paul McCartney came to ILM to do a music video with his wife Linda and his band members in black Mercedes sedans. He had been impressed with the visual effects we did for a British Petroleum commercial and wanted an effects-driven video for his new single, “Off the Ground” (1993). The video would be shot at the Ranch on the scoring stage, and ILM would do the shots of Paul flying, using our big blue-screen stage.
Wherever Paul goes, security is a major factor. His fame and continued success had kept him in the spotlight and had allowed him to buy valuable music libraries of 1960s rock ’n’ roll classics as well as maintain a fortune in the hundreds of millions of dollars. But John Lennon’s death by assassination and the vagaries of a wild and unpredictable public had made him and his group understandably fearful of traveling without protection. The Ranch, being a private fiefdom of sorts, was the perfect location for Paul to work without fear of interruption.
The Ranch complex is entirely fenced and surrounded by tall Marin County hills in a naturally secluded area, with its own security, fire, and maintenance staff. A large wooden gate keeps out anyone not employed or having business there. When you drive up to the gate it opens automatically, which for some reason seems to amaze people when you take them there. However, just a short distance up the road is a guard house where each visitor is closely but politely questioned.
Paul and Linda seemed jolly and in a kind of “away from home” mood when I passed them on the Ranch one day on a walk from the technical building to the main house. Employees had been given instructions not to approach them and certainly not to ask for autographs.
The autograph thing I had always thought to be very unprofessional. George would sign things for children, but when his executives brought a bunch of mementos into to a meeting one time, he set them straight: “This is a business, not a fan club.” On the other hand, I saw him sit down after we finished The Phantom Menace and sign things for his employees for hours to thank them for all their hard work. I thought it odd to be asking colleagues, even if they were famous directors or stars, for autographs.
In any case, this rule was mentioned several times during the McCartneys’ stay, especially when they came down to our company for the flying shots. Paul had to be hoisted way up into the air by a system of rigging operated by specialists who normally work in the San Francisco theaters and Opera House. This can be dangerous, so the real pros don’t use any mechanical motors; they work the rigs all by hand so they can instantly tell if something goes wrong.
During this time, my friend and fellow visual effects editor, Mike Gleason, was working on a script that involved American Indians called Wisdom of the Elders, and he had a friend named Dickie Dova who was one of the guys on the set. Dickie had been an Ice Follies comedian/skater, and his father had been a famous comedian in vaudeville. Both were showmen and acrobats, but the father was also noted for having survived the crash of the Hindenburg, the German airship that had exploded on landing at Lakehurst, New Jersey, in 1937. The elder Dova had used his acrobatic skills to jump from the huge burning dirigible and roll on impact, breaking his fall. Every major anniversary of the famous disaster found the father on the news recalling his feat.
The fact that so many people like Dickie worked for ILM was one of the fascinating things about the place. There was an ex–special forces guy who served in Vietnam who was now a brilliant model maker, a guy from Montana who had been with the Swiss Ski Patrol and did the opening ski stunts for a James Bond film, a guy whose grandfather invented the Yellow Pages, the kid who created Photoshop, the founders of the Pixar movie studio—the list was endless.
Some were showmen, some entertainers, but all were enthusiastic creative people of one kind or another, so the “talent”—the actors, directors, and musicians who came to us for our expertise, no matter how famous—seemed to mesh easily with them.
After days on the big stage, Dickie, a good storyteller, had struck up quite a small-talk relationship with both Paul and Linda. At some point Mike’s American Indian script came up, and Linda was immediately intrigued and wanted to see it, so Mike came over to the stage. At the door he ran into the producer in charge of the music video, who reminded him that it was a closed set. With a quick “Linda invited me,” he was soon standing talking to Linda, as Paul swung on wires high above.
Mike had made a video to introduce his Indian project, and Linda agreed to a screening on the weekend. She then said, “I’d like you to meet Paul.” Here I must interject that Mike was, and is, a record collector, and he had brought his Abbey Road album down to his editing room that day, just in case. “Do you think Paul would mind signing my album?” he asked. And Linda said, “I’m sure he would love to.” Mike ran to get his album. So much for closed sets.
When Mike returned, Linda introduced him, and Mike showed Paul his copy of Abbey Road. On the cover of this album, released in 1969, all of the Beatles are crossing the street, Abbey Road, in a single file but with Paul inexplicably in bare feet while the rest of the group is wearing shoes. This unusual cover photo had caused intense Beatle fan speculation at the time, which then exploded into rumors that Paul had died.
Paul looked at the album and said, “Ah, Abbey Road, lot of controversy about that picture. I’ll tell you how it happened that I had no shoes in that shot. The photographer wanted us to just walk across the street in a single file. Well, when we got all ready, he said we had lost the sun and we would have to wait. So we all sat in chairs at the side of the road for quite some time. We thought it was never going to happen. Well, sitting there my feet got hot, so I took off my shoes. Then, all of a sudden the photographer starts yelling that the sun has come out and we have to get the shot right away. So that’s why I’m in bare feet. That’s all it was.”
For the weekend screening Linda and Paul were both present and Mike had arranged to gather together some of the people helping him with the potential film. He brought his producer and some others involved in the project, the most impressive of which was an elderly Indian chief or shaman who everyone called “Grandfather.” This man was one of those rare people who alter the atmosphere just by entering a room. Gray-haired and dressed in traditional Indian garb, he had a real presence without saying a word.
Linda McCartney was a vegetarian, but beyond that she was also a vocal activist for the vegetarian cause. Her feelings on the matter were so strong that she questioned nearly everyone she met and proselytized her views. Naturally, my friend Mike was nervous enough about this screening because if it went well, the support of the McCartneys could be invaluable to him. In fact, without them, or someone like them, it was unlikely that the film could be made. Linda had already mentioned the idea of Paul doing a benefit concert at an Indian reservation, so things were looking good.
Then—to Mike’s horror—before the screening could begin, Linda insisted on interrogating everyone in the theater on the subject of meat, mostly the eating of. Well, Mike’s producer claimed that her doctor had ordered her to eat some meat, but other than that, she was against it. The others made similar excuses or denied eating meat at all. However, as Mike started to sink lower into his seat at the thought of what the elderly chief might say, Linda worked her way down the aisle of seats toward the eighty-year-old American Indian.
No one said anything, but they were all thinking the same thing: What possible answer could he give? His tribe had sustained themselves on buffalo and deer meat for at least 10,000 years.
As Mike held his breath, Linda finally reached Grandfather and asked what his views were on this subject. I must say that the chief was no phony. Without rising from his seat or raising his voice, he took charge of the moment like a great actor, and when he spoke, it was impossible to not strain to hear.
“All the animals are gone,” he said.
We all turned our heads back toward Linda. There was a great pause while she pondered what he said. It had been the perfect response. She had nothing to say, so she sat down while our confederates in the projection booth immediately dimmed the lights and started the video.
For the record, no film was ever made. The McCartneys finished up their work and left in a few days. It happens a lot in the movie business: You get very close, and then it all goes away in a puff. This is why I have always felt such a strong bond with anyone who is trying to make a movie. It is an incredibly difficult thing to pull off, and I know that because I’ve done it myself.