After a near-death experience, a chase through the fog uncovers preparations for World War 3 and the making of a new Star Wars movie.
We begin in a picturesque village. I’m walking among tourists and locals next to a road. The road isn’t too busy, but cars are passing by regularly.
I see a small child on a bike on the pavement nearby – he’s maybe four years old. He has no helmet on. Seconds later, he’s riding out into the road in front of a hulking white SUV, driven by a middle-aged blonde woman.
There is no time to intervene. “No, no, no!” I blurt, in horror. He falls beneath the vehicle, which drives over him.
Miraculously, there’s enough clearance beneath the vehicle to save his life. He emerges basically unscathed, with only a slight bump and a graze. He isn’t even crying, just a little stunned and vacant.
My relief turns to apprehension when it becomes clear that he’s alone. There are no parents around to check him over. The driver has disappeared.
“You need to take me to your parents, because I think you’ve bumped your head a bit,” I tell him. He doesn’t respond. Even after this brush with death, he seems to be following the rule that he should never talk to strangers.
Eventually we seem to reach an unspoken consensus: he’ll ride his bike to his parents’ house and I’ll follow close behind. We cross the road to a very narrow side of the street, with local shopfronts and residences to our right.
Huddling in the haberdashery
It is a very journey to his house, and I start to feel awkward. Somehow, this mute boy has become my responsibility. This is despite me having no personal connection to him or to the incident.
We eventually arrive at a haberdashery – a concern that his family evidently owns.
I’m annoyed that I’ve had to escort this four-year-old such a long way. I’m surprised they’ve let him out on his own
Inside, the shop is a bit of a warren. Narrow walkways between crowded shelves; boxes and fabric piled everywhere.
I locate the boy’s father. He’s near the back of the shop, deep in a huddle with a bunch of locals, discussing business.
I try to get his attention, but again I have to wait. He’s deep in conversation with multiple people at once. He must think I’m just an entitled customer.
I begin to feel like I shouldn’t even be in the haberdashery. I feel implicated in the child’s injury somehow, when all I’m trying to do is let his parents know that he’s had a lucky escape and they might want to double check him.
I’m annoyed that I’ve had to escort this four-year-old such a long way, and surprised they’ve let the kid out on his own in the first place.
Eventually, my moment comes and I struggle to explain myself and my connection to the boy (whose name turns out to be Johan or Yorick or something along those lines). I apologise to the father – who is only half listening – for not getting any information from the driver. I explain that I was too busy trying to locate his parents.
He brushes off the incident like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.
Outside, I notice it’s getting close to twilight.
Follow that pilot!
I’ve left the haberdashery and the village behind and I’m chasing after a friend – a pilot.
I shouldn’t be here and neither should my friend
He’s a lanky, quixotic figure. He reminds me of the tornado-chasing meteorologist played by Matt Frewer in an episode of Eerie, Indiana.
It’s dusk now and it has become so foggy that I can barely see a few metres ahead.
I find myself chasing my friend through a maze of white prefab corridors – the kind of temporary hoardings created for contractor access around a building site. I can’t catch up.
There’s an increasing number of other people visible here and there in the fog, and I realise that I’ve begun following the wrong person.
The area has become more populous because I’ve blundered into a compound of some sort. It’s like a studio backlot, but there is a military feel to it.
I shouldn’t be here and neither should my friend.
I keep doubling back looking for him. I worry that he’s going to pretend that he’s a fighter pilot, or that he holds some other rank in the armed forces, and that he will get into serious trouble. Someone needs to save him from himself.
The light feels more like dawn now than dusk.
Still trying not to be noticed, I enter a white prefab building in search of my friend. The building looks like it covers a large area but is only a couple of storeys tall.
Countdown to armageddon
Inside, I soon find myself in what looks like a NORAD command centre circa the mid-1980s. There are people working on consoles, there are monitors and CRT screens, there are digital displays showing different time zones.
The lights are down quite low, as if the place is running on auxiliary power.
There’s a lady standing sentinel at a lectern, monitoring activities. I get the impression she’s the scrum master here. They seem to be rehearsing, counting down to a nuclear event.
Yet the atmosphere is not tense – it’s all very calm and controlled: this is how we do things in the armed forces.
I try to look inconspicuous.
I can’t let go of a thought: shouldn’t this facility be underground? Why is it above ground – wouldn’t it be hardened against a nuclear attack? This feels like an easy target.
Then I start to mull over the logistics of building a giant underground complex: hiding it from enemy satellite photography, dealing with contractor clearance, and so on.
I slip out of the war room to look for my friend, and find myself in a more brightly lit corridor.
I follow it until I reach the entrance of what looks like a huge school gymnasium or sports hall, flooded with natural light.
It strikes me that this really is a multi-use facility. The contrast between the different sections of the building surprises me.
Spy report: Star Wars set visit
There is some sort of technical exercise happening in the hall, nothing to do with sports. A large number of people are sitting and standing, evenly spaced out across the gymnasium floor, almost as if they’re about to practise a line dance.
The wall bars stretch much higher than usual, right to the ceiling of this cavernous space. There seem to be people up there, holding the very highest rungs.
I definitely don’t have the security clearance to be here. Yet interlopers are unexpected, so no one pays attention to me
I spot George Lucas nearby and realise I’ve stumbled onto the set of a new Star Wars movie, which he’s directing.
Later, this space will probably be dressed as a docking bay or an arena. Right now, cast and crew are rehearsing. Again, I definitely don’t have the security clearance to be here. Yet interlopers are unexpected, so no one is paying attention to me.
I’ve arrived at a corner entrance, near several trollies of stacked tables, like those one might find in a village hall. I instantly try to look as casual as possible, as if I should be here.
I look at the people dotted around the sports hall, all clad in fitness attire or loose casual wear. They’re crawling around on the floor, rehearsing their movements. Later, these people will be clad in Morphsuits, so that they can be green-screened, along with the rest of the gymnasium, and turned into exotic aliens.
I peer over at George Lucas, who is in conversation with a red-haired visual effects supervisor, probably Jeff Olson.
I listened as hard as I can, but all I can discern is that they’re also going to depict some droids in this scene. It’s like one of the DVD-extra prequel documentaries I used to consume habitually, except this time I’m actually present.
I feel the return of the old excitement for the production of the Star Wars movies. I could be writing up a spy report to email to TheForce.net.
Eavesdropping on George Lucas
Lucas is patiently listening, while Olson lists a multitude of concerns he’s identified with the proposed set-up of the scene. This is understandable. The more that he can resolve now, the fewer complex, time-consuming problems there will be during post-production.
I get the sense that Lucas is humouring Olson, but not fully engaging. He’s used to technical supervisors fussing over details, trying to manage his expectations and generally getting in the way of themselves. He thinks it will all be fine in the end.
For the second time today, certain death has been avoided
I try to remain inconspicuous. I decide that, if anyone asks me what I’m doing on set, I’ll claim that I’m a competition winner.
I look up at the high wooden bars lining the wall. A couple of technicians wrestle with some wooden contraptions affixed to the bars.
One of these is a hinged starburst of wood that extends from the wall and unfurls in an intricate way, like a complex piece of kinetic art.
I watch as a technician falls from the very top of the bars, a height of some 50ft. For a moment, my stomach turns with dread. But this technician also appears to be a seasoned stunt man.
In fact, he’s such a professional that he manages to flop head over heels down the bars, like a sticky wall-walker toy gathering momentum. He lands with perfect grace, without hurting himself at all.
For the second time today, certain death has been avoided.
At some point, perhaps keen to avoid being exposed as an interloper, I continue my journey through the facility. I unite with my wife, and find myself in a strange, carpeted area filled with magazines and comics.
This is where I make the most important discovery of all.
