I approached him for a word. “George,” I said politely, “you’re saying, Action, cut, terrific’ for every take and then you change angles and say, Action, cut, terrific’ again.”
“Mm-hmm,” said George.
“Am I giving you everything you need?” I asked. “Is there something more I can do? Because I’m happy to take some direction.”
George matter-of-factly explained, “I don’t really have time to direct now. I’m just gathering up lots of footage, and then I’ll direct in the editing room.” He added, “That’s why I cast you all so meticulously. It took me six months to find the right mix of people for what I want. And six months to find the right cars.”
It was at this moment that it hit me: the cars were just as important to George as the actors. Or, rather, they were actors to him, playing characters just as his droids and starships would in the Star Wars movies. Paul Le Mat’s yellow Deuce Coupe represented the light side of hot-rod culture. Harrison Ford’s menacing ’55 Chevy One Fifty represented the dark side. Bo Hopkins’s chopped ’51 Mercury embodied the whole greaser culture. Suzanne Somers’s white ’56 T-Bird with porthole side windows was as dreamy and unattainable as she was.
My big ol’ ’58 Chevy Impala with tail fins was the aspirational car of a solid citizen, which Steve was—he had been his class’s president. For most of the movie, the car was driven on loan by Charlie’s character, Toad, who tried to impress Candy’s character, Debbie, by boasting that it was his set of wheels, and that it had a 327 engine in it with “six Strombergs,” as in carburetors—a drag-racing modification that sensible Steve would never have made.
We really didn’t know what we had when we were filming American Graffiti. As George said, he was going to do most of the directing in the editing room. This included the matching of music to scenes. It was unclear during the shoot which songs the production could actually clear the rights to, so only occasionally did they pipe in the songs that you hear in the finished film, mostly ’50s classics like “Almost Grown” by Chuck Berry and “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper. The Platters’ “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” really was playing, though, when we filmed that heartbreaking scene where Cindy and I dance sorrowfully in front of the whole student body, having a whispered fight that no one else can hear.
* * *
CLINT
One evening during the summer that Ron was filming American Graffiti, Mom abruptly announced during a Slurpee run to 7-Eleven that she and I would be taking a little road trip up north to visit Ron. I was more than game. I enjoyed going on excursions with Mom—she always spoiled me with treats and fast-food meals. Ron was surprised to see us when we arrived at his Holiday Inn. We never got to see George Lucas and gang shooting in Petaluma because of their night schedule. But we met Charlie Martin Smith, who was super nice, and Mom said it was reassuring to see Ron faring so well on his first movie shoot where he was on his own. I put two and two together, though, and figured out that the real purpose of Mom’s trip—or at least her primary motivation—was to make sure that Cheryl wasn’t shacking up with him.
RON
Mom had the right idea, but I threw her off the trail. One weekend, I so desperately missed Cheryl that I flew down to L.A. to see her for a day and a night. She told her dad that she was staying at a friend’s house, but we ended up staying at one of those airport hotels. We left its premises just once—to go see Sydney Pollack’s Jeremiah Johnson, starring Robert Redford.
* * *
Time moves more slowly when you’re young, because life is still new to you, a process of discovery. Those six weeks felt more like six months, and all of us in the cast developed an extraordinary camaraderie—which was probably George’s plan all along. We rooted for each other like teammates. I took particular joy in Charlie’s scenes with Candy, whose comic chops and crazy wedding-cake bouffant wig transformed her into someone completely different from the down-to-earth person she actually was.