(Previous chapter: The Call)
I've already explained how strange twists in
my life made it so that in the late nineties, I got invited to fly from
Montreal to San Francisco and interview for the position of web writer on starwars.com—at
a time when most people would have asked, “What the hell kind of a job is
that?”
This
chapter is all about actually getting there.
My
friend David West Reynolds—an archaeologist who had about a decade on me—picked
me up at my hotel on that fateful Friday morning (in his Delorean, I’ll have
you remember), just north of San Francisco, and drove me straight to Skywalker
Ranch for my five interviews. Five. Interviews.
He
knew the way very well: he’d been working there for about a year, shouldering
the growing responsibilities of starwars.com’s web editor. I’m sure I was
trying to admire the rolling landscape as our time machine snaked its way up
the hillside that was about to change the course of my life—it was September,
when everything’s in full bloom over there—but I can’t remember a thing. I was
petrified.
We
must have talked: I must have asked questions, looking for any edge with which
to arm myself in order to survive the ordeal that day had in store for me.
Maybe we listened to some music? I’m telling you, no idea. Whatever transpired
in that mythical car, it went into one ear and evaporated before it could even
make it out the other one. (I still feel a pang of nervousness as I’m typing
this, more than 20 years after the fact.)
At
the tail end of a trip that couldn’t have lasted more than 30, maybe 45 minutes,
Reynolds pulled up to a nondescript wooden gate and touched a magnetic card to
a reader. I watched as the bulky barrier opened without a sound, swinging on massive,
oily hinges. The address was 5858 Lucas Valley Road.
I
am not kidding.
To
be fair, that road had been so named back in the 1800s, an eon before some
young filmmaker would hit it out of the ballpark with his little space opera
movie, and build up the scratch needed to purchase 4,700 acres of prime,
northern California land. Even so, that name was a portent of things to come. And
if there were any doubt in my mind as to my destination, everything around me was
setting me straight, right down to the goddamn local toponymy.
A
dozen meters in stood a small, unassuming gatehouse with a friendly looking
security guy. He stepped into the morning sun with a smile on his face and
addressed my driver by his first name. “Hey David! Who d’we have here?” Reynolds
smiled back. “Francis Lalumière—he should be on your list. He’s here for a
bunch of job interviews.” The affable guard, built like a college wrestler with
a neck that could stop a baseball bat, fetched a clipboard from his desk and
looked me up. “Right! You’re all set. You can go in. Have a nice day.” The
Delorean lurched forward, following an asphalted ribbon that weaved between
dense foliage. My head swivelled to and fro; but try as I might, I couldn’t
make anything out. I felt like I was at the start of a ride, waiting for
mechanical surprises to jump out at me. And they sure did.
A
minute later, Mother Nature’s curtains parted and my jaw dropped. There it was,
basking in the early morning light: the famed Main House of Skywalker Ranch.
 |
| I took this picture about a year later, when two relatives came over for a quick visit. |
We
drove by a small body of water. “That’s Lake Ewok,” Reynolds said. “And right there
is Skywalker Sound,” he added, jerking a thumb at a nearby red, winery-looking
brick building—fronted by actual grape vines—which I knew housed some of the
best sound studios in the world. It was Skywalker Ranch as far as the eye could
see, and I was able to take quite the gander. Lush hills all around, with a
smattering of low, respectful buildings nested in the middle of the whole
thing—and never open to the public.
I
must have held my breath the entire way in. The car veered in front of and around
the Main House, before slipping under the Carriage House (home to Lucas Licensing,
where many future adventures would take me). There a hidden parking lot kept
most cars out of sight: only the occasional VIP was allowed to park out front,
along the Main House’s curved driveway. We emerged in the backyard, a large and
pleasant area where footpaths crisscross between the handful of buildings that
drive operations at the Ranch. I followed Reynolds as he headed for the Brooke
House, the prettiest of the backyard buildings, and thus called because it
straddles an actual brook. My friend talked as he walked, while I tried not to
trip over myself amidst all of my gawking around. “So five interviews in one
day, eh?” Reynolds said more than asked. “You’ll do great.” He flashed me his
best the-plan-is-proceeding-apace smile. “One of them’s already done.” I
understood that to mean he was one of
the five, and naturally he was already sold. That didn’t quell the feeling of
panic building in my throat as we neared the Brook House, which sheltered the
entire marketing department.
(So
they’re all called “houses,” and they do look the part. Every office space
feels like it was unfurled in a guest bedroom. Hell, the office destined to be mine
was a cozy octagon with a working fireplace built into one of its eight sides.)
We
climbed the wooden stairs as I shot a glance at the brook babbling right
underneath us. I thought, “I can’t believe I’m here” and I must have said it
aloud, because Reynolds replied, “You better believe it.”
 |
| The very cool Octagon (my future office) at one end of the Brook House |
Inside,
everything looked, sounded and even smelled family-like; I could have been
visiting an uncle in his country home. (Except then I wouldn’t have been about
to soil myself.) My host introduced me to a few enthusiastic colleagues; I
shook hands and stuttered some niceties, got offered refreshments from the full
kitchen in the back and then ushered into the aforementioned octagon to face my
first interviewer, Steve Sansweet.
Back then Sansweet was Lucasfilm’s Head of Fan Relations, but I knew (of) him
as the craziest private collector of all things Star Wars—with a mind-blowing collection that now includes the
original cantina door—and the guy who had penned the definitive book on
action figures from a galaxy far, far away. Sansweet eased himself into the
interview like someone who was born to talk to strangers and made me more comfortable
the second he opened his mouth, speaking slowly and deliberately in that rich
baritone of his. He was frank and open, asking questions but also volunteering generous
information: what it was like to work at the Ranch, the fun stuff and the
not-so-fun stuff, and what I should expect if I decided to take the job. (IF??) He was the perfect interviewer,
and someone I would often think about later, especially when sitting down to a
job interview: I wish they were all like him. There’s something about Steve that
makes you want to become his friend, to hug him and break bread and share stories
with him—just to be around the guy, frankly. He’s absolutely great.
And
I think he liked me too.
Next
on the list were Marketing Project Manager Jeanne Cole and Head of PR Lynn Hale,
both sharp and business-like, but also charming and caring—not an easy combo to
pull off. (They welcomed me into a set of “offices” you could see yourself relaxing
in on a Saturday afternoon.) Each of them asked a couple of tough questions,
but knew to phrase them in a way that made you want to hit it out of the park
and earn a permanent place on the team’s roster. Both interviews ended on a
high note, with a “Hope to see you around” topped with a wink, and a firm
handshake that said you’re almost there, don’t
you fuck this up.
I
imagined I was on a roll, and I might even have been right. But would that roll
keep with Jim Ward, VP of Marketing? I could feel the drain on my batteries; by
then a few hours had trickled by—much like water underneath the Brook House—and
Ward was to be my fifth and final interview, like a boss fight at the end of a
long level in a grueling videogame.
Reynolds
grabbed me as I exited Cole’s office and announced it was lunchtime. He’d nabbed
a table for three in the Main House dining room, one of the few facilities
serving food around the Ranch. “Steve would like to join us, if that’s okay
with you.” (Again with those improbable ifs.)
That
meal earned me my first look inside the Main House, which, just like the rest
of the structures dotting the Skywalker Ranch landscape, looks nothing like a
collection of offices. Its appellation is not contrived: it really is a house,
except one where people happen to work.
Getting
to the dining room felt like a pilgrimage, with each step of mine that echoed through
the hallways threatening blasphemy—I was afraid to breathe wrong. We passed a
tall glass case that displayed one of C-3PO’s metal gauntlets (glinting with defiance
in the dimmed lighting), a toy-sized speeder bike model, and a remarkable
miniature of Yoda. All authentic props, of course. I fought hard to keep a
tight grip on the geek inside and broadcast only professionalism; I’m not sure
I succeeded. (I couldn’t even begin to imagine the entire week I would one day
spend in the heavily restricted Lucasfilm archives, marvelling my way through
relics and icons from each of the LFL productions. We’ll get there.)
In
another corner stood a massive fireplace designed to look like it had been
rebuilt time and time again to secure old stones shaken loose by a century of
earthquakes—even though the house itself was only a few decades old. The Main
House is a Victorian wonder, snatched through time and space and brought to
rest somewhere deep in San Rafael’s bosom.
We
soon reached the dining room. Apart from a small team of servers—discreet
enough you could miss them if you blinked too hard—the medium-sized area could
have passed for one of the common rooms in an old (albeit expertly maintained)
boarding house. It held a pastoral atmosphere, as well as one elongated table, plus
a handful of smaller ones. Ron Howard happened to be sitting at the big table,
talking with energy to half a dozen collaborators. Eh, another day at the
office.
I
can’t for the life of me recall what we ate. I have no doubt it was delicious,
but there was only so much my addled brain could process. I remember I was starting
to feel like I was home, and I didn’t want that feeling to stop. At some point Reynolds
looked at his watch, swallowed one last gulp of water, and grabbed my shoulder:
“Alright Marty, time to meet your new boss.”
(Of course, he was talking about Marketing VP Jim Ward, not George Lucas. I would cross paths with George only twice in the two years to come, but one of them would prove memorable indeed.)
(Next chapter: It's in the Cards)
(Full series here)
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