I read an article on TodayInArkansas.com asking readers to submit memorabilia from movies made in Arkansas to the Old State House Museum for an exhibit planned for next year. This reminded me of the bright orange, Nike Blazer Hi-Top shoe box full of Kodachrome slides that has been sitting in my attic for 30 years.
The event dates back to my freshman year at the University of Arkansas. Columbia Pictures rolled into town that fall to produce the television mini-series The Blue and the Gray. For a month they were on the university campus and in and around Fayetteville recreating the days of the Civil War. At the time I was entertaining the idea of trying to go into the movie-making business.
Several guys in my dorm were hired as extras for the movie, so I enthusiastically followed the production crews around Northwest Arkansas taking pictures with my Pentax camera. I decided to put together a slide show on the making of The Blue and the Gray starring myself as the director and the guys in our dorm (UBC Hall).
Back before the days of digital cameras, a poor college student could only take so many photos, so I only shot three or four rolls of film from the five or six on-location shoots that I visited. It's important to understand that I was trying to conserve my film, so each shot had to count.
One cool fall day the crew was on the lawn in front of Old Main shooting scenes of an interesting meeting between President Abraham Lincoln, played by one of my favorite actors--Gregory Peck--and Stacy Keach's Union general character and the young journalist whose life the mini-series chronicled. It was fascinating to watch the rehearsals as the new repeating rifle the Union general was demonstrating for the President kept jamming to the frustration of the movie cast and crew. Peck and Keach never lost their cool.
After they finally shot the scene a few times, they picked up the camera, lights and equipment and moved perhaps 150 feet down the mall to the side of Carnall Hall (now the Inn at Carnall Hall) for another scene. I found myself with the chance of a lifetime. Here I am, 18 years old, wearing a St. Louis Cardinals jacket and sporting a scruffy beard, and the majestic Gregory Peck is standing with his assistant about 10 feet from me. Everybody else had moved on.
I calmly walked up to him with a friend from my dorm and asked if he would mind posing for a picture. I explained that I was producing a slide show on the making of the movie, that I was the director and was hoping to get a shot of me going over the script with Peck. He never hesitated; he just smiled and said he would be glad to. I handed my camera to my friend--I think his last name was Hobson--and told him that I had only one frame left on the roll and to make it a good one.
My friend took our picture, but he did not advance the roll. Then the Oscar winner--looking so much like Honest Abe--got down on his knees, his hands clasped together, and looked up at me begging, "What do I do now, Mister Director? What do I do now?" It was hilarious, but I was afraid the campus police were going to come tackle me thinking I was hurting the esteemed actor, so I starting pulling him up by his arm.
Meanwhile, my friend put down my camera, pulled his camera up and clicked a picture of Peck on his knees looking up at me. Peck laughed as I pulled him up to his feet while I looked around for the officers I was sure were closing in on me. His amused assistant smiled slightly, and as far as I know, only the four of us ever realized what happened. I nervously thanked him and then we turned and walked away.
As we shook our heads at what we had just experienced, I asked my friend if he had gotten a picture of the moment. I don't recall his answer, but I was so excited because I remembered that every now and then Johnny Carson would have people on his show to tell about their brush with someone famous. For those too young to remember, Carson hosted the popular late-night NBC TV show before Jay Leno.
My friend handed my camera back to me, and out of sheer reflex I advanced the film and the lever stopped. I discovered that I had one more shot on the roll, but my friend couldn't have known that because the moment happened so fast. If only he would have advanced the roll ... or I'd had a digital camera from the future.
Anyway, I got the roll developed and, upon seeing the image, was thrilled that my friend got a good picture, except that he aimed too high. During my college years I looked at the slide and showed it to a few friends by holding it up to a light. I always intended to, but I never got a print made. As the years went by, I pretty much forgot about it.
After reading the blurb about the Old State House Museum exhibit, I remembered the slide and went up to our attic and found the box. I took my prized possession to our nearby Bedford Camera store to have it scanned to a CD. We picked it up a few days later, and I excitedly loaded it onto our computer. For the first time I saw this wonderful image, not on a one-inch slide, but enlarged on my computer screen, and now I share it with you.
This picture means a great deal to me, in part because it is a reminder of the photo--and the opportunity--I never got. When my dorm mate got his roll of film back, we saw that his telephoto zoom lens had captured a blurry image of a black coat with fumbling hands in front of it. It was impossible to tell who was in the shot or what was happening.
I was disappointed. There would be no invitation to share my story with the king of late night and his viewers. My story would never be told in the Arkansas Gazette or Arkansas Democrat, all because I had said I only had one shot left on the roll, and my friend didn't advance the film to make sure, and only three of us witnessed Gregory Peck on his knees looking up at me.
But now--as another legend used to so eloquently say--you know the rest of the story.
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