A Detour From Reality
THE ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE AGED MR. TOAD
by Robert S. Bell
1
9
“Bring a hammer in case you have to
beat on the fuel pump. . . .
99
HESE WORDS ECHOED in
my head as I sidled into my
1960 Austin-Healey 3000 late
one February night to drive from
Eugene to Newport on the Oregon
coast. A New York film company
commissioned by a Canadian beer
brewer was in the process of pro
ducing a yuppie-type TV commercial.
With the help of Warren Merrill,
whose Salem-based concern recruits
filmmakers to Oregon, several spec
tacular spots along the Oregon coast
had been selected for filming. The
director of the 25-member company
of crew and actors wanted to use re
stored British motor cars for some of
the scenes.
Rex Urban, owner of Mini Motors,
whose firm restored my Healey a few
years ago, had been contacted by
Merrill who inquired if he could pro
vide some British cars ... “a white
one, a green one, a blue one. . .” and
PHOTOS BY ROBERT BELL
Bell’s Austin Healey at Ban
don Lighthouse.
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I
FUTON
CO IV p A\ M V
so on.
The nature of film producing, as I
have come to learn, is that everything
is wanted yesterday and then may not
be used. Thus Rex’s call from his
Salem home asking of my availability
and use of the A-H for one, two, three
or maybe four days, or maybe not at
all, came only a few hours before
prospective filming along the coast.
I told Rex I would consider and call
him back.
Hanging up, a mental image form
ed in my mind’s eye of the old Healey
suddenly being catapulted out from
under a car blanket in the obscurity
of the garage and into 30 seconds of
star-studded TV limelight, sur
rounded by a bevy of Beautiful Peo
ple sipping exotic imported spirits.
Actually it took me as long to make
up my mind as it did Mr. Toad of The
Wind in the Willows when he was
dazzled by the prospect of wheeling
around in his “wonderful red motor
car.” What I needed was a couple of
hours to rearrange my work schedule.
That luckily accomplished, I tele
phoned Rex and told him thumbs up.
I envisioned the
Beautiful People going
through their paces
using someone else’s
British roadster. . .
UNKERED OVER THE
steering wheel of the blue
British roadster and roaring
through the coastal mountain range in
the middle of a starry night, strange
noises belched from under the bon
net and I wondered aloud about Rex’s
advice concerning the hammer. In 12
years of ownership this fine old
English racing car had survived my
multiple marriages, two obstreperous
offspring, three jobs and had held my
“youth” in high gear. But in all those
years I had yet to experience the joys
of a malfunctioning electric fuel pump
or as many miles in a single outing.
Hearing a particularly ominous
“thunk,” I envisioned the Beautiful
People going through their paces us
ing someone else’s British roadster,
while I lay on the side of the road by
the ancient broken machine, beating
the beejeebers out of the fuel pump.
Happily though, I pulled into the
Newport Hilton parking lot at 11 pm
without so much as another cough
from the old buggy, which acted as
if this trip was made daily. I spied the
two other English cars to be used in
the film and began to feel giddy.
“Fantasy Land, here I come,” I
thought and sauntered into the lobby
wearing shades, fully prepared to
grant interviews to an adoring mob of
media personalities. Of course, the
place was empty save for a sleepy
night clerk and two noisy drunks who
had long overstayed their welcome to
the bar.
Sliding up to the desk, I told the
night clerk I was “with the film com
pany,” and she said, “Oh yes, Mr.
Bell, you are in room 310, and you
also have a message.”
The message, it seems, filtered out
from some unknown source within
the depths of the company saying the
group had spent the day filming at
Devil’s Elbow state park and the “blue
one” would be needed for Thursday
morning in Bandon, some 150 miles
to the south.
This communique and others like
it in the ensuing days seemed to
ma
terialize out of nowhere. As the idea
for the beer commercial began to take
form and assume life, I could iden
tify no one specific “general” as be
ing “in charge.” Rather, there were
lots of generals, all of whom seemed
to be in charge. To an outsider this
bizarre business seemed one of dis
order and disarray. Yet a purpose was
being served, a product was being
made, people were being paid for
their “work” and a mountain of
money was being spent. The pro
ducers had rented two huge Wine
bagos, a couple of large panel trucks
to haul equipment, and a half-dozen
or so cars, besides paying hotel space,
meals, and salaries for its crew and
appendages, like myself. Everyone
played a role in this fleeting saga un
til, at the end, it dispersed like smoke
in the wind. Deceptively there was an
order and rhythm to the whole
enterprise.
“Just lie back and enjoy it, Bob,”
I said to myself, “and hope the fuel
pump doesn’t misbehave.”
Winter on the Oregon coast is tradi
tionally dark, stormy and blustery. In
fact natives migrate to the coast in
February in order to watch firsthand
the sometimes raging storms. This
February week, however, was unchar
acteristically warm, calm, blue, un
crowded, and almost Mediterran
ean-like. Oregonians winked at each
other when they told the visitors about
the “normal” weather for this time of
year.
One abrupt East-coaster blurted out
that he saw no good reason to travel
all the way west when they were
enjoying the same beautiful weather at
their beaches.
I’d forgotten how New Yorkers tend
to think of their city as the center of
the universe and all outside as un
charted, inhospitable wilderness.
When I mentioned the error in mak
ing this film on the East coast because
“the ocean would be on the wrong
side,” the actor just gave me an un
comprehending stare.
I was quickly
adjusting to this
strange world of
image-making. . .
EN PM WEDNESDAY night
found me in Coos Bay having
oysters and wine at the Thun
derbird with Rex, his wife Teri, and
a part-Indian Oregonian named Dave,
who had just graduated from clown
school in Florida. Like Mr. Toad,
who had been easily seduced into
unreality, I was quickly adjusting to
this strange world of image-making
and ready for more.
Somewhat later, one of the gen
erals, wearing a baseball cap and a
scarf of the colors of the British flag,
strode up and announced we would
caravan at 6 am to Bullard’s Beach
state park near Bandon, about 20
miles south. First, they would “shoot
the sea plane” by the lighthouse, then
“do the roadster.”
And line up we did, an assembly
of rolling stock rivaling any wagon
train the Oregon Trail had ever seen.
At 5 am someone asked where cof
fee for the crew could be found. I
located a restaurant at 5:30 that had
just opened and will never forget the
incredulous look on the sleepy
waitress’ face when she was told we
needed three gallons of coffee in 20
minutes.
A long, flat ribbon of a road nestl
ing behind a low-lying sand dune and
the ocean was the site chosen to use
the “blue one.” With actors and others
milling about, we pulled the top off
the Healey and waited anxiously
while the camera crew stationed
themselves some distance at right
angles to the road.
A bright red, water tanker truck
from the City of Bandon slowly hosed
down several hundred yards of the
road which, to the camera’s eye, I was
told, would create the effect of mak
ing the road appear to dazzle.
The youthful actor who would drive