AUGUST 2019 FLYINGMAG.COM | 55ILLUSTRATIONBYPHILIPPELECHEINAlan—I will not use the word “consequently,” but in the
spirit of fellowship, will say “subsequently”—traded in the
brown-and-yellow thing for another Waco.
Next: In 1984, I spent some time in Alaska as the guest of
a film crew. The film was The Iceman, starring Tim Hutton
and John Lone. Here’s the script: A team of scientists dis-
cover the 10,000-year-old body of a Neanderthal buried in
a glacier.
He, of course, is not “dead” and is brought back to life by
the ministrations of a doctor, who is part of the team. So far
so good.
Now, however—“things” occur. The Iceman, considered
docile, begins to “act out.” In any case (and here is the gag),
one sequence from the movie was to be filmed on one of the
glaciers, just a short f light from our base at Hyder, Alaska.
One of the cast portraying a tame geologist was to f ly
in a helicopter from the glacier. Unbeknownst to him, the
Iceman (at this point thought vanquished but just lying
inert) was to rise from the glacier and hitch himself onto
the skids of the helicopter carrying the scientist.
The camera helicopter captures the action. The “hero”
helicopter f lies off unconcernedly with the Iceman
attached. At some point in the f light, the Iceman climbs up
to the helicopter door and, using his Neanderthal strength,
tries to claw his way into the cabin and kill the offend-
ing geologist. The helicopter does violent maneuvers and
shakes the Iceman loose, and he falls to his death.
The action is filmed both from the camera ship and
inside the helicopter cabin. The actor is supposed to look
terrified at his brush with death. This was no problem, as
he was uncontrollably afraid of f lying.
Added to the liquor and pills used to quiet him was the
age-old negotiating phrase, “Do this or you’ll never work
again.” The actor signed on to do the stunt.
There they were, at several thousand feet up. The actor
is in the cabin, happy to have escaped from the bad, bad
Iceman. Everything’s hunky-dory. But no—he hears a claw-
ing and looks, and there, inches away, standing on the skid,
is the crazed Neanderthal trying to get in.
The actor looks terrified. His pilot takes evasive action,
the Iceman falls to his death.
The stunt (“gag” in film language) was done for real.
There was no CGI—it was well before such computer graph-ics used in film. There was a stuntman dressed as the
critter. He actually flew hooked to the skid; he actually
clawed at the window, and he actually fell and opened his
parachute once out of the shot.
The stuntman was the great Dar Robinson. But his
version of the good gag was somewhat more elaborate than
that of the director. Before filming, he had secreted a fellow
stuntman near the tail of the helicopter, this guy also in an
Iceman suit.
Dar does his bit, the actor goes “eek!” and Dar is
shaken off and falls away. Everyone in the helicopter
congratulates the actor on his performance and victory
over fear. Happiness pervades the cabin. And then