They’ve seen mega-explosions on “True Lies,” “Blown Away” and “Die Hard” (I and II). Already today, as part of their visit to Universal Studios, they have escaped the mighty jaws of Jaws as their boat captain fired a rocket into a fuel dock.
Now these tourists are supposed to go gaga over a stunt show that features a boat race and some lame fireworks?
Not a chance.
The old stunt show at Universal Studios Florida barely slowed visitors’ exit. So Universal scrubbed it.
The park recently came back with a new show, one that is more, shall we say, in keeping with the times.
These days, you blow things up.
Throw in throbbing music, whirling lights and leaping flames and presto-you have Dynamite Nights Stuntacular. (Notice, it’s not just a “stunt show.” It’s a . . . STUNTACULAR!)
First, a boathouse blows up. Then a trawler. Mercenaries open fire with assault rifles-and that’s just the warm-up. In the finale, a stuntman and his boat barrel up a 40-foot ramp, over an exploding fuel barge and through a three-story wall of fire.
Oh yeah, fire. You gotta have fire.
You are Universal Studios, and you’re revamping the stunt show. It isn’t just a show anymore. It’s a production. You can’t get by with just a few sketches and some extras willing to fall off a building.
You’ll need a creative team. An art director, a writer.
Map out the action. You’ve got to make it vertical because your stage is a lagoon, and your spectators are standing all around it at ground level.
Blow things UP. Make the boat jump. UP.
Write the script. Good versus evil, everybody in wet suits. Videotape the action (don’t forget the fire) and ship it to the big bosses in-where else?-Hollywood.
(This is a multimillion-dollar production. You need approval.)
When the “buy-off” comes through-industry talk for project approval-draw up the blueprints and rehearse, rehearse, rehearse. Four hours a day until the drivers can maneuver in their sleep. Work out all the kinks.
And there are kinks. Four speedboats going 50 mph and two water scooters make for some pretty mean waves. When the jump boat driver begins his approach to the barge, race two other boats in the opposite direction down either side of the lagoon. The wakes cancel each other out, and the jumper can speed over smooth water before vaulting through the flames.
When the timing is perfect, take the script to a composer. He’ll match every hairpin turn and fiery blast with blaring horns and exploding drums. Hide more than 100 loudspeakers in trees or disguise them as rocks and lampposts. Don’t forget the amplifiers. You want them to hear it for weeks.
Plant 56 runway lights around the edge of the lagoon-just like the ones at the airport-so drivers don’t veer off course. Spotlights, six of them. And remote-control lights to follow the action.
Oh, and don’t forget to hire a pyrotechnics wizard from California to work with the in-house team.
The growing darkness cues visitors to line the banks of the 8-acre lagoon. A velvety-voiced recording promises those attempting to straddle the guard rails: “You will get wet.”
Lights.
Music.
Action.
Two white speedboats scream by. Sleek, black- and silver-suited water scooter riders weave around them, firing blanks from real rifles. A black boat barrels into an open boathouse. The door closes: Here comes the first monster explosion. The boathouse is gone.
Operation Strike Force continues to chase the mercenaries. Rooster tails from the water scooters spray the audience-cool drops on skin warm from the blasts. Back the other way, the trawler blows, sending golden arcs of flame into the night sky.
Show’s almost over. The park closes in five minutes. Time to bring in the big guns.
Paul Leonard speeds out from behind the charred boathouse, where he had been waiting to switch places with an identical boat and its driver. He couldn’t have maneuvered around the lagoon with the others while wearing his flameproof suit.
It’s four layers of Nomax, the stuff race-car drivers wear. Leonard has tucked his wavy, reddish hair into a carbon fiber helmet with a bulletproof shield. Plastic tear-off sheets are attached to the visor, for him to remove when water spots blur his vision.
He makes for the barge in a 21-foot boat, built especially for the jump with 12 layers of bonded fiberglass (most boats have only two to three). It’s bulletproof. He sits on a small inner tube. In a few seconds, he’ll be crashing 12 feet from fire to water.
Leonard is wearing two earpieces-one plays the music and gives cues, the other is the voice of a stage manager who warns of any pyro trouble.
Inside a fireproof room on the barge, a crew member sets off the final blast. If something isn’t just right, he can turn off the fuel jets and the barge won’t ignite.
Nothing has gone wrong tonight. The barge explodes. Leonard speeds up the ramp and through the flames. A shield on the front of the boat deflects some of the fire over his head. He hangs in the fire for half a second.
“The first time I jumped, my eyes were wide open,” said Leonard, 31. “I just watched the fire wrap around me.
“You have to respect the fire.” Round ’em up.
Full of stunts ordinarily done just once for a film shoot, this show rolls through the lagoon every night, 20 minutes before closing. It’s the best way to pull the tourists together, give them some final thrills and usher them out of the park. Oo-ing and ah-ing.
Seventy people worked for five months to make Stuntacular happen. Thirty stuntpeople, technicians and spotlight operators are on the job each night.
“It takes us all day to get ready for six or seven minutes of action,” Leonard said.
And, to create the blasts for each show, the equivalent of 12 pounds of dynamite and 120 pounds of propane gas.
This day and age, you gotta blow things up.
