Chasing Nemo’s Nautilus

“The obsession,” as the late Tom Scherman ’59 called it, began when he was 14. In 1954, Disney released its adaptation of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the 1870 science-fiction classic by French author Jules Verne. Starring James Mason as the enigmatic Captain Nemo and Kirk Douglas as Ned Land, a brash harpooner, the film was a box-office hit. Its cutting-edge special effects and ornate set designs transported viewers like few films had ever before. For Scherman, who caught the movie multiple times in theaters, seeing 20K—as it’s often abbreviated by ardent fans—was an awakening that sparked a remarkable career and lifelong passion.

Growing up in Westchester County, NY, Scherman was a creative child in an artistic family. From a young age, he liked to draw. He devoured comic books and had a particular interest in the monsters and gizmos that populated the infinitely possible worlds of science fiction.

“His boyhood sketches were of fantastic machines rather than clouds and barns and animals,” notes a website dedicated to Scherman’s work, which his brother Rowland has helped maintain. The only animals Scherman spent much time drawing were dinosaurs.

Watching 20K as an adolescent ignited Scherman’s aspiration for working in Hollywood. The film’s iconic monster, a giant squid, showed him how special effects could breathe life into awesomely terrifying creatures. The underwater universe, conjured by director Richard Fleischer, left him wide-eyed at the transportive power of film. More than anything, Scherman was captivated by the Nautilus, Captain Nemo’s submarine. The vessel’s reptilian exterior and elegantly sophisticated interior, designed by legendary art director Harper Goff, filled Scherman with wonder and inspired countless drawings and paintings. When Scherman was 17, he built his first of many Nautilus models out of balsa wood.

At Tabor, Scherman immersed himself in the creative community. He was a devoted member of the Art Club and frequently contributed illustrations and comics to The Log. The March 1959 issue included “Strangely Unbelievable,” a quirky series of sci-fi drawings that showcased Scherman’s wit and talent. His artistic endeavors were not just two-dimensional. Scherman enjoyed building things. His creativity was paired with an engineer’s instincts and he applied these skills as a member of the stage crew for various school plays. The 1959 production of “Mister Roberts” received a glowing review from The Log, whose theater critic deemed the crew “the unsung heroes” for their tireless efforts “to bring about a marvelous effect in stage work.”

The recognition Scherman received throughout his Tabor career signaled that he was destined to pursue his craft at the highest level. He won scholastic and commencement awards for his art, but arguably the most impressive honor came from outside the school. In 1959, Embassy Pictures sponsored a nation-wide monster drawing competition. Scherman took first place. A photo in The Log’s May issue shows him receiving the $1,000 prize check from Lucien Lavoie, Tabor’s long-serving art teacher and hockey coach.

After graduating from Tabor, Scherman attended Rhode Island School of Design, where he made his first film, an animated homage to King Kong. He moved to Los Angeles in the early 1960s, determined to make it as a special effects artist. Driven by a singular sense of purpose, it didn’t take him long to succeed.

At the start of his career, Scherman worked for several commercial production houses as a special effects engineer and model maker. In film and television, three-dimensional models are built at scale to achieve effects that would be difficult or impossible to shoot on location; many of the special effects in Star Wars, for example, utilize miniature models. Scherman’s models appeared in a number of high-profile spots for brands like Alka Seltzer, Paper Mate, and Pillsbury.

In 1974, he was part of the special effects team for Flesh Gordon, an adult film parody of the Flash Gordon series. Despite its crude content, the film’s innovative visual effects garnered genuine acclaim and were even considered for an Oscar nomination. The success gave Scherman more opportunities to work on the kinds of science fiction projects he was most passionate about.

“During his career he has participated in conquering deep space, parting the Red Sea, and destroying entire cities,” a 1979 profile of Scherman in “The Fantasy Artists Network Zine” began. The writer asked Scherman what skills were needed to be a successful model maker, and he responded with a laundry list: physics, carpentry, sculpture, drawing, and mind reading (since the artist needs to visualize what someone else wants). “And, if one has all that,” the writer observed, “one still must have the innate creativity to see how very unlike objects can be molded together into one complete and believable piece.”

For Hollywood special effects artists, mastery of a range of tools and materials is essential: foam core, modeling clay, liquid latex, plastic toys, celastic (a fiberglass-like cardboard), X-Acto knives, brushes, and various paints and finishes. “I never saw anybody as talented as Tom with foam core,” a former colleague said. “He could make anything from almost nothing.”

When he wasn’t building spaceships or monsters, Scherman poured all of his creative energy into “the obsession.” He made frequent trips to the Tomorrowland exhibit at Disneyland, where sets and props from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea were on display. Scherman studied them religiously, making careful notes of parts and dimensions, which enhanced the Nautilus drawings and models he continued to produce. Living in Hollywood also gave him an opportunity to cultivate relationships with those who brought Verne’s novel to life on screen. It didn’t take them long to appreciate Scherman’s passion and expertise.

“Tom had met Richard Fleischer, the director, and attended the lectures he gave about 20K,” notes the biography on Scherman’s website. “Fleischer often asked if Tom were in the audience because he knew that Tom’s grasp of the facts connected with the film were superior to his own.” Ray Bradbury, the famous science fiction author, kept one of Scherman’s Nautilus models on his desk. It was visible every week to audiences who watched his TV show, The Ray Bradbury Theater.

One of the most meaningful friendships Scherman forged was with Harper Goff, the 20K production designer. The two were kindred spirits. They bonded over their love of Jules Verne’s fiction and all things 20K. Scherman picked Goff’s brain about the Nautilus’ design and shared his models and paintings. The elder artist confided in Scherman by showing him rarely seen blueprints for a second sub, Nautilus Two, as well as opening up about the concept behind Vulcania, Nemo’s secret island. Scherman, Goff once said, “was the son I never had.”

In order to fully live his passion, Scherman decided to convert his Los Angeles apartment into the Nautilus. He labored for five months, documenting every stage in a scrapbook with his perfect comic book penmanship. On a notecard titled “The Obsession,” he explained how his frequent trips to Disney’s Tomorrowland equipped him with an intimate familiarity of the Nautilus. “I decided to theme the downstairs accordingly,” Scherman wrote. To call Scherman’s planning meticulous would be understatement. His carefully drawn sketches, complete with measurements and material specifications, would fill IKEA instruction writers with shame. To make his apartment exactly like Nemo’s quarters, no detail was too small. “With the dreariest of colors (#1345 in the Sears paint catalogue), I apply the first coat [of paint],” Scherman recorded in his scrapbook. “This was the closest color of rust I could find, since the Nautilus interior had this oxide hue.”

Since he didn’t have enough space in his apartment to build the various installations and gadgets that filled the Nautilus, he used a workshop at the production company where he was working at the time. “After my employer had tripped over enough of these,” Scherman wrote, “he promptly told me to get the **** out of there. I figured it was time to install them anyway, so I cheerfully complied.”

The installation process was not without risk. Scherman’s landlady did not know about his secret project. She worked at a cafeteria and her shift ended at [7 PM] every night. Scherman knew that her commute involved a slow bus ride, but he was careful to stop working by [7:30 PM] “lest her suspicions be aroused,” he wrote. “I also made it a point to pay my rent on time.”

Once complete, the apartment did not stay secret for long. When Scherman’s landlady found out, her reaction was pleasantly mild. “Both landlady and owner didn’t really care what I did with the place just so long as I didn’t make any noise after 10 PM or burn the court down or anything like that,” Scherman wrote. He tried his best to honor those terms, but some situations were beyond his control. “Word of mouth soon spread and I received visitors at all times—even at 2 AM.”

Scherman was proud of his work and didn’t mind sharing it with interested parties. The local news did a story about the artist who had turned his apartment into the Nautilus, and it was also used to film a television pilot. The submarine was incredibly realistic, the kind of set design only a professional could create. Rusty gadgets and gauges were mounted on the walls—some were authentic brass, others were dead-ringer forgeries crafted by Scherman.

“Jules Verne himself would have been flattered,” Scherman wrote near the end of his scrapbook. “I even built my own Nautilus crewman diving suit, helmet and all. And thank God I never entered the water in it.”

Sometimes the cost of authenticity was peril. “Heaven help you if you tripped over the hatch-door rim,” Scherman wrote. “As a precaution I would station myself at the doorway and assist guests in and out. Too bad I didn’t work at Disneyland as a ride operator.”

Scherman did work at Disneyland in other capacities, however. Through networking and talent, he had gotten his foot in the door and worked on various projects for Disney and Walt Disney Imagineering, the division that oversees the company’s theme parks. In the late 1970s, the Imagineers planned an expansion to the Anaheim park that presented Scherman with the opportunity of his lifetime.

Discovery Bay would be an entire city inspired by the works of Jules Verne, including a Nautilus-themed restaurant. Since Scherman was recognized as one of the foremost Nautilus experts, he was asked to help design it. After producing so many drawings, paintings, and models—not to mention his “submarine Shangri-La,” as he called the apartment—the chance to build a full-size Nautilus was a chance to fulfill his oldest dream. Unfortunately for Scherman, Disney abandoned the project before it ever got off the ground. He was crestfallen, but he never gave up hope that such an opportunity would return.

Scherman did his best to make sure it did. Over the years, he lobbied Disney executives to revisit plans for building a Nautilus. He even made his own teaser film for a potential television series that could be based on Discovery Bay. In 1992, the opening of Disneyland Paris gave the Imagineers a perfect reason to build a Jules Verne-themed exhibit. “Les Mystères du Nautilus” was envisioned as a walk-through attraction where guests could explore six compartments within the submarine—including the film’s iconic diving chamber and Nemo’s Grand Salon—and even experience a giant squid attack. To help realize this vision, the Disney executives knew exactly who to ask.

When the call came, Scherman was in remission from the cancer that would eventually take his life. He accepted the job without hesitation. For the next two years, he poured his heart and soul into the project. He was onsite throughout construction, providing the team with hundreds of incredibly detailed sketches. He built models of the various Nautilus compartments and tracked down obscure props and gadgets that would make them identical to the film.

The attraction opened in 1994, on time and under budget. It was a masterpiece. Scherman received a personal thank you from Michael Eisner, Disney’s chief executive, and was presented with a special certificate that named him as the commodore of the Nautilus.

Seven months later, Scherman passed away at the age of 54. His life was much too short, but he lived it as fully and purposefully as anyone who lived 100 years on this planet. His memorial service was well attended and his eulogy was delivered by Ray Bradbury.

In his brother Rowland’s archives, there’s a photo of Scherman standing on the deck of the Nautilus. He’s wearing a red jacket with jeans and a knit black beanie. He has a white beard and a pipe clamped between his teeth. His brow is furrowed in an inscrutable gaze that lands somewhere on the horizon. He looks a lot more like Captain Nemo than the wide-eyed 14-year-old who first saw 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. But that same boy’s passion is palpable and the fire burns just as bright. Maybe more so due to the pride of having created the work of a lifetime.