Chapter 21.5: Naked Attrition
Lacock Abbey, UK. March 2006.
“Anger is… easy.” Rickman said calmly.
But the ever so slightly too firm grip on the nape of my neck might reveal more complex emotions. “Just go red in the face and rip your vocal cords to shreds. There’s no art in that.”
Water cascaded down my hairline, drenching my face as I struggled to keep it out of my eyes. “Someone’s been reviewing my footage, I see.” I spat out some of the horrible tasting water as a few rivulets invaded my mouth. The cloudy pensieve water may look like it came out of a fresh, young coconut, but I assure you it tasted more like something from the bottom of a shower drain.
“Of course you take valid critique and contort it into personal flattery. It’s a wonder I’m able to hold your fat head aloft at all, Bas. Perhaps I need to wring out your ears.” My bones clatter and water splattered as Alan shook me like a dying tv remote. “Rage is merely a symptom, the true malady of the mind is hatred, betrayal, and suffering. Feel those first, and anger will seep through entirely on its own. Otherwise, we may as well replace you with a stump with a frown painted on it.”
“Is anger also contagious? Because I think I’m catching it from you.” I imagine this is what my voice would sound like if I got stuck inside an operational washing machine. I couldn’t sing to save my life, but suddenly I was capable of a wonderful vibrato. “This your way of telling me your surgery didn’t go well?”
“Precisely the opposite. I’m now cancer free.”
“And prostate free.”
“... Thank you for that.” Sarcasm, the coward’s lie. “But also thank you for the flowers, well wishes, and other assorted presents you had delivered during my convalescence. Though I’m still unsure why you sent me so much ice cream.”
“Oh, I sent that because I heard it’s good for after your tonsils are removed, and I figured it might also help the same way after your specific -ectomy.”
“The throat-” I felt his hand clamp around mine again, “is considerably north of the lower intestine.”
“It’s all the same digestive tract. I hope you asked the docs to take a gander at the rest of your decrepit body, too. Never know when you might pop a pancreas.” Subtle, this was not.
“Unless you have a medical degree hidden somewhere, I’m more inclined to listen to my physician when he says any metastatic action from prostate to pancreas is exceedingly rare.”
“Does it really hurt to make sure?” I pushed. “As far as I know, I’m the one getting hit with more licks than you cancer patients. Maggie Smith’s still a little awkward with me when I told everyone to get their breasts and prostates checked. She still made an appointment despite that.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll ask during my upcoming check-up. Now hold your tongue, and hold your breath. Time for take two.”
[Splash! I was dunked into the pensieve. I stared into the lens underwater for about twenty seconds before being yanked out by Snape.
“So… been enjoying yourself, Potter?” Alan’s face trembled, and he bared his teeth.
Harry (given the glasses I was wearing), surprisingly did neither enjoy watching his father being a bully, nor his mother being called a mud-blood.
“N-no.” I clenched my jaw and looked away.
Yes, the water did in fact still taste bitter, but I’d get used to it.]
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Leavesden Studios, UK. April 2006.
There was a bubbling in her tummy, her nerves were getting to her. She hoped it was butterflies and not the suspicious tuna sandwich she ate at craft services when she went there for a snack.
Speaking of snacks… she tucked her vibrant, red hair behind her hair as she snuck a glance at her co-star.
Damn! She wasn’t discreet enough. He caught her looking. She hoped the smile she was giving him wasn’t overtaken by the grimace she felt trying to claw its way out.
“Nervous?” Bas asked her.
“W-what makes you say that?” She barely managed to stutter out.
He waggled his finger in front of her face. “You’re flushed. You look like you went to Thailand and forgot your sunscreen.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I’m blushing.” Karen happily picked up the excuse that conveniently fell into her lap. “It’s my first major scene since the second movie.”
For once, the credit scroll would feature the name Karen Gillan near the top rather than being lost in the middle.
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“Really? Chamber was the last time?” He turned towards her to give her his full attention. Lord, he smelled good - like sandalwood. She peeked behind him to see the crew still preparing the set for their scene in the Grimmauld place bedroom.
She nodded; annoyingly, another strand of her hair escaped from behind her ear and tickled her cheek. “Mhm. Been a while since I had an extended speaking part.”
He tucked it back for her; all she could think was why her hair couldn’t dislodge sooner. “You’ll do fine, I’m sure. You’re in good company - a lot of the younger cast are getting ample time to shine in this movie.”
“I know! Dan was ecstatic that we get to do the Longbottom St. Mungo’s scene. I’ve seen him rehearse his sad and broken look in the mirror countless times. And the girl who plays Luna- “
“Evanna Lynch.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s her acting or how she just is, but she really steals the scene.” He laughed then. She could almost feel it rumble in the back of his throat.
“The fans will love her. No doubt in my mind.”
Karen watched as the crewman hung up the ornately framed green screen that would hold the CGI for Phineas Black. “They’re both doing well…” her voice trailed off. “I’m just worried I won’t stand out that much in comparison.”
“You did the smaller scenes really well, in my opinion. Self assured, effervescent, any other adjective that makes you feel good about yourself.” He took a hold of her arm and bent it at the elbow to make it look like she was showing off her non-existent biceps. She let him continue holding her.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to the visible veiny length of his forearm. She’d seen him, sometimes ridiculously early in the morning, or late at night depending on your perception of time, just running around the studio’s back-lot. He’d lost weight sure, his shirt was hanging off him breezily, but she had a sneaking suspicion that underneath all that he was more cut than onions at an Indian restaurant.
“Those scenes were no problem.” She started explaining her point of view. “But here? It’s just the two of us - Harry and Ginny. I don’t think you realize just how intimidating you are, and not just when you’re in full moody angry Harry Potter mode!”
“C’mon, Gillan!” He laughed like she was joking.
“No, I’m serious. You appear genuinely cross. It’s proper scary.”
“Well, at least that means I’m not a shit actor. Look, how about this, why don’t you imagine me in my underwear - no way you’d be able to take me seriously then.”
‘Absolutely not!’ she thought to herself. While filming Goblet, she and a bunch of the girls had gotten their hands on the raw footage from the prefect’s bath scene. She knew exactly what he looked like in his knickers and imagining that wouldn’t improve her performance at all. “Trust me, that wouldn’t work.”
She watched him as he took a moment to consider her. “You live alone, right? No parents hiding in your trailer?”
“No, of course not. They’re back home.”
“So if you had a problem, or just wanted a cup of hot chocolate, you’d sort it out yourself, yeah?”
“Yeah…” where was he going with this?
He pointed to something, and she followed the finger to an elderly woman sitting on a chair, knitting. “You see her? That’s my au pair. I’m nearly sixteen years old, and I have a nanny. And yes - she does make me hot chocolate. It’s Belgian and out of this world.”
“That’s nice?”
“It is. You know what’s nicer? There’s not a single sane person on this planet that would be intimidated by the guy being pampered like that.”
Karen thought about it; he was right. “No, I guess not.” She could hear the smile in her own voice.
“That’s the spirit, Gillan! Now, barge into my room, verbally smack me down, and convince me I’m not possessed.”
She watched him walk to his marker and bit her lip. She’d have to find that copy of the bath scene again.
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Leavesden Studios, UK. April 2006.
“Must you insist I wear this infernal thing? I’m British and this is tea - have you any idea of the sacred boundaries you’re crossing!?”
I leaned back in my chair, scrubbed my face with one hand, and took a deep breath - I could still smell the gunpowder from the mini-charges. Dumbledore’s office set was a total mess from when I trashed it. Leveling the place felt… incredibly therapeutic. The shouting, screaming, and crying was hell on my throat, but when I thrust my wand at the right spots and the tiny explosions launched the props - made me feel like a real wizard.
“Stop that!” the makeup artist swatted away Michael Gambon’s hands to prevent him from aggressively scratching his Dumbledore beard. “Behave yourself!”
“I’m an old man, I don’t have to - I can be as ornery and disagreeable as I wish!”
“Oh, really? Then how about I forget to bring the solvent when I wrench those horse hairs off your face?” She said as she walked off.
As soon as the hot cup of tea was set down in front of me, I immediately grabbed it.
“Blasted woman! Blasted beard!” I chuckled as I watched Gambon struggle with his fake moustache to stop it from dipping into his tea. “Hand me that biscuit, would you?” I presented the saucer. He took the biscuit and did what he always did with food while he was in costume and stuck it in his beard. “Wait till she finds this in here!”
“You do realize she’ll just get annoyed by you wasting the costume department’s money and make your beard even itchier next time?”
“Maybe so, but it’s the principle of the matter.” Gambon affirmed his decision. “And even then, it’s not like they aren’t saving money on your makeup. Your bags are darker than this bloody awful tea!” He looked at the crew and shouted, “bring me milk, would you?”
I self consciously stroked the dark circles under my eyes. I hadn’t realized that they were that prominent. Between shooting, rehearsals, and learning the technical craft of filmmaking, the little free time I had was being dedicated to the kids who I was helping to study for the exams. I still had access to past-papers and online forums discussing the exams, so I was very much to their benefit - even if they didn’t know how much yet. Emma was super serious about her education, especially as we approached her reading and exam week in May.
And any free time I managed to scrounge in between all that was spent shedding pounds and shredding shit investment plans, and shittier scripts with Ben and Anita, respectively.
I really hadn’t been getting much rest these days. “I’ve been struggling to sleep recently.” I confided.
“You look positively dreadful. Find a way to put yourself down, boy. You’ll end up collapsing otherwise.” Gambon began with sound advice. “Do what those other Hollywood types do. I’m sure alcohol or whatever new designer narcotic is available to your generation will send you right to bed.” And, as usual, ended with a flippant joke.
“Much as I’d like to, the paparazzi are so far up my rear these days I hear lenses shutter every time I blink.”
He wasn’t wrong, though. I needed something to help me relax. We weren’t even halfway through the shooting schedule - I needed to blow off some steam someway.
Thankfully, we’d be going on a break next month.