Leavesden Studios, UK. October 2007.
Fear wasn't a foreign concept to me, but the circumstances that led to me living the life I did now, not to mention the extremely cushy existence I'd carved out for myself, had left my sense of danger about as dulled as a 2B pencil after an hours-long exam.
The sleeve of pseudoephedrine I kept tucked away in my travel medicine pouch wasn't there as a back-up plan to start breaking bad in case this whole movie thing didn't pan out.
My nasal passages were forever kept freeze, wheeze, and sneeze free. Pretty damn difficult to forget the last allergic reaction I'd had. But as of right now, I was seriously contemplating whether I'd once again been spontaneously cosmically displaced.
Principal photography for Half-Blood Prince was in the final stages of set up, so as we'd done for every prior movie the on-call cast consisting mostly of the Hogwarts kids had usurped the craft services table to review the latest version of the script.
Table read? Forget that. Read the bloody table!
The recent revision read more like a resounding revolution. And unlike the last time unexpected script changes had been put into effect, it felt like my head was being put under the guillotine.
"You're probably all wondering why the sudden changes. While you were all away on your breaks, the studio and I made the uncomfortable decision that in order to maintain the astronomical success we've seen with the latest installment in the franchise, we need to continue to appeal to a wider audience. There are, of course, a multitude of ways we could have approached this, but the ultimate solution we settled on was to tone down the proverbial darkness of the story. Which, as you've all probably ascertained by now, we are achieving by emphasizing the romantic and comedic aspects present in the narrative." David Yates? More like David hates everything but the sound of his own stupid voice.
Monks were famous for their patience, but even they'd be incensed in my position. The smoldering tension was thicker than smoke. Yet despite that, no one was saying anything. I glanced over to where I normally expect Neil Gaiman to be sitting and spitting his views. There wasn't even a placard in front of his empty chair - the poor bloke was more than likely down in the mines trying to salvage whatever cockamamie notes he'd been given about the script.
One glaring omission most would have noticed by this point was of the Queen of quibs herself, JK Rowling. Oh, she was at the table. No way I could miss that. The topsy-turvy part of this whole situation was that rather than being where I normally was - usually by her right hand, like the evil grand vizier whispering nefarious plans in a monarch's ear, I was instead stuck in a seat directly opposite hers.
Normal people might think that I was reading too much into it. Surely, if she was avoiding me, I'd have been sat somewhere out of sight. But what better way for someone to ensure you know they're peeved at you than by putting you where you can't avoid them avoiding you?
David Yates, the entire time I'd been mulling, and the rest had been sulking, had been trundling along with his winding speech like a particularly time constrained train. Which, I felt, was a rather à propos description, considering how we'd all been railroaded. "Evanna, Daniel, and Bas, I'd like you three to get started with your reunion scene on the express, and then everyone can start pitching in one at a time as your cues dictate. I think you'll find this is the perfect scene to demonstrate to you all why we chose to take this direction. It's a rather poignant confluence of all the intermingling relationships and drama we can expect to experience throughout the narrative. We have Neville and Luna, Hermione and Ron off on their own, Harry running into Ginny, who's having her own thing with Dean Thomas. We're also introduced to Romilda Vane and her infatuation with Harry, which he spurns to defend Luna. And as the scene progresses, we even see Draco with Pansy Parkinson. There's more than enough romantic undertone for us to explore here."
If you wanted a spotlight on the mushy, gushy stuff, why in the world had the Tonks and Lupin, as well as the Fleur and Bill material, been so heavily cut down?
["Interior: Hogwarts Express." David began narrating. "Harry, Luna, and Neville enter an empty compartment, escaping the gawking students in the hallway."
"They're even staring at us!" Dan walked himself through his lines as he read the script. Belatedly, he pointed a finger at himself and Evanna a few seats away from him.
"They're staring at us because we were at the Ministry too. Our little adventure there was all over the Daily Prophet. You must've seen it, Harry. I would have quite enjoyed giving an exclusive interview to the Quibbler, but daddy said it would've presented a conflict of interest." Neil Gaiman's touch on the script was evident through Evanna's floaty delivery.
Not so much from me, though. "Q-quibbler still going strong, then?" Ring, ring, ring, hello? Yes, this is Bas Rhys' dialogue, and I am in fact phoning it in.
"Oh yes, circulation's well up."
"I thought gran would be angry about all the publicity, but she was really pleased. Says I'm starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look! Cherry and unicorn hair. We think it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he vanished the next day…"
"Alright, Daniel, at this point Neville dives under the bench to fetch Trevor the toad. Evanna keep going without taking a break." Yates continued yapping.
"Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry? I certainly hope so, I enjoyed the meetings. It was like having friends."]
Evanna and Daniel serenely followed along to their given instructions, and squawked their lines like two compliant cockatoos. They had about as much control over what came out of their mouths as a sock puppet, so I refused to blame them.
Others deserved that distinct honour. By this point, I'd checked out of the entire charade and dropped my copy of the script down on the table in front of me. "Bas, if you've lost your place, we're at the bottom of page seventeen. Your line is 'I've got detention with Dumbledore most of the year, but if my friends want to throw around a few spells with me on the weekend, I won't say no.'" Neil as always did a superb job, too bad he wasn't here to witness it.
Of course, the words were originally Rowling's, but she didn't seem to be listening to much of anything at the moment - but she sure was ready to talk a lot of shit. "Perhaps we'd be better served running a scene that doesn't require our dear lead to speak up. Tom, where are you? I need my Draco. Shall we rehearse the Slytherin compartment scene? Specifically, the section where Harry gets a swift kick to the face."
Excuse me? She didn't even have the decency to look at me when she said that.
Tom did, though. I at least caught his eyes darting nervously between us in my peripheral vision. Don't worry, Felton, I wasn't planning on retaliating against you just because Rowling used you like a bleached boot when she delivered a kick to my nuts. But, hey, don't be too discouraged. Your facial expression right now was decent practice for your crying scene in Myrtle's lavatory.
"What the fuck is going on?" I let the frog stuck in my throat hop right out.
Kudos to Yates, I'll at least give him credit for having the spine to flap his gums when almost everyone else curved their backs and zipped their lips. "Umm… Maybe we should just get back to the scene…"
"Actually, you know what? I agree with you. Does anyone have last month's rendition? That's the one I've actually been preparing for. If I wanted to do a run-of-mill rom com, I'd have stayed in LA."
"I understand that it is a disruption to our normal conventions, but I assure you our new script-"
"For that matter, why isn't Neil here? He might have something to say about Tom Riddle's backstory getting cut down to less than half - and for what? So you can fit in an inconsequential scene where the Burrow gets attacked? Dumbledore and Harry are meant to hunt and discuss horcruxes, not if he's planning on visiting broom closets with Hermione. How does that make any sense?" A quick flick through the script had revealed enough for me to press some legitimate concerns.
"Admittedly, the script is still a work in progress. Which is why our gracious screenwriter is very much hard at work incorporating our new ideas into the script. Please, Bas…" I don't know why he had his palms out like that. I wasn't spewing fire, just the truth. I hadn't even raised my voice all that much. There were plenty more levels to go if I really wanted to yell.
"Telling me to calm isn't a valid response. Do you want me to simmer down? Then I need a valid bloody reason why this unilateral decision was foisted on all of us without so much as a heads-up."
"It is a tumultuous transition for all involved. But I implore you to please just trust the process. Production is determined to maintain and even surpass the success of the previous film. We've done our homework and have come to the ultimate conclusion that the best way to do so is by breaking the pattern to give our audiences something fresh. We have to change." Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Give a corporate suit a billion dollars and watch him squander it on narcotics and nookie.
"Hold on. Are you really telling me, with a straight face, mind you, you've chosen to discard the secret formula for success we've spent the last seven years toiling over instead of replicating it? Neither the fan base nor any of us are that stupid. What made you think we'd all just go along with this?"
"Because it's your job! I think we've all tolerated about enough of your tantrum. Just pick up the script and read your lines."
Doesn't that give you déjà vu? I flashed back to my audition days for Harry when I could recall verbatim Kloves shouting, "You're not meant to think, you're only meant to act. Just follow the cues and read the lines. Don't make your own arbitrary corrections!" at me.
The difference was, with how badly they'd not just sidelined, but vanished the Dursleys. This time, Richard Griffiths wasn't here to face the breach with me once more.
I made one last attempt and sought Jo, but it didn't matter how many times I tried to catch her eye. Even now, she committed herself to swing and sway her head with the same prodigious flexibility of Bollywood backup dancers.
Screw in as many lightbulbs as you want; in the end you'd only be giving me wrong ideas.
Whatever was going on with her, I had a sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with me than whatever shenanigans the studio had decided to pull.
Regardless, if the stubborn mule wanted a drink, I'd make her go to the river herself. My RV door would be open.
The scrape of my chair echoed across the deathly quiet room, and I marched out the door, heedless of the eggshells loudly crunching underfoot.
"What are you doing!?" David's steel spine folded rather easily.
"Same thing you are. Contemplating change." I wonder how long it would take for it to melt.