Chapter 35.5: I’d Like to Spank the Academy

Kodak Theatre, Hollywood. February 2008.

The glam! The glitz! A red sea littered with stars as far as I could spit. 

Not that I would since several thousand lenses that would catch any glob of saliva from my mouth with more force than gravity itself.

When I wasn't actively shedding pounds, the majority of my strolls these days were on red carpets. My polished shoes padding on crimson should have felt like treading through the same daily running route I always take, but an awards show entrance was a far different experience to a movie premiere.

Flogging my films was like driving in the fast lane. Think flooring a Ferrari on a track purposely built for you to race on. I was used to showing up and zooming through, stopping only to hit on the attractive girls on the sidewalk.

An awards show was more akin to taking the bus. The only mention of speed likely referred to narcotics barely hidden in pockets and purses.

Every channel and publication was its own station. Every camera flashing paparazzi was a traffic light unto themselves. And every time I had to stop - because I had to stop - each look behind me would find that I'd picked up another passenger. Generally, some B or C list face I could never quite place.

Though with the amount of plastic I suspected was in them, I doubt they even recognized themselves some days.

Every single one of them was trying to get on my carriage.

Neither was the Bas bus an isolated incident…Bus Rhys? Anyway, the point was, I was far from the only train chugging along on these agonizingly slow rails. 

A fun game I liked to play during these vapid exercises in vanity was a little who's who. A little celebrity spotting. But with just how packed with parasites this entire trailing trek was, all I kept wondering was: who are you?

I risked another glance over my shoulder. Cadbury was there. Her radar letting her keep a safe distance so that any photos taken of me wouldn't feature her in the slightest. And instead of Emma and Anita equidistant from her, there was now an entire parade of stowaways clinging to my coattails for their photo ops - who'd all carved a vast canyon between us. 

Public transport analogies were wrong. This was more like illegal immigration. Where the hell did all of you come from?

If I wanted to see my friends, I'd need bloody binoculars.

With how far apart we were, Anita no longer needed to fear any scandals or rumours of my being romantically linked to Emma - only Cadbury. 

"Bas! Bas! How about a quick interview with E?" Right, this wasn't a stop I wanted to make, but I needed these freeloaders to climb off my trunk. As well as wait for the Watson express to catch up. 

"You learnt how to say my name this time, so why not?" Had it been the forty-year-old pervert again, I wouldn't have even entertained the entertainment channel. But Ryan Seacrest was waving me over to answer questionable queries, so I quested over. 

"Then maybe I can make a better first impression." His lips spread and parted wide in a gregarious grin. 

I reciprocated, not because I believed for a moment that there was an iota of sincerity there, but because his veneers were white enough for me to see my reflection in them.

Still looking good, and I didn't need to replace my mouthwash with bleach either.

"We're live with the world's most famous wizard himself, Bas Rhys!" Pay a reporter any attention and they'll spend it all back at the camera. Ryan was quick to get on his soapbox - my eyes peered down at what he was standing on - literally. "Ever since your debut, there hasn't been a single year we haven't seen your face in theaters, and now with your recent appearance on the silver screen, many of us are wondering if you're hoping to take home the gold tonight?"

"Getting nominated for best actor, especially amongst such prestigious names, is an award in itself." News of my nomination was well known. 

His mic whipped between our mouths quick enough that I could taste what he had for lunch. "Don't think you can hack it, eh?" Dick.

Poor contest, whipping your cock out at me. You won't measure up. "Eking out a win…" my gaze panned over his lifted figure, "is a tall order." Alan Rickman would be proud of my delivery. 

That smile of his was suddenly as tight as his trousers. "W-well, no biggie!" Seacrest was a paper tiger who folded at the first minor scrape on his chin. The work on his teeth must really have been expensive. "Still, it's super exciting! One for the history books. You're like what, seventeen? Gotta be one of the youngest Oscar noms in history." And of course came the damage control to stymie any more love taps to his glass jaw. Very well, Anita would be bitey if I didn't take the olive branch.

"I'm not even the youngest nominee tonight. Soairse Ronan's got me beat by a few years; any questions along those lines are better reserved for her." The politician was really coming out of me tonight. First thing I'm doing after getting home is scrubbing myself raw in the shower. Can't have that stink on me, and I don't just mean the clashing perfumes polluting the air right now. 

"Fair enough, then let's move on to more important questions. Giuliana Rancic, my partner in fashion crime, isn't here tonight, but she'd kill me if I didn't ask. Who are you wearing?"

"Edo, I believe." 

"Edo? I don't think I've ever heard of that brand…"

"First name, Tux."

 "... What?" Clearly his molars were brighter than his mind.

Shinpachi, and by extension Uniqlo, would be happier with this line of inquiry than anyone else. He'd arrived with an army of tailors who'd all eagerly treated me like a sims character before they'd decided on their preferred outfit for the event. 

My own suggestions were neither heard nor considered. But as I spread the green and black blazer of my shawl lapel tuxedo with lightning bolt printed lining, (while also drawing clear attention bold red logo of the brand that very much stood out), and showed off the ensemble with a quick three-sixty of my tush, I couldn't be mad at them. "Everyone already knows where I buy my clothes." 

Most might expect me to wear some hoity-toity name designer, but brand loyalty and stock prices mattered more. Plus, half these hyenas spotted in Oscar de la Renta were very much renting them ala Oscars if you catch my drift. 

At least I owned the clothes I wore. 

Ideally I'd have said it wasn't long after Seacrest's mouth clamped shut that so too did the doors to the theater. But I'd be lying. Crawling to our designated seats would have been faster.

Well, at least the Harry Potter crew, excluding our various managers and agents who had been sequestered in the gallery, found their way to our table. Emma was securely sandwiched between Rupert and I, while the three of us were man-whiched between two mans - specifically David Heyman and Neil Gaiman. 

The writer's guild had reached their equitable deal a few days ago, which is what allowed Gaiman, our screenwriter, to attend, as well as the Oscars to run as normal. 

All eyes and ears were pointed to the screen and the stage as the next slate of awards was presented. My stomach rumbled - not because I was anxious about Harry Potter being included in the nominees list, but because the kale salad they presented us with was inedible.

Like every year, we'd had a few key nominations. Though comparatively to Goblet, Order of the Phoenix was far less acclaimed. We'd not won a single statue yet. 2007 was one of those years that had Oscar bait after Oscar bait movie that the academy was hooked on. 

To be fair, it was a stacked year. There Will be Blood, No Country for Old Men, The Bourne Ultimatum, Sweeney Todd, and Juno were basically included in nearly every category. 

Bad guys in deserts and pregnant teens suited the snobby, movie critic palette a lot more than magical school kids.

I clapped politely as La Vie en Rose stole our award for best makeup. Rupert leaned in to the both of us and said under his breath, "Ralph's going to be sore about that one, and not just his because his rump's still going to be stuck in the makeup chair." Couldn't agree more.

Truth be told, we should have edged out basically everyone for Voldemort's face alone. But then again, I was incredibly biased. I also leaned in to commiserate.

 Emma quit clapping, palmed both our foreheads, and pushed us away from between her. "Mind the camera angles, please. God only knows what this looks like from the wrong side." Savvy. And as I snatched the napkin off my lap and dabbed my face, predictably sweaty. "Pay attention, we're up next."

She was right. There was one award that belonged to us this year; and not even the backroom Hollywood jostling and bribing could change it. 

Dwayne Johnson, who currently was more renowned for being a geological feature, sauntered on stage. A pre head shave, pre franchise viagra, and pre super steroid using Rock stood at the podium, flipped open the envelope, and grinned at the audience. "And the Oscar for Best Visual Effects goes to… Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix!"

We were up on our feet in an instant as the room erupted in applause. 

I glomped on my two cast mates, who were both ecstatic. 

David Heyman and the other key producers led the charge down the aisle and up the stairs to the stage to receive the award. The three of us followed behind them as I admired our work playing on the screen. Mind bending visuals of the ministry fight, creatures, and all sorts of assorted magics were showcased in snippets. 

"Thank you academy," Heyman hefted the award that looked a hell of lot lighter and smaller in the Rock's hands. "This is an incredible honour. We couldn't have done it without the amazing team at Double Negative, ILM, and everyone who brought the magic of Hogwarts to life. This award belongs to every single person who poured their heart into creating a world where magic feels real. Thank you to J. K. Rowling for her incredible imagination and to our fans who have supported us through every charm and every curse." 

He'd given this same sort of speech multiple times before, so had little else left to say. Instead, he turned and pleaded with the rest of us to add something.

The responsibility wasn't just thrust, but shoved on to me as both an unwilling Emma and Rupert in concert were quick to push me forward on their behalf. And much like my wardrobe selection, my choices be damned. 

As the applause petered out, I reached the podium. Silence was golden in most situations, but nothing was more awkward than being on stage in front of a quiet crowd, so I put my silver tongue to work. "To all witches watching and the wizards who worked with us - can you believe these muggles fell for it?" As laughs echoed across the hall, I breathed a sigh of relief that I'd kept the magic alive. 

This would be my only opportunity on stage tonight. As I surveyed the front few rows, I couldn't help but spot the other nominees for best actor besides myself. The trophy I wielded was the only one I'd hold this evening. I refused to delude myself otherwise.

I looked down at my competition. Daniel Day Lewis, George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, and even a pre Amber Heard Johnny Depp. They were decades and several steps ahead of me. I knew that. I had a lot of work to do, and I had a lot of growing left, but one day, I vowed to myself, I'd beat them all. 

However long it took, I'd win best actor.