Chapter 10.5: Crumpled Clothes

Leavesden Studio, UK. March, 2003.

Alfonso Cuarón and Chris Colombus had entirely different directing styles. Chris always had a very good idea in his head of how he wanted a scene to look and as long as we as actors could reach his vision closely enough, even if he had a turd in hand, he'd polish it in post so at least the shit looked good.

Cuarón, on the other hand, was both a free spirit and a perfectionist. He encouraged us to approach a scene with our own ideas, sometimes even when I'd rather just ape the script and be a little monkey see monkey do. 

Some days blended into the last. I felt like I'd actually been trapped in a time-turner loop, and maybe that prop wasn't as fake as it was supposed to be.

He'd take a scene again and again and again, each one different from the last until that nebulous vision in the back of his head struck satisfaction.

This pattern was what likely contributed to the movie being a late pregnancy, and Alfonso having to become the dad that went for cigarettes and never came back for the fourth movie.

Mike Newell was then brought on to direct the fourth installment. Mike Newell, who had refused to read the books or watch the old movies, and made the worst adaptation. 

I refused to let that happen. 

All I could do was push with all my might and hope that this baby was delivered on time.

I was trying to focus on the small monitor in front of me. I was watching the playback of my last take. It was hard to do though, on account of Alfonso Cuarón frantically shuffling through papers beside me.

"It is missing something…" Alfonso said while continuing to parse through the storyboards he'd drawn up. "Ah! Here." He found the specific sequence he was looking for and laid it on the table. 

My partner in crime, Richard Griffiths (Vernon), Fiona Shaw (Petunia), and I leaned in to see.

"This is the scene that will open the movie." The series of sketches in sequential boxes depicted Azkaban swirling with dementors, which was followed by Sirius' animagus prison break. "Once he lands on shore, we will cut to our scene here in Privet drive. To me it shows a parallel between Sirius and Harry - both are escaping from jail."

I hummed in understanding. Initially Alfonso had wanted to film me casting 'Lumos' under a sheet for the opening. When I brought up that it contradicts the lore, he very easily compromised and asked Neil Gaiman to write him something equally dynamic to start. 

Malleable. What a wonderful word.

He left the story to those who knew better, he left the acting to those doing it. He offered his suggestions, but was never demanding. His aesthetic was what mattered to him the most.

Considering that he set the standard for visuals in Harry Potter movies, I did my absolute best to just listen to his ideas and act on them.

"I cannot explain what I mean…" he tilted his head and twisted his arms, struggling to help us visualize what was in his head.

"Desperation." Fiona Shaw stated. "Harry's angry, but he's not desperate to get out. We're panicked about Marge flying away, but not desperate to have Harry not interact with her."

"Yes!" Alfonso clapped his hands together. "Let's run the scene again! This time, with more desperation." 

"I don't mind running this scene again and again. Just don't put me back in that fat suit." The actress playing Marge Dursley spoke up.

[The TV started playing the news alert about a mass murderer prison escapee. 

"You mustn't blame yourself for this one, Petunia. It's all to do with blood - bad blood." 

I stiffened and hesitated while clearing the plates. 

"What did his father used to do?" The camera craned to get a better shot of Petunia, sending me a worried glance. I kept my head down. Marge snapped her fingers, and I continued my task.

"N-nothing." Fiona, playing Petunia, nervously replied, "he was unemployed…"

"And a drunk too, no doubt!"

I slammed the plates down on the table. "That's a lie!" The glass of booze in her grip shattered and everyone jumped.

Petunia hurriedly got up, put her hands on my chest, and pushed me back to the kitchen, trying to prevent me from attacking Marge. I glared at Marge. "My father was not a drunk!" 

Marge smirked at me in victory and began speaking again. "It's more to do with the mother." Vernon worriedly clasped her arm to try to dissuade her from continuing her drunk diatribe but was brushed off. "If there's something wrong with the bitch, then there's something wrong with the pup!"

"Shut up!" I took a step forward. Petunia struggled to hold me back.

"Right! Let me tell y- "

"Shut up! Shut up!" I stepped on my marker, shoved Petunia aside, stayed still while huffing angrily. The fans started blowing beneath me, fluttering my clothes and hair. The lights started flickering and the magic VFX started.

Everyone took to their cues and exclaimed.]

"Cut! Yes! Desperate was perfect!"

I immediately moved to Fiona and held her gently by the shoulders. My growth spurt, made evident by the agonizing creaking of my bones every night, had finally kicked in. I'd grown to near her eye level, so I hadn't had to look down. 

"I'm sorry! I hope I wasn't too rough and hurt you."

She laughed and tapped my cheek with her palm. "No! No! I'm fine! That was wonderful improvisation." 

"I want to reshoot everything with this energy!" Alfonso was fully jazzed up.

The actress portraying Marge sighed deeply. "You're going to make me wear that fat suit again, aren't you?"

—

Lacock Abbey, UK. April 2003.

[Alan Rickman tightly clenched the lapel of my shirt, dragged me to a chair, and shoved me onto it. 

I fell on the seat a little too hard, the chair teetered on its back legs, I swung my arms in momentary panic, before losing the fight with gravity and crashing to the floor "Oof!"]

"Cut!" Our director Alfonso Cuaron called out.

The set was suddenly a storm of activity as a veritable army of stagehands rushed in to set the scene to rights. Including me.

I had to endure multiple people clawing at my body to ensure my costume was clean enough to restart the scene and that all my body parts were in the right place.

Alan, in full Snape regalia, stared imperiously at me. "Aren't gymnasts meant to have a good sense of balance?" His voice was scolding, but the smirk he was sporting betrayed his amusement.

"And I hadn't realized you were a method actor." I bantered back, referencing his rough handling.

He fisted my collar and began dragging me back to our scene marker. "Allow me to guide you back. We wouldn't want you toppling over again."

"You don't need to be ashamed grandad, I'm happy if you want me to help you walk."

"Don't be clever."

"Quiet on set! From the top, please, gentlemen." Alfonso addressed us.

Dropping the shenanigans, we both got serious. Alan tightened his grip on my clothes, nodded at me, and I reciprocated.

"Action!"

[Severus Snape slammed the door of his office open. Harry Potter, clutched firmly in his grip, stumbled in behind him. Snape waved his wand over his shoulder, "Colloportus." 

The VFX team tugged on the string attached to the bottom of the door, banging it shut in response to the acted out spell. Snape thrust his wand again, "Accio." A chair on a hidden rail zoomed over in front of the pair and stopped. 

Once again, I was shoved onto the chair, but this time I managed to maintain my balance successfully. Snape took a handful of steps forward and gracefully spun around to face me. He tugged his cloak around him and sneered down at me. 

I sat stiffly on the chair, visibly clenched my teeth in repressed anger and glared right back at Snape. 

"Turn out… your pockets," Snape drawled.

"Searching for something?" I tightened my hands around the armrest, only just managing to keep my voice level.

Snape suddenly darted forward and got in my face. "How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter. He, too, was exceedingly arrogant. Always… strutting about."

"My father did not strut! And nor do I."' I made to get up from the chair but Snape pressed my shoulder down to keep me seated. 

As he was removing his hand, Snape went a little off-script. He hesitated and made a strange move. He softened his glare almost imperceptibly and reached for my face - specifically my eyes. 

I kept the flow of the scene going. I jerked away nervously and glanced back and forth between his face and his hand. 

Snape snapped back to reality and sneered again. "Turn. Out. Your. Pockets!"

I pursed my lips, reached into the robe's inner pocket, and pulled out the Marauder's map prop - the blank one.

Snape tried to take it from me, but I held on. He glared, and I let it go begrudgingly. "What is it?"

"Spare bit of parchment," in exaggerated innocence. "Found what you were looking for?" I sassed.

Snape's lip curled in disgust. "I will. Revelio!" he tapped his wand on the parchment - the green surface where the CGI for the map would be added in post. We pretended as if words were appearing. "Read it."

I recited the line while keeping my head slightly declined - as if in defeat. "- compliments to professor Snape, and -"

"Go on…"

I raised my eyes and met Snape's glare. "And request that he keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business." I finished viciously.

"You insolent-!" He snatched the prop out of my hands, marched to the lit fireplace in the background, picked up a handful of copper sulfate powder that the props department had prepared and chucked it in, creating a green plume of fire. "Lupin!"]

"Cut!" Alfonso called out, and we returned to real life. "Please remain in your places, everyone. I would like to review first." He put on his headphones, and zoned in on the monitor to playback the scene.

I untensed my muscles and relaxed into the chair. Alan Rickman dropped his Snape persona and walked forward to lean comfortably on the table next to us. We both waited side by side while Alfonso decided whether he wanted us to run the scene again or not.

"You're improving."

I tilted my head in slight confusion. "Hm? You really think so?"

He smiled. It was an incredibly jarring sight to witness in full Snape get-up. "I do."

"But still not as good as you, right?" I teased.

He scoffed, "of course! I'm a thespian, as are the majority of the adult cast. The lot of us have spent decades perfecting our craft. We aren't some urchin picked up off the street and told to do our best." He rebutted.

I start chuckling, "unlike me, I suppose?"

He nodded sagely. "Precisely! But you know what's funny about that? Somehow, you're the millionaire with a household name."

"Oh come on! It's not like I'm prancing about like it! I exercise a great deal of humility."

Rickman threw his head back and laughed at my protest. "I know, I know. That's why I'm bothering to commend you at all. There is a propensity for people to rest on their laurels once a significant level of fame or wealth has been achieved. I think you have potential. I truly believe that you could make a lasting and fruitful career out of all this." He gestured at everything. 

I couldn't help ducking my head. I had to hide my blush in some way! "So you're saying don't get a big head and keep my nose to the grindstone?"

"Mhm." He agreed. "Not to mention, you're getting to that age now. Certain… distractions may present themselves. So don't lose focus on your true priorities."

I couldn't believe my ears when, celebrated actor, Alan Rickman, tried to talk to me about girls. "Speaking from experience, are you? I wouldn't imagine Hans Gruber was considered a sex symbol."

"Was? Is!" He shot back. "Die Hard has been a cultural phenomenon since before you were born. I've been around the block more than a few times." He buffed his nails on his cloak with an air of supreme confidence.

All I could do was laugh.

Rickman, with the aid of the prop map, swatted me on the side of the head. "I am attempting to offer you sincere advice. I suggest… you take it!" He intoned in that uniquely Alan Rickman way. 

I know he was admonishing me, but I couldn't keep the smile off my face.