Chapter 75.5: Classically Framed

Chapter 75.5: Classically Framed

Bourne Wood, Surrey UK. August 2012.

“When I did Silence of the Lambs, despite my best efforts, nobody ever spoke a word to me. Left to my lonely devices by my co-stars and scene partners alike, too nervous or intimidated to do little else but twiddle their thumbs in silence. I was entrapped within a plexiglass prison that may as well have been a four-sided brick wall. I’d lamented my isolation back then. So, while I am indeed appreciative of your presence, it does beg the question of why you’re here at all? Especially considering we share not a moment of screen time together.” 

“And that’s precisely the reason I’m here! How am I meant to take class when teacher and student aren’t in the same room?” Anthony Hopkins had a strange way of taking attendance. 

Most instructors could only hope to be blessed with eager beavers like me champing at the bit for scraps of their wisdom.

“To borrow your metaphor then, Bas; you are requesting tuition in mathematics whilst in the middle of a music lesson. We’re in a sound booth recording voiceovers, for cripe’s sake! There may be lines to be read, but barely a performance required—and certainly no funny costumes.” 

“True. The only thing funny about what you’re wearing is how high you’ve hiked up your trousers.”

“Don’t break ice when it’s already wearing thin, boy!” Both of us were making quite the first impression on each other, I reckoned. Rap sheet and rapport in equal measure.

There was something disconcerting about Hannibal Lecter marching towards you threateningly. Rolling up his sleeves even further than his belted waistband, Anthony Hopkins knocked on the glass panel separating us.

Facetious though he might’ve been, when faced with Anthony’s vaguely villainous facade many would’ve cowered in my boots. Scaredy-cats, the lot of ‘em. But as I’d stated earlier, I was a different animal entirely. “You’re playing right into my hands by acting out like this. I’ve already taken stellar mental notes.”

Surrendering to my stubbornness, he walked back towards the mic while I stayed rooted where I was. A shake of his head and a rueful chuckle followed him—not surprising. Everyone rued the day they messed with me, considering how full of it I was. “It seems you’re not so easily dissuaded. Very well then. Pay close attention. At the end of this, I’ll be administering an exam in the form of your performance, Bas Rhys. I shall be a rapt invigilator to ensure that you do justice to my narration.”

Anthony gathered all the gravitas in his voice.

I brought myself down to earth and focused.

And together, we landed the story.

–

“Millennia ago, when the realms last converged, Asgard, under my leadership, forged its rule across the branches of Yggrdrassil. However, we were not alone in our ambition. Another people—a plague—wrought their own bloody conquest. At the tip of that scythe stood a being born from the darkest pits of Svartalfheim. Possessing the aether, a weapon that controlled reality itself, Malekith the Destroyer. A creature more darkness than elf who sought to cast his shadow over all nine realms.”

–

“Good news, everyone! Just got off the phone with our licencing department, and we’ve finally cleared the rights for Rick James’ Super Freak.” Every Marvel movie had that one featured commercial song that embodied the soundtrack of the film. 

Think AC/DC’s Thunderstruck from Iron Man, as well as Come And Get Your Love that was soon star bound with Guardians of the Galaxy. And by the crows of Alan Taylor’s elation, Thor TDW had found its own earworm. 

A gag, a macguffin, and one hell of a dance number for me to get my feet wet. 

Mercifully, it was on the edge of PG-13. Even if, like the lyrics said, it was a very kinky song—the kind you don’t bring home to mother. But she, and all the collar-clutching Karens, will be alright. 

…Probably.

“Ready, Bas? We can cue you in without endangering copyright now.” Crouched in blackness as I was, the only signal I could provide was a thumbs up through the airhole overhead. “Places everybody! Time for some action!”

[The crew went silent, the slate clacked, and the music kicked in.

I counted the beats in my head, waiting for the right rhythm and for the camera to finish panning around the green box I was inside, to make my entrance. 

Pressing my hands on either wall, I pushed. With stumbling, half-asleep legs, I rose from between the breakaway seams of the box. The aether had been removed from its plinth, and Malekith had been released from his millenias-long prison. 

Jane Foster’s Rick James ringtone continued to ring as my awakening alarm. Natalie Portman’s stunt double hung limp, suspended mid-air on wires. The fans blew in our direction, ruffling her hair and my white wig, in a facsimile of power for the VFX team to add in the aether’s magical effects in post. 

From my knees scraping on the ground, to a desperate stride, I rushed at her. But just as my purple-painted and soot-stained claws had her in my grasp, the pulley system pulled her out of frame to disappear her back to Earth—or Midgard, in this case. 

I swiped at nothing.

Both the fans and music abruptly ended, leaving me to huff, puff, and prepared to blow this entire realm down. But before I did, I suddenly snapped my head towards the camera; ensuring that my line of sight avoided peering straight down the lens, but still placing my face for the required close-up. 

The camera dollied forward, and I could practically hear the zoom-in’s electronic whine. In keeping concert with the cinematographer’s tempo, I tilted my head at the same speed. 

Filthy, matted locks strung across my face, revealing the pointed tip of my prosthetic ear. And as I pretended to hear the sweet music of another convergent realm ripping a hole in reality, my sharp grin streaked the filthiest slash of white over my face yet.]

–

Malekith tolerated neither retreat nor defeat. Even as his own kin were slaughtered to a man, Malekith, through vile sorcery, forced warriors from all nine to turn on their own homes.

–

[“The convergence causes much chaos.” Tadanobu Asano, reprising Hogun—one of Thor’s ‘warriors three,’ delivered his slice of exposition through a gravelly growl. “I do not know from which realm you hail, but I vow to return you to wherever you have been displaced from.” 

I mostly ignored his over-gallant speech and chest pounding. Much more focused on sipping my steaming beverage, and cuddling into the tattered blanket I was bundled inside. The first hint of warmth I’d experienced upon my prison escape and traipse out of Svartalfheim—straight into a Vanaheim war camp; where they’d made the terrible mistake of assuming I was another convergence refugee. “Why, and how, would you do such a thing?”

“It is simply my duty, for I march with Asgard.” I immediately stiffened, halting my cup at Hogun’s proud proclamation. “As for how? Worry not, I lead the armies of Vanaheim.” My eyes fixed on him as Hogun spun around and made for the tent’s exit. “Thor Odinson himself is lending us his strength.” 

As soon as his back fully turned, I rose to my feet. The blanket fell away from my shoulders, and the cup spilled onto the ground. My hands didn’t stay free for long, though, when I clamped a claw onto the back of his head and over the side of his face. “OdinSON, you say?”]

“Cut! Hold places, everyone. Bas, Nobu, switch out!” 

I let go of my scene partner and stepped off my marker. Tadanobu took my place, and his body-double took his, in turn. A set of production assistants matched everyone’s postures to a T.

Malekith had become Hogun, and Hogun, along with his armies, had become Malekith’s unwitting pawns. 

–

When Asgard’s triumph became imminent, Malekith’s avarice turned to malice. If he could not have the nine realms, no one could. The atrocities he committed in retaliation were heavy… and personal. Oblivion was a fate too kind, so I cast him in stone and sealed him for all eternity by turning his own weapon against him. 

–

“How much bloody longer do I have to play dead for?” Idris Elba moaned from the floor while dressed in his battle-damaged Heimdall armour.

“Don’t complain. You’re the one who insisted on doing his own stunts.” And believe me, it’s always a pleasure to boot a hulking brute through a breakaway door. Multiple times, in fact!

“Oi, I trained just as hard for this as you did! So what if I wanna show off my guns a bit too? All I get is one losing fight sequence, then I spend the rest of my nap time in a corner. A mannequin could do this sodding job.” 

I wish I could’ve bent down to console him, but I had my hands full at the moment—of Rene Russo playing Thor’s mother, Frigga. 

“Feel free to take my spot if you so wish, Idris. Bas is a lovely dancer—I haven’t had even my big toe trampled on.” I had to secure the arm I had across her back as she faced me again while in my classic dancer’s hold. “But, I must say, you’ve unexpectedly rough hands with women.”

Years of getting cuffed over the ear, or beaten with rolled-up magazines, courtesy mostly of Mrs Stephens and Anita, flickered through the forefront of my mind. As too did the more sordid soreness ascribed to my roughrider romances. “In my defence, that’s how they’ve always preferred it.” Offended, Rene stamped on my foot in mock revenge. At least she didn’t use the prop knife plunged into her chest to stab me. 

“Okay, team… pull it together. Places, and action!”

[Frigga and I began spinning. 

Not the overly exaggerated twirling of an older lady knife-fighting and winning against the movie’s main villain somehow. The only daggering I was doing was on the dance floor. 

Specifically, Frigga hung limp in my grip as I used her quickly weakening figure as a waltz partner.

Frigga feebly tried beating against my chest. I threw my head back and cackled as I swung her around, but the rest of her audience weren’t as entertained by her final performance. Heimdall, the all-seeing, caught some shuteye; while the real Natalie Portman portraying Jane Foster cowered in the corner.

The unsung participant in our little play was Jane Foster’s phone again. Rick James provided the soundtrack to this murderous hoedown as the convergence began acting up. 

Vanaheim’s compelled invasion of Asgard was a spontaneous success. 

Thick, red cornstarch slurry squelched under my heels as Frigga and I completed our grisly choreography. I’d even secured the perfect spectacle for an enraged Thor and Odin burst onto the scene to catch me red-handed—or red-footed, in this homicide case. 

Plenty of footprints for the heroes to follow to our last clash.]

–

The aether is the key to that seal and must never be disturbed. Be warned that if it is, Malekith’s vengeance will not cease until he devours all nine realms. Do not allow history to repeat itself.

–

I had Hiddleston choked by the throat in one hand, while Felton was poised to prick me in my backside with his pointy end. 

Every fan writer and artist’s wet dreams were coming true, yet I still felt something was missing. “Bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

Loki had seemingly kidnapped Jane away from Thor as part of their plan to lure Malekith to Midgard for the London city centre boss showdown.

“What’s that, Bas? Not enough lines for ya?” Kat Dennings deduced correctly from her position behind where Felton was protecting her using a sharp cylindrical science prop.

“Just a thought, really. Malekith’s finally managed to re-secure the aether, his ultimate goal of conquering the nine realms is about to come to fruition; and as a bonus—”

“—Hrrk!” Hiddleston gurgled when I teasingly wrung his neck. Better than Loki getting his neck snapped–or the illusion of it at the very least. There’d still be sequel bait right before and after the credits. Hell(a), maybe I could even subtly help with that. 

“He’s also about to exact even more personal vengeance. Surely, he’d have something cocky to say before we kick off the final bout?”

“Whatever improv we do, would you mind setting me down for it? Easier to deliver dialogue without your hands around my neck, or these uncomfortable wires stringing me up.” Hiddleston squirmed, but I remained firm. 

Had to keep some of the script intact, at a minimum. 

Staying on my mark, I glanced at the director for any objections. I took his waving the production assistant to get the slate ready for the next take as tacit approval.

[The original cue in the script prompted me to lazily twist Loki’s neck and throw him aside. Following which, I subsequently had to approach Darcy Lewis, blatantly utilising Jane Foster’s abandoned date as a meat shield. At which point, Hemsworth would swoop in and knock me away so we could put our earlier fight arrangement into practice. 

This time I paused, forcing the rest of the set to as well.

Narrowing my eyes and pursing my lips, I scrutinised his reddening face. “Were you not a woman the first time we warred?” Was I referring to Loki’s ability to shapeshift in actual mythology? Was I mentioning the renditions in Marvel comics where Loki was female? Or was I sprinkling secret crumbs for Hela to pick up later? Who knew?

“I—khh—wield a sceptre these d—days.” 

“Shame… The dark elves require repopulation.” I squeezed. Loki and Hiddlestone both played along and lolled their broken necks. I tossed him and turned to Darcy and her stolen date. “No matter. I shall begin with the one with the large bosom and fertile hips instead.”

Felton shuffled forward and shakily thrust his dimensional spike in my direction as a threat. Darcy immediately hid behind him. “Keep your hands to yourself, creepy alien overlord. I’ve already got a man!”

I smirked and pointed a finger at his shivering form. We both had our wands at the ready. “Scared, human?”

“Y—you wish!” Clearly I wasn’t alone in laying a nostalgic easter egg.]

“Cut! We’re printing that!” Our dear director seemed happy. And knowing the producers who’d pitted Tom and I against each other to drum up some of that Potter audience in the first place, they would be equally ecstatic.

Impossible as it may sound, I’d taken the definition of tomfoolery to new, unattainable heights.