Chapter 67: Roshambozos

Chapter 67: Roshambozos

Banbridge, Northern Ireland. August 2011.

Winter is coming. 

A novelty of a bygone era to my postmodern mentality, to be sure. While many in my displaced position might savour the unseasonable chilliness, my equatorial disposition had my nose inflamed, as if I’d been snorting red cans of coke. That, or to the occasional passerby, I’d been sneaking sips from the sealed bottle of liquor cradled in my hand.

Where was global warming when you needed it? It was the middle of summer, for fuck’s sake! This eleven degrees of Belfast bullshit almost had me playing six degrees of separation with the script, and calling this whole thing quits. 

Then I saw boobies, and I thought better of it.

Two women tumbled out of a pre-fabricated shed. Neither were wearing their clothes properly. Clad in fluffy robes, but nowhere near tight enough to fight the windchill. Nevermind my previous complaint, I love nippy weather. 

Winter truly was a wonderland.

After an indeterminate interval of imbibing an eyeful of giggling girlies and their jiggling jubblies, I remembered my mammar–manners. Obligation? No. I considered it my civic duty to address their state of undress. Can’t exactly have perverts other than myself ogling anyone, yeah? Plus, never harmful to get acquainted with the local talent; I’d marched out to make a good first impression. Might as well start with a little tête-à-tête here - a tit-a-tit, if you will. 

“Hello, ladies!” I jogged up and skimmed my free hand’s index finger up and down my chest to signal where they ought to be paying attention to their own bodies. “We’re past playing peek-a-boo at our age, I think.”

Both glanced at me, startled. Followed my gesture with furrow-browed confusion, and panned lower. Regrettably, they each tucked themselves away, tied their sashes more securely, and rendered their double-breasted lapels into turtlenecks. “Whoops!” 

“No worries, happens more than you’d guess - especially on the way to make-up or wardrobe.” Which was where I’d initially been heading.

They were likely far more used to the climate, so the ruddy banding blooming across their cheeks wasn’t cosmetic. “I can’t believe I just flashed Harry Potter!”

“You’d, uh, probably also be surprised how often I’ve been caught with my pants ‘round my ankles too, if it makes you less self-conscious.” I placated because I understood all too well. “Highly, highly doubt it’ll be the last anyone’s seen far more of me than is recommended.” 

“Thanks. So, were you just tossing us a proverbial towel, or is there anything else you need from us?”

“All we’ve got is the clothes on our backs, currently.” That warmth I’d been seeking? Here it was. “But you can have that too, if you’d like.” She was exhaling plenty of heat in her breathy, Irish accent.

Much as I wanted to respond with equally fiery flirtation, I thought it a bit too early in my tenure to dive so eagerly into hot water. “Rain check” Dousing any burning loins, I made a more work-appropriate request for companionship. “Maybe you can help me out with something else, though. Mind guiding me towards our on-set salon? I’ve a terrible sense of direction.”

“Oh, sure! That’s our destination, anyway.” One wrapped herself around my right arm.

“Fine. But you’ll owe us drinks in return.” While the other snagged my left.

“Deal.” It’s difficult to argue when you’ve got a couple of actresses in bathrobes tugging you along between them. “Just between the three of us, this is certifiably the best first day on set I’ve ever had.”

I initially assumed we’d be bee-lining towards the huge warehouse building of Linen Mill studios - one of the two primary set hangars and sound stage facilities used by Game of Thrones production. Instead of cutting across the packed carpark, we meandered onto the adjacent plot, also overtaken for season two filming.

Our triple threat stalked across the grassy field, littered with various tents, sheds, and the occasional caravan. All of which dotted the landscape, trapping the massive Harrenhal set within its encirclement; painting the fibreglass, cloth, and nailed wood in a more authentic patina than even the exemplary art department had intended. Before I could cut my acting teeth there, though, I was escorted through the canvas flap of the singularly largest tent pitched up to deal with an army of armoured and tailored actors and extras alike.

Lots of weird props, colourful clothes, and clipboard wielding commanders corralling an entire cast’s worth of kooky characters. Like an odd amalgamation of Glastonbury and the renaissance fair.

As the headlining VIP I was, my ultimate destination ended up being the small section sequestered behind scaffolds and screens at the back for whatever measure of privacy my star-hood afforded me. 

“Bas, you’re here!” I’d been expected. Detaching myself from my pouting retinue, I sauntered over to the lone table that had anyone seated at it, and accepted D. B. Weiss’ invitation to join him. “A-and I see you’ve brought, um… refreshments. I’ll stick to my coffee.” 

Planting the bottle of Teeling single malt I’d impulsively picked up at duty free on the table, I gave Weiss a hearty smack on his back. “Relax, I promise I haven’t poisoned anything this time.”

“Minus your liver, I suspect.” Charles Dance stood up and growled at me. Not for any other reason than that’s the natural timbre of his voice. “You certainly know how to make an entrance. Is this typical behaviour on your part, or are we special?” A theory which I confirmed when his handshake was pleasantly firm in lieu of knuckle shattering vise grip Tywin Lannister is wont to give.

“Bit of both, really. Just doing my due diligence and paying tithe to the most feared man in Westeros - I’d prefer to avoid Lannister regard slipping between my ribs in the middle of the night.” Typical was a fairly accurate assessment, because I once again employed my usual strategy of letting Charles know I was aware and a fan of his craft to ingratiate myself. 

“Ha!” Mission accomplished — I knew the second his leonine scowl morphed into a wolfish grin, and he replaced our handshake with open-palm thumps on my shoulder as he beckoned me to sit next to him. “Someone’s been watching the show.”

“Read the books, too. Cover to cover. Had I more leeway in my schedule, I’d have petitioned for a more committed role in the series. Euron, maybe.”

“Hey, we still might be able to finagle that in. Did Jaqen H’ghar steal Euron Greyjoy’s face, or was Euron a faceless man all along? Could be a good way to subvert some expectations!” I didn’t know if Weiss was making a joke or actually spit balling new ideas to fuck the show up sooner than it originally would’ve.

Best nip that in the bud ASAP. “Woah, there! Rein it in, man. I wouldn’t call it advisable to be so cavalier with the source material. Not to overstep, but I’m sort of uniquely situated to speak truth to the topic with full authority. Potter hasn’t been breaking records with every iteration by going so totally off script that it becomes unrecognisable.”

“Nah.” Weiss shook his head in disagreement, which only made me wish I’d walloped his brains rather than his back earlier. “The lens that Benioff and I see the story through differs from George Martin’s conceptualization. I mean, there’s just so many disparate threads he’s written and characters who seem downright superfluous - that while we have the barebones plot notes for the overall narrative - it’s still difficult to keep a track. Putting every tiny nuance on screen is an impossible task. We’ve got to keep things streamlined.” 

Wow, that was quite the defensive tirade he’d gone on. One that I honestly saw the point in. George required six years to finally publish his latest book a few weeks ago, and the showrunners needed to balance their own vision with the futile hope that he’d finish Winds of Winter by the time season six and book six would coincide. Frankly, George was never gonna let that happen. 

“I get it. George is a glutton, and you need to trim the fat. Authors aren’t the end-all-be-all.” I turned to Charles. “What’s that saying you have concerning improving bad writing?”

“Making a purse out of a pig’s ear.” He narrowed those steely eyes of his as he scrutinised me closer. “You’ve been more vigilant than I realised.”

“Right. Making a purse out of a pig’s ear. For example, in the books, Arya and Lord Lannister, here, never have a full-fledged conversation. But I’ve read the script and their interactions that you’ve added for the benefit of the show are truly phenomenal. All I’m saying is that you don’t need to stretch the realm of believability and have her tackle another major villain - like, I don’t know, the night king - and have her shank him at the end of the series and end the whole thing so anticlimactically.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’d never do that!” Oh, but you did. Neither you nor Benioff were that wise, Weiss.

“Cool! Then I look forward to bingeing Game of Thrones every year.” Or at least as long as the writing continues to hold up. God, I need a drink. “How about a toast?” I waved over my volunteer tour guides, who’d thus far been silently observing the back-and-forth on shuffling feet, and asked them to join us. Once again, following my gesture, they stole a few mini-cups from the nearby espresso machine and scooted onto the bench next to me. “Unless, of course, we’re waiting for anyone else.”

“Allow me to do the honours, and crack the cork on this.” Charles reached for the bottle, peeled off the foil topper. “Somebody else might turn up, eventually. As of now, team wolf, which is us and the poor souls beyond the wall, are either here or further north, where this drink might be better appreciated. Team dragon are in old Dubrovnik, I believe. Living it up like kings in King’s Landing. They have enough.” He poured expensive whiskey into cheap paper cups and passed them out around the table. “These little dollops of sunshine are better shared amongst us.” He sculled his shot, blew out a puff of boozy breath, and poured himself another. “Bracing!”

“Speaking of sharing, mind if I pick your brain about acting, in general? I’ve so far made it a habit to leech advice from whoever I deem the MVP on every one of my projects. Et viola, you’ve appeared! Hell, it’s half the reason I brought my bribe.” Failing earnest dialogue, liquor is an effective lip loosener.

“Thought as much. Are you certain that’s even necessary? You seem attuned to a good number of my views already.” 

“C’mon, ditch the method acting. Have some mercy on us amateurs.” I nudged the two girls beside me to either break out the puppy-dog-eyes or their puppies. “You won’t find a more attentive classroom.”

Both took advantage of the career opportunity I’d potentially opened up for them. “That’d be a dream come true!”

“We really would genuinely be so grateful for any counsel.”

“Wear me down, why don’t you?” The forehead rubbing Charles was doing told me I successfully had.

Might as well sweeten the pot, though. “Tell you what, help me out with my role, and I’ll reciprocate in future. Tickle your fancy yet?”

“Very well, but I’m not accustomed to doling out decades of distilled expertise for free. I have another condition - a game, rather. For every slice of knowledge, you each take a shot. Let’s see how long we last, how comprehensible I remain, and how much you retain.”

Without missing a beat, I slammed my own dixie cup of hooch. “Bueno!”

A smirk challenged, an eyebrow lifted, and another snifter poured. “Then, so be it. Mm, where to start?”

“I’ve always wondered how you make the best of a bad role, such as from a subpar screenplay you can’t contractually escape.” Charles had an eclectic filmography that may provide valuable insight into my own potential career. 

“Shot first.” He pointed. Gulp. I complied. “The way I’ve always tackled a shit assignment is to throw caution and shame to the wind. If you ascertain beforehand you’re not going to have a good time, you may as well have fun with it. Simple as.”

“Get weird, get wacky, cash the cheque, and take the hit to your portfolio.” Another dram of whiskey filled my cup.

“Succint. Indeed.” The bottle’s lip hovered questioningly over the still full cups of the three other tenants at the table. “Uno mas?”

Over the gullet, their sips went (Weiss through sheer peer pressure). I answered affirmatively for them as they were too busy coughing out their burning lungs. “Uno mas.”

–

Harrenhal Set Make-up Tent, Linen Mill Studios. August 2011.

“Don’t even think about being nervous for a moment! Bas is a sweetheart, I swear. Signs, selfies, his left testicle; you name it, he’ll give it to you. That boy is clinically diagnosed with a condition that makes him unable to deny his fans.” Maisie heard her heart beat harder and louder in excitement with each word out of Nat’s mouth.

Honestly, Maisie’d been a bit morose when Sophie’d been shipped off to Croatia this season. Apparently, Arya and Sansa were doomed to separate in real life, too. Isaac was due any day to reprise Bran, but that just wasn’t the same.

Just when she thought she’d be mostly alone, she’d run into Nat Tena. 

Osha the wildling was perfect casting, because the older woman embodied it. She was just a big kid and so she and Maisie got along like a house on fire. 

Even better, Nat had let Maisie in on a key piece of hot goss. Tonks wasn’t the only former Potter cast joining Game of Thrones - and she wasn’t referring to David Bradley as Walder Frey and Argus Filch. As very much the target demographic of the franchise, Maisie couldn’t be more thrilled to meet Bas Rhys - and monopolizing his acting scenes, as well! “You’re really hyping him up. I’m expecting a lot from him now.”

“He’s a riot. Trust me.”

Maisie’s spirits rose as they got nearer to the private dressing room, but as they did, she discovered the volume inside was even higher and a commotion was leaking out through the door.

It was pandemonium when they entered. 

Two half-dressed extras leaning on each other for support. Her production exec boss completely conked out with an empty bottle of alcohol clutched in his fist. At first glance, Charles Dance still appeared as if he had control over his faculties. Very quickly, however, his flushed face and slurred speech betrayed him. “Ha! My win again - shizzurs beats rock!” No, it doesn’t…

“You’re right.” No, he wasn’t! “Deal’s a deal. Teeling’s drained, so my trousers it is.” Bas stumbled on to his struggling feet and reached for his zipper. 

Immediately Maisie’s hands bolted up to cover her eyes (sans the peeping slit between her fingers). “Oh my God, Harry Potter’s drunk!” Her outburst was totally warranted, she felt.

 “Oi! What’s wrong with you?” Nat’s outrage, as she stomped over and snatched Bas’ shirt collar, wasn’t far behind.

Nat shook him.

His trousers fell.

Maisie’s finger gaps widened, and the word behind became the only train of thought chugging through her mind. “How dare you throw an impromptu stag-do and not include me!?” Clearly, Nat’s head was also elsewhere.

Bas, meanwhile, imitated a deer caught in headlights. His eyes bounced between the two new arrivals before swirling around his sauced sockets. “U-uno mas?” Was the only nonsense he could spit out.

Yeah… Maisie reflected. She was speechless too, Bas.