Chapter 52: Poster Child

Chapter 52: Poster Child

Leavesden Studios, UK. December 2009

I am the greatest billboard advert Warner Brothers could ever ask for. 

Take up Japanese language lessons, call Uniqlo’s headquarters, and ask Shinpachi just how well flaunting my majestic mug to flog their fabrics was going for their bottom line.

In this current day and age, where is the first positive impression a movie gets? I’ll let you in on a little secret: it sure as shit isn’t the fact that we’re the seventh and eighth movie in a near decade long franchise - who’ve taken the liberty of postponing the finale for another year. Just because I may see it as a creative coup doesn’t mean potential audiences won’t grumble about having to dig out another bill from their wallet for what they might consider half a movie - two and half hour run time be damned.

It certainly wasn’t the trailers, either. You were already sitting inside the cinema at that point, probably too busy scarfing down popcorn like the concession stand snuck in crack cocaine alongside the caramel to pay the preview true attention. 

No, that first free hit that really gets you jonesing for another sample was the movie poster. They are, for the consumer, what sets the expectation. The elements that clue you into the setting - like a magic castle, the colour palette gives you a heads-up as to the emotional tone, and even just having the famous people front and centre to let people know the person they hopefully fancy, is in it. 

Over the years, my face has been front and centre. Used to be better in the earlier years, though. Truthfully, the last poster I remember as being more than just Emma, Rupert, I (and a smattering of others) looking heroic but boring in the foreground of a gloomy backdrop, was Prisoner of Azkaban.

Blame, of course, can be rested at my feet - or rather, face. My evergreen (eyes included) popularity had allowed the WB marketing team’s prerogative to shift from competent to complacent. 

Leavesden’s crew wouldn’t have been half as lazy with their vision. Something they’d get to showcase this time around.

“Generally, this task of ours is considered the purview of the marketing division attached to Warner Brothers distributions. Nonetheless, as a personal favour to me, they have generously relinquished the all important poster creation to us, here at Leavesden.” David Heyman announced extra work to the already overworked crews with full grandiosity. WB corporate did precious little as it is, and they’d accomplish even less now. Not that they’d hesitate to take full credit, though. “Now, I’m sure to hear justifiable grumbling from the lot of you - I accept it. However, I thrust this burden upon you not solely because I can; what’s more important is that as Yates passes the torch back to Alfonso, we maintain a consistent image. What better way to foster that than a collaborative effort?”

“Well, there goes my weekend.” One of the bright spots from the day I almost drowned was that I made a new friend in one of the lead artists on our team.

“Big plans?”

 She shrugged in her perpetually paint-stained dungarees. “Unless you count greasy food and plenty of booze, no. But I, and the rest of the staff alike, would’ve really appreciated the opportunity to unwind.”

“I’ll see what I can do, then.” Hmm, I wonder what part of the world I should visit on the culinary tour next.

“C’mon Bas, I was only whinging. Don’t worry about it, job’s the job, we’ll get through. You don’t have to keep feeding us on your own dime.” 

“Dime is right. It costs me near nothing to give you guys something you deserve. It feels wrong not to contribute to everyone’s efforts in appropriate fashion, you know?”

“In that case, let me repay you some small way.” I ruminated for a moment. There wasn’t anything I wanted that I couldn’t get for myself. However, there were things I wanted to get for others that were best left to secrecy. 

“I may have an idea…” What I assumed was a comforting smile apparently appeared far more sinister to my artistically inclined compatriot.

“Point those fangs somewhere else. Don’t think for a moment that flashing your pearly whites is gonna get you anywhere!” Tough nut to crack, but I wasn’t looking to bust one, anyway.

Although, pants need not be present in our immediate future. “Nothing so salacious.” Get your easel ready DiCaprio, my version of Winslet is distinctly Welsh.

–

Sound Stage, Leavesden. December 2009.

Alfonso was leading today’s procession of weekend warriors. “It is the first time that I, and even Mr Yates, are doing the movie posters. Thankfully, the art department, as well as many, many classic movies, give much inspiración.” He flipped through large plastic pads, presenting his mood board, essentially. “At the end of the day, this movie is about a hunt - on two fronts. Harry’s search for the horcruxes, and Voldemort’s search for Harry. So, the two themes I really see are rivalry and horror, which brings us to the pictures we wanted to emulate. Amadeus from 1985, and Jaws.” Both were stylized paintings of a giant figure looming over a city and its prey, respectively. “While I might have liked to keep with the more artistic concepts.” Alfonso flipped over the actual mock-up they’d made for our poster. “But because of WB’s caveat that we must include the physical actors, we will need to take fresh portraits of some of you to make it fit.”

I could see why. The composition they’d envisioned required poses we’d never done before, to my memory. Ron wielded the Gryffindor sword, Hermione jabbed her wand and held what looked to be the destroyed Riddle diary, and I was hand-in-hand with Dobby, with the invisibility cloak in the other. The four of us stood with our backs facing the camera among the abandoned streets of Diagon Alley. We were small and almost silhouetted. The image that took up the overwhelming majority of the upper portion was Voldemort. 

Presiding over us like a dark storm was the Dark Lord. Arms spread wide and snarling down at the world he’d conquered. One hand (the one with the resurrection stone ring horcrux) stroking the elder wand, whose tip was pointed directly at me in the middle. Nagini twined around his arms, behind his neck where the Slytherin locket hung, and down the second arm which clutched the Hufflepuff cup. 

Poor old Ralph Fiennes was gonna have to spend the afternoon glued to the makeup chair again. He wouldn’t even get to wear his pretty little tiara. 

But it wasn’t just him. Wardrobe, props, set designers, makeup, and every other miscellaneous staff at Leavesden had been levied on their traditional days off; merely for a snapshot. 

Most I had to do was remain on standby. Which, while annoying, was a far easier existence than the crew’s. They’d already started scurrying around, dusting off the paraphernalia, and bringing Diagon back to life. Meanwhile, I and Emma reclined together, out of everyone’s way. Our proximity didn’t flag as unusual, but still close enough where we could inconspicuously play chopsticks or footsie with flirty fingers and frisky feet. 

“You smell nice today, Bas. New cologne? A lot more floral than your typical ones. Tropical almost.”

“Er, caught a whiff of that, did you?” Shit, I didn’t realise the scent had lingered. Can’t give the goat away just yet. Quick, prevaricate! “Since we can’t exactly go see the sights together, I thought it might be nice to smell some new scents instead.”

“We really must find some way of spending time together more openly than this. My dating life shan’t be limited to stolen moments.” Emma whined about the hardships of her own decision. 

Being the perfect boyfriend that would set the impossible bar for any future suitors, I heard her whispers loud and clear. “Then come by tonight. I’ll have a surprise waiting.” I was a pro at proactivity. 

“If you think that I’m going to waste our relationship with only hazy memories of your ceiling to remember, you have another thing coming.” Besides herself, Emma means. Why is it that the women I interact with instantly jump to conclusions about my carnal proclivities?

“Not what I had in mind, but if that’s what you’re after, I can give it to you.”

“Ugh, you’re such a pig, Bas!” Say that without blushing, and maybe I’ll believe you, Em.

“Oink.” My porky bouquet didn’t agree with her anymore. Feigning indignation, Emma stood up, huffed, and sashayed away. Those jeans must have been cutting off proper circulation - no wonder she was in a tizzy. 

My line of sight was blocked by Fedex’s shadow collapsing over me. “It is done.” My consigliere rocked up and chucked a roll of board-sized photo paper at me. 

The lead artist had come through and helped me construct my own Bas branded billboard. I was itching to open it up and check out the final product, but that was best left for the boudoir. “Sensational. Now let’s just hope this doesn’t get out and the tabloids think the same.” 

“Rest assured, our contractor was the soul of discretion. Her fondness for you will keep her lips sealed. Also, it was under my watch, no? Be positive, Mr Rhys. There will be no evidence. Even in the worst case, rumours are irrelevant. Hearsay is called that precisely because no one will believe you because you heard someone say it.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m a pessimist at heart. I only look at the negatives.”

“Then it is a very good thing I got those, too.” She tossed me an envelope. I peeled open the saliva stuck flap to discover the raw film we’d used in the camera to take my glamour shots.

–

Refectory, Leavesden. December 2009.

We’d adjourned to the dining hall once the photoshoot was completed. 

The setup was a tad different from usual, though. Typically, this room was organised similarly to every cafeteria in the world. Just your run-of-the-mill columns and rows of six-to-eight-seater tables. Tonight, that arrangement had been swapped for something out of a villainous lair.

We placed tables edge-to-edge, parallel and perpendicular, until it looked like a series of Us. Almost made me want to dig out an old Nokia and play snake - reminded me of the precise, boxy turns. 

Fairly efficient seating; a single long, curvy table, perfect for a party. The gaffers and various other menial production assistants had put in extra time and labour, so I wanted to ensure they all had seats at the table they’d helped build. 

My contribution was catering; specifically, I’d brought the pub everyone was craving to them. Pizza, pies, and an open bar. I wasn’t touching any of it - would’ve spoilt my dinner plans. 

Getting everyone sloshed took less than the half hour I’d politely stayed. To the rabble rousing flushed faces, the week’s worth of worries melted away. Yet I was still concerned that I hadn’t done enough for them. Food for thought. “A toast to Bas!” Though they didn’t think so. But what did drunkards know? They were all on a liquid diet, anyway. 

David Yates was foremost to answer the call. He shakily stood up, lofted his cup with beer foam spilling over the rim, and launched into a slurred speech. “May he succeed as he persistently seems to, and may we all continue to watch - from afar!” I’d let him get away with that.

“Hear hear!”

Ironic, considering the last time he confronted me was in this very room. As Yates made his giddy goodbyes, I left the table in near identical circumstances as that occasion. I had another clandestine meeting waiting for me back in my trailer.

–

Bas’ Caravan, Leavesden. December 2009.

While the others were boozing it up, Emma and I were having a far more sober evening - shared bottle of wine notwithstanding. 

“This was lovely, Bas, thank you.” Emma sighed, and contentedly cuddled up to me. We were sat in my dining nook in the RV. Her hand darted across the table, careful to avoid the lit candles, and plucked a flower from the vase I’d used as the centrepiece. “You even went to the florist. These are fresh.” I took it from her hand and planted it behind her ear. In return, Emma planted a wet one right on my lips; she tasted spicy. The remnants from the dinner I’d prepared clung to her tongue. 

“I got you a little something.” Taking the roll I’d received earlier, I handed it to her.

“That’s not fair, Bas. You’re making me feel like such a horrible girlfriend.” Emma eagerly unfurled it. Landscape in orientation though it was, the contents of my gift were a self portrait. I lay on a bed of bright yellow hibiscuses. Naked, with the most unashamed, sultry smirk I could muster. Only an extra large mound of petals, and an empty frame covered my modesty; inside of which I’d had my artist friend paint Emma’s portrait. Hadn’t taken her long with all the practice she’d had painting Luna’s mural. “God, you’re such a goof.” Emma kissed me again. “I love it.”

In future, I knew that fans of the series would have the movie poster we made today hanging on their wall as part of their merchandise collection. None, however, would likely be as prized as this piece of memorabilia. And hey, I even signed it.

‘Even if we’re only for now, a part of me is yours forever.’