Chapter 48: Conan Canon

Chapter 48: Conan Canon

Leavesden Studios, UK. August 2009.

“Hi, Conan O’Brien, here. It’s thirty-five years late, but finally at the age of forty-six, I have received my Hogwarts letter. This is not a joke, this is real. An owl came to the Conaco offices, dropped off my acceptance, pooped on one of my interns, and flew away. They say that a bird taking a dump on you is good luck, but unfortunately for my intern I had to fire them. I won’t accept such poor hygiene standards from my staff. So while they were packing up their desk - by which I mean they stole packets of sugar from the office pantry - I packed my bags and caught the next flight over to merry ‘ol England.” Conan delivered his monologue directly at the camera with his distinct matter-of-fact sarcasm.

Our allowed time for international escapades had run its course, so we (namely Emma, Rupert, and I) were all back on set. Though, just because shooting had resumed, didn’t mean that the press tour was any less hectic. As far as time crunches went, however, I reckon Conan was having an even harder time than I was. 

“This is highly unusual, Bas. I’m not accustomed to signing marketing deals with such small enterprises when I have entire media giants to tap. There’s still time for me to give NBC another call, pile on the pressure, and get them to fund this rinky-dink operation.” David Heyman grumbled beside me as the both of us stood just outside of earshot while Conan and his skeleton crew continued to prepare themselves. He’d been imploring me to reconsider our stance on our current promotional endeavour. We’d contracted with Conan directly through his own company Conaco to film this segment rather than traditional practise.

“We tried that first, remember? We already gave NBC the first right of refusal, and they refused. I wanted to do something special again, like what we did with Steve Irwin, but they were more interested in pushing for that same bog standard talk show parade.” Been there, done that. Neither was I overly interested in my ears getting pierced by Jimmy Fallon’s counterfeit cackles. 

“I know, it’s just… irregular. It certainly doesn’t help that Conan is footing the bill for his end of production out of his own pockets rather than NBC’s bottomless bag; which also means we only have this weekend alone to tape everything before he has to return. But the worst part of it all is that his visit hinges purely on the petty execs at NBC green lighting, and not to mention purchasing the sketch - or at the very least, reimbursing Conan for his efforts. I’m not convinced anything we do here today will see the light of day.”

“Valid.” I couldn’t fault David for his concerns. Time spent was money, too. Mine included, as I was a producer and had my own cash invested. I wasn’t about to pour it down the drain unless I knew those pipes terminated inside my bank account. “Have a little faith. So were Uniqlo and Comic-con - riskier and more expensive, mind you - but worked out great in the end, didn’t it? Both are staples, and nearly ubiquitous with the HP franchise now. This? It’s just a drop in the ocean by comparison.”

“Which is precisely why I’ve given the go ahead. But I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t at least play devil’s advocate. I don’t just have a little faith in you, Bas; I’ve always bet the farm on you. I think I, too, have proved that over the years.” Ah, I get it. 

Gotta have some niggling doubt whispering in my ears, so I never turn into an actual narcissist who surrounds himself with only yes men. Ellen was a good example of that, and it’ll ruin her career. If I was gonna be accused of narcissism, it had to be of the proper variety - where I get caught wanking off to my reflection.

“Trust is a two-way street.” David stopped scritching his overgrown stubble and met my eyes as I turned to face him. “If you genuinely believe that we’re wasting time right now, tell me. I’ll drop it, personally apologise to Conan, and let it lie. I promise I won’t even be too cross - I’ll only make your life hell for a week, tops.” It came off as a joke, but I was dead serious. Conan was fun, and I was a fan, but I wasn’t about to jeopardise my more important professional relationships for a quick romp if there was legitimate push back on the idea.

 Late night talk shows were a platform that was limping towards its whimpering demise. Within a decade, they would be reduced to begging for views on more popular forums - most notably by posting clips and snippets on YouTube. Which was my play here. 

NBC can’t be allowed to hold the rights for this segment, because they’d scrub Conan’s entire existence on their network as soon as he left. Conan’s TBS career (under Warner media, funnily enough) wouldn’t be that much more fruitful; but where he’d shine and build his brand was on YouTube - specifically via the remote segments. The more popular ones reaching up to five-ten times the views any Harry Potter trailer will. And if his new show’s premiere just so coincides with Deathly Hallows’ release… well, I’d just chalk that up as a win for both WB and I. 

I hoped that this first, relatively safe foray into this type of currently non-traditional marketing would pave the way for anything more elaborate I might want to do in the future. More widespread and cheaper, too.

“Enough, Bas. There’s no need for that. I’m with you.” David raised his fist and gently thumped me on my shoulder. “Now, put away that business face. You’ll scare off all the Harry Potter fans.” He jutted his chin behind me; I followed the direction to see Conan’s gangly gait jogging towards us. “I’d tell you to look sharp, but that’s the exact opposite of what I want. Do what you do best, Bas, and charm everyone’s pants off.”

“You got it, boss!” 

--

“Hey, Bas, we’re ready for you. Seriously, man, thanks again for doing this.” Conan eagerly stole me from David Heyman, while he shoo’d us away to get started.

“No worries, mate.” I waved away his unnecessary gratitude. “Didn’t I say we’d film a remote together?”

“Sure, but you and I both know that in this industry, most conversations have more lip service than a truck stop glory-hole.” There was a good reason he was on late night television.

“Have a lot of experience with that, do you?”

“Only when my wife’s at her mother’s.” We reached our markers in front of his crew, comprising a couple of production staff and two cinematographers with shoulder rigs. “Alright. Normally at this point I have to have a quick chat with my guests and temporary co-hosts to chill out, go with the flow, and riff back if they can. Clearly not a convo I need to have with you. So let’s keep it loose and roll!” Conan signalled his director.

“Action!” And we got started.

Conan didn’t even need a steadying breath. “As you can see behind me, I’m not in a normal part of England. The buildings here are about as crooked as British dentistry.” He spread his arms and gestured towards the Diagon Alley set we were currently standing in the middle of. The fabricated Gringott’s facade was in the rear, as the street leading from the bank gates to us were artfully, and chaotically squashed by the bright colourful, and lopsided storefronts - most prominent of those being Ollivander’s sign, which we were standing beneath. “Diagon Alley is about as crazy as it gets, and is the perfect beginning for my entry into the magical world. In order to navigate this mess, I need someone equally insane to guide me through it. Folks at home know him as the iconic Harry Potter. I know him as the guy who left a footprint on my couch. Please welcome my wizarding sherpa, Bas Rhys.”

What a wonderful welcome. Far be it from me to neglect reciprocity. “And I’d like to introduce Conan Weasley.” He mistakenly took that as a compliment and bobbed his head to make his ginger coif wiggle aggressively. “Don’t let the wrinkles fool you, he’s suffering from Benjamin Button’s disease. The Weasleys had him hidden away because he was too ugly, but we can’t avoid him now that he’s eleven.” Mentally, if not physically. Was our mutual lack of maturity why we got along?

My arm flexed and curled up in anticipation of the hit that inevitably came. Conan rabbit punched my shoulder as he whined. “It’s been thirty - count - thirty seconds since we started and you’re already acting out.”

“Then let’s take this double act inside, shall we? Can’t have a wizard without a wand.” Leading him inside the pre-prepared shop set, we met Ollivander. Well, not really. One of the prop masters on staff had temporarily replaced John Hurt. He pushed a long, slender box forward that held the wand we’d set aside for Conan.

“Wow.” Conan, surprised at the quality of the prop, balanced it on his palm and weighed it. “I’m surprised you guys are actually giving me like a real prop. I thought for sure it’d be something from toys’r’us. So, what’s the wand core made out of? Dragon, Phoenix, Unicorn?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re Irish. Therefore, your wand’s made from pulverised leprechaun.” Oh, aye di dye di dye!

“Okay, that’s hurtful. You’re worse than dementors; just sucking my soul out here, Bas.”

“Oh, you’re quite safe from them. You’d need a soul to be affected. Go on then, give it a swish and a flick.”

In typical Conan fashion, he scrunched his neck and face and wailed a spell in that high pitched nasally tone he uses for mockery. “Alright, here come the magic words. Please and thank you!” That command was good enough for our VFX assistant, who flicked on the fans underfoot. Conan and his billowing hair revelled in the breeze. “You know, as glorious as this moment is, I kinda wish I had dressed for the occasion. I’m in jeans, for God’s sake. Hogwarts is in Scotland, so magic robes, or a kilt, or something would’ve been nice to wear.”

“Probably for the best you aren’t. Had you been, that gust of wind would have shown the world your philosopher’s stones.”

“I’m gonna take this piece of wood and jam it so far up your chamber of secrets, Bas!”

--

Shopping done; after a detour towards various other sets for more tomfoolery, we swapped from the Diagon Alley to the Burrow set in an adjacent warehouse. This particular set was far, far busier than the nearly abandoned shopping strip, as we were actively filming a scene here. 

On the fake grass lawn that stretched out from the front of the side of the Burrow’s outer walls, the set design crew had constructed a lavishly decorated tent. Purple cloth runners hung, bowed, and draped down the walls from the ceiling. Matching tablecloths, highlighted with floral centrepieces, covered breakaway tables. 

Almost made me wanna get married, like Bill and Fleur Weasley were gonna be. But as soon as that harrowing thought flitted through my mind - accompanied by the cold clamp of metaphorical shackles clipping around my wrists - I tossed it out. 

Conan, however, would have a far harder time escaping his binds. “Three, two, one, brace for impact.” The stunt coordinator, who’d harnessed the newly discovered Weasley, calmly called out his instruction.

While Conan followed them fearfully. “Mother-!” The resounding crash of perfectly censored the rest of the expletive, when he was flung through collapsing wood and on to a foam mat. I’d tried to warn him that tensing up wouldn’t stop it. I knew better than anyone just how strong those stunt rope winches were.

“Yes, dear? You called?” Julie Walters had graciously offered to become part of the segment when I’d asked. 

He looked up at us and the two cameramen. The wind had clearly been knocked out of him. Because he sounded like he’d lost the ‘L’ in his borrowed surname and was Conan wheezy now. “I’m not from here, so maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t feel like it’s customary to launch one of your wedding guests through a table.”

“What’s the matter, young old man? Lost your spine, have you? You can’t call yourself a Weasley, if a table is enough to scare you off.” She happily walked up to Conan’s half-buried body, arm in arm with me, but this Molly had no intention of coddling Conan. 

“You said you wanted the full Harry Potter experience. We got you a wand, got you sorted, now you need to pluck up that Gryffindor courage and face mortal peril.” 

“Maybe I might have had a spine if it wasn’t broken!” With how loud he was capable of complaining, he was one hundred percent fine. 

“Oh, do grow a pair! Here, take a look at this.” Keeping my left arm locked between the crook of her elbow, Julie reached over, snatched my hand, and pointed it palm face up at one camera. “See this scar? It’s only the most recent in a long line of injuries Bas has suffered since he was a boy. He’s deeply committed.” 

“The only place Bas needs to be committed is an asylum.” Please stop using that word around me. It’s making me queasy - I’d rather jump off a cliff. Now that sounded fun.

I quickly changed the subject. “So ready to do it again? We’ve got plenty of spare tables.”

He thought for a moment. “Will I at least get a cameo out of this?”

Had I not thought that his face suddenly popping up - even for a split second - would be immersion breaking, I would’ve lobbied for it. But the scene was far too sombre for that. “BTS only, I’m afraid.”

Conan started laughing, his face turned redder than his hair the longer his disbelieving amusement stretched. “Hey, Bas, whenever they finally put you in the loony bin, ask them to reserve a room for me too.”