Chapter 45: Copy Cat Burglar

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SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: I never do these and likely won’t going forward very often. As an expression of my deep gratitude for the stellar support you’ve all graced me with - as well as a celebration of crossing 200K in word count several chapters back - I’ve decided to release a double feature chapter. This is the single longest chapter I’ve ever written for IoTV! Sitting at just over twice the count for an average release. Between familiar character interactions, industry insight, and even some intrigue, I hope it has a little something for everyone. A labour of love from me, to you. Thank you again, sincerely. With that out of the way, enjoy! 

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Chapter 45: Copy Cat Burglar

Leavesden Studios, UK. April 2009. 

“Don’t point that thing at me, you pillock!” The visual playback on the tiny, rotatable monitor hastily blurred and rested on a scuffed pair of Nike trainers, as the lens shifted away from the cameraman’s boss. 

Huh… the cameraman couldn’t help but appreciate how much easier the aperture was focusing now that it no longer fought against the light imbalance caused by refractions bouncing off his boss’ gleaming dome. “Cor, these handy cams sure are… er, handy.” 

“Where does the foreman keep finding you nutters? What I wouldn’t do to have Nat back with us - she had all you cam jockeys wrapped around her finger. Alway knew how to keep you lot on task.” 

The cameraman hesitated. He wanted to catch his boss scrubbing his scalp in frustration, to see if that affected the light balance at all. “Who’s Nat?” 

“Natalia Tena. She’s one of the actresses. Plays Tonks in the films; and is my favourite, if you ask me. More importantly, she was our unofficial behind-the-scenes host. But since she’s not due to arrive yet, I’m stuck with a duffer like you to take up her reins. I’m almost afraid to ask, but you do know what your job is, don’t you?” 

Cameraman - or Cam henceforth - was a righty. Which meant that it was his right hand strapped into the handy cam handle. The very same hand that almost smacked the block of plastic into his forehead when he saluted; nearly ending his employment for the week. He’d had a bloody time-and-a-half getting in here  - he couldn’t screw it up just yet - or at all, ideally. “No need to get your knickers in a twist, gov. Got me head on straight. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m the after action reporter catching the BTS banter and bargain bin B-roll for the DVD extras.” Though Cam was secretly hoping he’d get lucky and scrounge gold, too. 

“Right. I reckon that’s the gist of it. I’d be as stupid as you if I bother to ask any more of you.” Cam’s corder shook again as his boss lifted it up and let the image settle on the warehouse entrance. “This needs to be pointed up at all times. Remember to capture everything you can, that lanyard around your neck isn’t just for show, you’ve got great access. Use it. And for Christ’s sake, don’t disturb anyone during takes. They’ll answer your questions so long as you don’t go the way of The Sun and ask stupid, intrusive ones. Just stick to their characters, the filming process, and maybe they’ll be gracious enough to offer up more personal tidbits. You get all that?”

 Cam zoomed in. The warehouse door opened to admit the star of the show himself, Bas Rhys. Despite the hood covering Bas’ head now, he knew who it was from the hoodie - Bas had been wearing the same one when he spied the bloke entering the make-up room earlier. 

Some frumpy old bird followed in his swaggering footsteps. She spotted him, but who cared about her? Cam had his lens trained on Harry Potter until he disappeared inside. “Oh, I will.” 

Unexpectedly, though, not quite this fast. 

Not five minutes on the studio floor and Cam had been accosted by an unnaturally pale looking Bas Rhys. Without so much as a hello, Bas had spurned the use of mirrors and instead co-opted the handy cam (with the hinged monitor pointed Bas’ way) to survey his white-painted, ghostly figure. 

Bas was shirtless, his face and neck painted white as bone, flexing both his muscles and facial features directly into the camera. 

Was this guy on drugs? He hoped so. “So, um, is all this for a shoot?” Cam panned around the studio to reveal that Bas was only one of seven in a similar state - although the girls were covered from under their shoulders courtesy of bulky, flesh-coloured tops. “Are all of you meant to be ghouls or something?” None of them paid any mind to his camera as there was an entire, globe-like rig of cameras they were more worried about. 

“Before we start, I’m curious as to the nature of everyone else’s interview. Because if they’ve been rainbows and unicorns, I’m probably gonna come off as an asshole.” Bas had yet to even look at him, more focused on his digital reflection as he adjusted his headband to keep the few fraying strands back.

 “Well, you’re the first one, so I reckon you can set the tone.” That was clearly the wrong thing to say. Bas’ shockingly green eyes suddenly shot up and bore into him. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Bas waggled a finger at him and tutted. “You’re fresh on set, aren’t you? Although… you look oddly familiar.” Cam felt a shock of fear race up his spine. He froze up enough that the image on the screen actually looked steady. “Anyway. Word of advice: don’t serve up the main course before the appetisers. You’ll need the practice.”

 “Even for simple questions?”

 “Especially for simple questions-”

“Bas! You’re up!”

“As you can see, I’m booked solid this week. So if you wanna interview me, you sort of need your ducks in a row if you don’t wanna waste tape. Tell you what, let me help you out. Oi! Phelpses! Care to lend a hand? My turn’s next, and newbie here needs some serious notes.” 

Cam pivoted over to the two identical ginger ghosts. “How’s that our problem?” Their tone was dismissive, but both sauntered over and shoved their faces into frame. 

“Who wants a sub, when you’ve got teacher of the year already?” Cam bounced from one twin to the other as they spoke. So much for keeping it pointed straight. 

“Yeah, mate - and put a shirt on.” Cam, for the second time today, captured a wiggling finger. The twin threateningly jiggled his digits at Bas’ exposed nipple. Cam zoomed in on that, too. Reflex, he couldn’t help it; just like Bas when he swatted the hand away.

“Never. Plus, I figured the two of you might appreciate extra face time with the audience since I’m literally headed over to superimpose my face on to yours.” Bas then turned directly to the camera, waved, and walked off towards the contraption. “Toodles. Book an appointment next time - don’t need you lurking about with your candid cam now, do I?”

“Camera hog!”

“Jog on then!” Both twins taunted Bas playfully before turning their attentions to his handy cam. “Now, what to do with you?”

“Surely there’s a question mark rolling around in that vacuous head of yours by now.”

“Is this thing on?” Cam thought the Weasley twin was reaching over to mock knock his camcorder. But he was wrong. The knuckle rapped (gently) at his forehead. Didn’t help that the contact made quite a loud thunk, that ironically made it sound like there wasn’t a lot of thinking going on at all.

Shite, Cam scolded himself. He was blowing this. “W-well, I guess first off, why is everyone covered in white paint, and what’s that ring of cameras for?”

“Two movie stars and the only thing he thinks to ask about is ruddy filming.”

The first twin complained, but at least the second one was helpful. “It’s called MOVA facial capture. Cool bit of kit - never done anything like it before. The way it works is: we sit for a quick sesh with the make-up team. They apply this special phosphorescent make-up to our faces, which is filled with thousands of tiny, glowing dots.”

“To the folks at home: this gunk may look like it - but it’s not rave paint. We’re certainly not having a party backstage. Smells and tastes closer to pigeon droppings than anything else.” Number one was clearly here having a laugh.

“Then we hit the world’s most complicated photo booth.” Following his pointed finger, Cam caught Bas stuffing himself into the ball of light and glass. “That entire rig’s surrounded by an array of cameras and UV lights. The lights make the dots on our face glow, and the cameras capture every angle and detail of our expressions. Basically makes a hyper realistic digital mould of our gobs.”

“None of the girls were too happy about that, I’ll tell you that much. No hiding any blemishes in there. The cameras have got you warts, wrinkles, and all. Made worse because we’ve got to contort and twist our faces into any ridiculous, painful looks we can think of. Transformations in the wizarding world aren’t cute by any means.”

Driving himself nearly dizzy as he swerved the handy cam from one ginger to the next. “So then what? You send it off to some CGI wizards who turn you into ghosts?”

“Follow along, will you? Not ghosts - it’s for our polyjuice change into and out of Harry. Six of us in total. We, the handsome Weasley duo; and the two beauties, Hermione and Fleur, are uglified into Bas. But at least Mundungus and Ron get to be attractive for a day.” 

“Overall, it’s a fun process - despite the blow to your ego from seeing what one’s face actually looks like. Just spend a day making silly faces. Bas has it a lot harder-”

“Bloody well should with his paycheck!”

“He’s got to mirror every little nuance in each of our expressions, so that the animators can cherry pick whatever they want. The rest of us are done. We’re all headed back for the day. Don’t bother waiting for Bas, because he’s gonna have his head stuck in that thing until well after dinner.”

Harry Potter may have been the boy of prophecy, but Cam reflected to himself that the twins could very well have been the ones to have foretold it. After rushing through a few more inconsequential interviews, he had positioned himself on a stool in a corner to finally catch Bas off guard. Too bad he fell asleep, drool staining his shirt hours before Bas had been allowed to hobble home. 

Nobody had the courtesy to shake him awake. His neck felt cricked, sore, and stuck worse than ever before. But, he reflected, sometimes there were hazards in his line of work. He’d just have to keep it up if he wanted the inside scoop on Bas Rhys. The blighter owed him. Cam vowed to store a couple cans of coffee in his cargo pants next time - even if just as a precaution, because there was no way the filming schedule worsened.

Would it?

It did. 

Clack! “Take 42!” Is this really the meaning of life? Sandwiched between the hurly-burly grips and gaffers fiddling with the boom mics and lights respectively, Cam was just about ready to holster his handy cam and call the entire day a loss. 

Choice wasn’t a luxury he could afford (amongst a great many other things). Bas was here, stripped to his skivvies again. Cam wished seeing the star constantly on the verge of being bare-assed felt new; but just like the rest of the crew barely batting an eye at his perpetual state of undress, he suspected few outside would find novelty in it. 

Everyone and their scandalised grandmothers had seen the Uniqlo advert making the rounds.. Sales and bedroom posters were certifiably up. 

But Cam remained determined. He knew firsthand how capable Bas was of conjuring a story out of thin air. He just needed to be patient. 

Emma Watson was present, as was the fit French bird with the gap tooth. Both were speculated to have deeper involvement with Bas - so Cam was confident that the current situation, and cast, was rife with opportunity. Given enough time, he knew he’d dredge up a story juicier than Bas’ pert behind. 

“That’s Fred and George done.” Take 43 started with David Yates finally letting Bas graduate from his twinning program. “Okay, let’s get the motion control camera in place, and the rest of the blocking needs to be prepped too, please.” As the incredibly high-tech camera swung on a jimmy jib, Cam craned his far more modest recorder downward. The grey carpet was littered with a chaotic mess of multi-coloured strips of tape - that, to these people, seemed somehow perfectly organised. “Bas, we’re moving on to Mundungus here on out. So take care and follow the brown markers only. Eduardo, how’s the frame?”

The handful of buttons Cam had access to felt comically inadequate compared to the veritable spaceship the lead cinematographer was fondling. “One more minute. We must do the, how you say, recalibration again. It is two centimetres off mark.” 

Like it had in earlier takes, the main camera robotically followed the precise movement that he’d seen the technical expert program into it. 

The timing, the positioning, all of it was pinpoint precise. Which Cam figured was easy for a computer to do, but far more difficult for a human to replicate with the same degree of absolute accuracy.

Though, as Cam surveyed, the crew was gonna give it their best shot. 

An army of production assistants marched on to the set, constantly vigilant of where they stepped. Tactfully avoiding and tiptoeing over the gaffer tape markings to hoist up the portable green screen an exact measurement behind Bas - who himself was tracing the floor lines with a startling amount of grace. Cam wanted to see how he’d look if they slapped a tutu on him. 

“Bas, please remember to confine yourself as much as possible, and each single twitch has to be indistinguishable from the last take’s. I’m sorry to keep harping on about it, and you’re so far doing an incredible job despite the excessively complex nature of everything, but it bears repeating.” David Yates piped up with caffeine fueled anxiety. 

It was a strange dynamic, Cam reflected, between an actor and director. He’d not spent any time on actual movie sets before this, but he’d have previously assumed the dynamic of deference would have been on the opposite track. 

“No worries, David. I hear you. An inch here or there and the compositing goes to the dogs - I’ll be overlapping with six other versions of me. I’d sooner do this a hundred times than purely rely on CGI, so you won’t hear me complain. Actually, before we get to that - Andy!”

“Bwuh- wuzzat? Oh! Right, I’m up, I’m up!” A raspy voice that had so far been snoozing in the corner jolted awake. 

“Would you mind running through the scene again? I need a refresher on your mannerisms, please.” Bas stepped aside as the actor for Mundungus Fletcher took his place. The contrast - and Cam wasn’t referring to the colour setting on the handy cam - was staggering. Both clearly belonged in front of the lens. It’s just that while Bas looked best on the big screen, Andy was better suited to feature on CCTV security footage. All in all, appropriate casting for a skeevy, petty thief.

Most of the crew had their attention trained on Mundungus Fletcher perform the rigmarole donning his costume. Bas beyond anyone else was laser focused on him. Everyone except for Cam, of course, who predatorily sniped the superstar in his scope. 

Bas Rhys better be prepared for another extreme close-up, because Cam zoomed in as deep as he could. Initially, it felt like filming a statue. Bas stood stock still; zoned in to the rehearsal playing out in front of him. But the longer Cam stayed on him, the more minute movements he saw.

It started small. His brow furrowed while he concentrated. Pupils flittered faster than a hummingbird’s wings as he absorbed the action. Silent dialogue left his lips as he copied the other’s delivery and intonation. He didn’t know if it was a glitch in the camera or a trick of the light, but the air surrounding Bas subtly changed as he morphed his expression and body to better ape Mundungus. Eyes squinted, neck sunk, and his shoulders and upper back hunched. His joints from his elbows to his wrists and knuckles curled in on themselves and tucked tighter into his side with almost arthritic discomfort. “Ready, Bas?”

“As I’ll ever be.” 

Sashaying forward, Bas retook his stance atop the brown markers, now completely embodying Mundungus Fletcher.

“Take 43! Action!”

Programming switched on, the motion control camera followed along its predetermined path. Capturing every last second of Bas grungily unbuttoning his shirt to slip into his Harry disguise. Though, the clothes were only the very superficial surface of the outfit - Bas’ reconstructed vocal and physical impression of Harry playing Mundungus playing Harry is what clinched it. 

“Take 45!”

And he did that again.

“Take 53!”

And again.

“Take 60!”

And again.

Cam sniffed with derision - he caught a strong whiff of cabbage. 

Andy, the actor for Fletcher, was suddenly in his peripheral vision. Making a disgusted face, with a pronounced frown, observing Bas. As if someone plugged his nostrils with a particularly offensive brand of blue cheese. Finally, he thought to himself. Perhaps a kindred spirit prepared to knock Rhys down a peg - on tape, no less. He leaned into the older actor, ensuring the lens was angled at his kisser, and conspiratorially asked, “So, what’s your thoughts on Bas’.…acting? Required a lot of takes, eh?”

What he wished was a scathing indictment, “Uncanny, isn’t it? Unnerving really. Don’t know the guy from Adam - but there he is creakily fumbling around like he’s been perched up in a tree somewhere, spying on me my whole life.” Instead ended up as effusive praise for Bas’ acting prowess. “That’s not just talent; young man’s got some serious dedication, he does. Phenomenal work.” 

At that moment, Cam wanted nothing more than to shut off the handy cam, shut the old man up, and bury both their heads in the nearest brick wall. He wanted insults, damn it, not inspiration!

“Cut! Let’s take five, everyone.” 

“Five minutes after five straight hours of work. Brilliant.” Apparently, he was far from the only disgruntled party. The three remaining body doubles crawled out from the woodwork with Rupert Grint announcing them in.

“At least he gets to do something. The rest of us have just been tottering around the garden waiting. It’s not a roundabout, Bas. Let us have a turn, will you?” Emma Watson’s complaint might have sounded more sincere had she kept her gaze on Bas’ tired face rather than his taut abs. 

Shameless though she was, Emma was still an entire realm of audacity beneath the blonde bombshell playing Fleur Delacour. Lea Seydoux didn’t explicitly hop into his lap, but the splayed hand that ran down his torso was plenty of indication that she wished she could. “I must agree with zem. You deserve a longer break - your body feels… tense.” Her palm’s trajectory coincidentally ended right where Emma’d been staring.

Now was his chance! Bas’ cast mates were clearly toying with him, so Cam decided he should as well. 

Time to poke the bear, birds and bees a bit. “So, Bas, tell us. Whose pants are you most struggling to get inside?” The director should take notes from Cam - he’d framed his shot in the ideal wide-angle to get all four uncomfortable reactions.

“You really must work on your phrasing.” Unlikely, Ms Watson. That was a perfectly targeted question. The double entendre was very much intended.

The tension was already thick enough to cut before he’d interrupted, but now his insertion had changed the flavour of it. The narrowed eyes and pursed lips pointed in his direction were pretty big clues. His camcorder, however, was powerful enough to keep them polite. 

Bas, ever the brown-noser, was quick to affect it. “I think the hard bit’s over, really.” Properly rude of him to speak at the camera and presumably the home audience rather than him as the person who asked the question. “The three of us spend so much time together,” Bas threw his hands around Rupert and Emma and tucked them in, “that I hardly even need to think before mock- er, mimicking them. I’m sure tomorrow’s shoot will go a lot faster than today. Under a hundred takes - guaranteed.”

“Pull the other one!” Grint cottoned on and helped Bas faff around. “Don’t believe a word out of his mouth!”

“Want me to prove it? Here.” Bas relaxed his muscles and slouched, he made the outer edges of his eyelids droop just a tad, and floated a lazy smirk at the camera. “For Rupert, I drain myself of energy, and put a light touch of swagger and sway in my step. Rupert, in real life, always walks like he’s just got done shagging.”

“Oi, mate! How am I even meant to respond to that?”

“How about you’re welcome?”

“Shouldn’t that be, thank you?”

“I appreciate the gratitude, Rupert. You’re welcome!”

“Enough of the Laurel and Hardy routine, it’s my turn. Do me, do me!” Emma, remaining safely ensconced under Bas, bounced on the balls of her feet. Completely unaware of just how hypocritical her previous statement regarding phrasing became.

 “Emma’s easy.” He shrugged his shoulders, which were instantly and ferociously punched. 

“How dare you call me that!” said the person not playing hard to get in the slightest. 

“If anyone wants to learn how to be Hermione, all you’ve got to do is,” Bas stiffened his spine, rolled his delts back, and stood up straight; but left a little wiggle room on his lower half as he cocked his hips. “Pretend you’re this prim and proper bookworm - but in actuality are a tightly wound ball of fear and fury. And you’re gonna let that escape in the aggressive annunciation of certain words.” Even as Bas weathered a fresh round of beating on his ribs, he jutted his jaw and squawked. “Harry, your glasses really are awful!”

“I do not sound remotely similar to that!” …She honestly kind of did.

“Our resident veela is likely going to serve as the larger hurdle for me. I haven’t quite had the time recently to stalk her like I did everyone else.”

“Then do not be shy anymore, my charo. You should study me to your heart’s desire.” 

Oh, yeah! He could see it now - the triangle! The scandal! The fat paycheck!. This is exactly the avenue he’d been pursuing. Cam patted his pockets, making sure there was still a can of nescafe extra rich left. 

He’d be needing it tonight.

–

Caravan Lot, Leavesden. April 2009.

Skulking. Such an ugly word, and uglier act.

Federica ‘Fedex’ Alexie loomed in her dark corner of the parking lot, as she trailed the ugliest little man skulking near Bas’ caravan. The hour was early, and he was too far ahead of everyone’s alarm clocks to seek behind-the-scenes footage. 

She’d clocked the shifty shyster the moment she saw him. He had been scurrying around Bas like a starving rat for the last few days. Fedex did her recon and dug where she could, nothing substantial in his resume, and the foreman who’d hired him admitted he’d picked him because he agreed to work for cheap. To her, below market rate meant one thing and one thing only. Fugazi - fake.

After officially signing on as Bas’ accomplice, Fedex accepted he might exhibit the same level of unscrupulousness as any hyper wealthy teenager was expected to have. Drugs, sex, tempers, frivolities. She erroneously presumed the absolute worst of him. 

It was rare for Federica Alexie to be proven so thoroughly wrong. She liked it. Bas was living up to his biblical version so far.

No, she had less worry with Bas marching to the beat of his own drum. More concerned with the percussion of his existence being so catchy that it had the wrong crowd following in lockstep. So, the interloper in her sights, with the Bas Rhys fixation, wasn’t a surprise. 

Neither was the French actress who suddenly swerved the corner.

Lea Seydoux (who impossibly made a fluffy bathrobe cling to her figure) turned into the unlit, narrow alley between the string of RVs into her personal catwalk as she strutted up to and knocked on Bas’ door. Made sense now why her charge left his lamps on. This guest was anything but uninvited. 

Bas opened the door. A steamy smooch hotly severed “Hey-” his whisper. Lea wasted no time and shoved him inside. The door slammed shut behind them. They could swipe the curtains closed and dim the lights as much as they wanted - when the red dot of a recording camera became visible in the descending darkness - there was nothing Bas or his midnight snack could do to hide their illicit intent. 

Unless, of course, they had her on their side. Fedex had a package to collect.

Feather-light, feline footsteps made nary a noise as she glided across the damp asphalt. The little rat hadn’t the faintest clue as she invaded his personal space. Too enamoured with the ill-gotten contents of his memory card. Failing to even notice as she got near enough to crouch over and peer across him. 

Fedex felt the unpleasant sting of stale caffe and surging adrenaline billowing off him, piercing her nostrils. Curled over himself, his mania bubbled over in a barely stifled giggle, while he guardedly rewound and replayed the incriminating footage in his shivering hands. “You, my dear, aren’t even remotely as pricey as my old, out of commission DSLR. But  - hehehe - you’re so, so much more valuable. Let’s see Bas sodding Rhys extinguish this fire, the ruddy cunt!” Ah, retribution for a past slight, it seems. The culprit happened to be one of Bas’ chickens coming home to roost - from his foamy rampage following Emma's party, in all likelihood. 

Unfortunately for him, revenge was only reserved for those who could afford it. Bas Rhys was incomparably generous with his salaries. “This is not something that belongs to you, no?” 

“WHA-!?” He jerked, shrieked, and fell. The camera, however, had a softer landing in the secure grip of Fedex’s hand. “Give that bac-!” 

Fedex tucked the camera into the pocket of her coat and stood up. Shhh, Shh, Sh! The rat tried to follow suit - but thought better of it when her heel pressed against his rising sternum. Reminded of his place, he laid back down on the filthy ground where he belonged.

“A tia taliu.” Federica Alexie was always watching.