Chapter 44.5: Leave it, to the Dursleys 

Chapter 44.5: Leave it, to the Dursleys 

Leavesden Studio, UK. February 2009.

Dudley was fat. Harry was not. Far from a revelation, but made far less sense when you considered I was talking about one single person. 

“Melling! How’s the first day back on set treating you?” This was the aforementioned Harry I was referring to. Harry Melling, reprising his role once more as the childhood bane of Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley. 

“Heavily, and like they’d rather I was someone else.” On the Potter franchise, oftentimes for many of the actors, the first port of call was always going to be the make-up tent. Even as I announced myself into the room and shot the shit with Melling, the small team of stylists continued arduously smearing, spreading, and plastering a thick layer of specialised green silicone all over his face and neck. 

Melling kept dropping more weight every time I saw him, and production was determined to pack all of it and more back on. 

This was also just the first phase of his fat suit. Once the green silicone took a few hours to dry, it would be carefully peeled off him, then another type of rubber and silicone composite would be used to create the actual chubby features of Dudley. Which would then methodically and slowly be glued on to the right parts of his face, and finally spackled with tons of cosmetic products to blend it all in so it looked natural. 

And Voila! We’d have a whalish Diddy-dumkins. At least in the face - I was still discounting the padded clothes, itchy wig, and ten-ton fat suit; complete with protruding fupa and man-boobs that would give both sumo wrestlers and playboy centrefolds inadequacy issues alike. 

“Well, it was either this exercise in suffocation-” one of the plaster monkeys took offence to me describing their art that way and flicked a glob of troll bogeys at me. I dodged, of course. My martial arts trained reflexes did me a solid by preventing the wardrobe department from potentially hanging me, too. 

“Or they recast me. Trust me, Bas, I’m well aware. Almost would have preferred it, too.” Had any fans been listening, that comment would no doubt have pissed them off. 

The nasally tone he said it in didn’t help either. But the causative property of that was the cotton buds stuffed up his nostrils - not a poor attitude. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here, mate.” And even more happy that Mrs Stephens had skedaddled with Ellie in tow. I’m not so sure she would have remained quite so excited about locking in the part of young Lily had my tiny foster sister seen the true extent of Hollywood make-up and prosthetics. Just the red dye job alone had her moaning from here all the way back to Cardiff. If she’d witnessed Melling’s current goopy state, she’d have sprinted away screaming instead. 

Statistically, for every second of screen time he was getting, Melling was spending an hour in the make-up chair.

Brief though their time with me was, they still had a life to live outside of movie land, and had to return. The only thing happy to see the back of them was my spine - bloke was getting all bent out of shape from the lacklustre sofa I’d subjected it to. 

Ah, that reminds me. The soft look Melling, as well as the stylists (even the one who’d tried to give me a hurl necklace), were suddenly giving me, meant that I’d gone a tad too off-brand and said something genuinely nice. Like my lumbar, I’d better straighten that out. “Tough luck about all that torturous dieting you went through, though. People the world over are still going to think you’re a massive porker.” Haah… I sighed in relief as the others sighed in disappointment. That’s better.

However, I seem to have underestimated Melling, though. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? All that insufferable PR nonsense, and people the world over still realised you’re actually a twat!” He’d gotten sharper than even his new jawline. 

My jaw split wide as I couldn’t help grin viciously at his riposte. Instinctually I moved to knuckle his shoulder, but the glares sent my way held me back. 

Sign language wasn’t part of my repertoire, but even I could read pursed lips. They said if I jostled him even a millimetre during this very delicate process, I’d end up in my own cast. 

–

Leavesden Studio, UK. March 2009.

I’d spent enough time being a jerk. Now it was time to jerk some final tears with the Dursleys. 

David Yates, this year, had made the rather clever decision to leave the stunts to the stuntmen instead of pulling his own. Yates had learnt by this time to become a good by-the-book boy, so I was happy letting bygones be bygones.

“It feels too… quiet.” David mumbled to himself as he reviewed the footage on his monitor. It was a rare moment when I agreed with Yates. Especially if you consider that David had fallen head over heels in love with the current Euro art-house film style that relished - and often stagnated in long pauses and drawn out silences. If that guy was saying there wasn’t sufficient noise in a scene, you could confidently bet the audience watching would fall asleep in the first five minutes. 

Neil Gaiman’s carefully condensed script had staunchly included the Dursley’s departure, so this time ‘round it wouldn’t only be relegated to the deleted scenes. And while we were following the books, we didn’t exactly have our noses buried in it.

Even JK Rowling agreed that tracing certain lines would cut the tension the scene was trying to build. 

Hence, the little bit of comedy originally written in the scene was surgically removed. Which meant that, unfortunately, some lost out more than others. “Excuse me, I’ve got dry forearms.” Fiona Shaw - better known as Petunia, slathered on lotion in the same motion a surgeon takes before entering the operating theatre. I imagine her mood was about as edgy as a scalpel, with how many of her lines had been cut. 

I side-eyed the boom mic operator sleepily leaning on number four Privet drive’s fake fireplace. Now was my chance.

“Hey there, Shawty.” I immediately caught Fiona’s attention when I stepped on her marker instead of mine.

“Please never call me that again. I would very much appreciate it if you kept those horrendous colloquialisms to yourself, dear boy.” All these years and I had no clue she was a method actor. That look of disgust she shot me was usually what she reserved only for when I was fully embodying Harry. 

“C’mon. I’m just having a spot of fun - Lord knows someone has to. This entire bloody scene is boring.”

“Well, you know how it is. Not every scene is Bafta-worthy.” Then she leaned in closer to my ear and whispered. “And neither is every director. He’s no Cuaron, that’s for sure.” Both of us turned our heads in poor old David’s direction, who mercifully (for him) remained oblivious to Fiona’s scathing review. 

“No, he isn’t. But maybe we can make it feel like it used to on set. What say you and I play a little accidentally on purpose?” Oh? That line wasn’t in the script? Whoops! How’d it turn out, though? You’re putting it in the final cut? How fantastic!

“Improvisation?” Then Fiona smiled for the first time in a week. “I like it!”

[I padded down the stairs quickly but quietly. Unconsciously adhering to the years of conditioned silence beaten into me my whole life. My last step was punctuated by an echoing creak as I landed on my marker; placed in the narrow hallway between the wide open kitchen door ahead of me and the shut main door behind.

The camera was in a full wide shot. Able to keep me, Petunia in the next room, and nearly the entire ground floor of the fabricated house in frame.

From the open doorway, the camera caught as I turned to face Petunia, who stood alone in the depressingly small, garishly pink sitting room. Keeping her as the stoic focus of the shot, the camera slowly panned around. My figure disappeared from the frame, and the camera circled Petunia’s rigid form until I was once again visible - staring at her side profile, with my line of sight just slightly above the lens. 

The script required her to finally, hesitantly, take one last forlorn look at me. Open her mouth to get at least something out, but inevitably failing and making an awkward exit. 

But we initiated our little game.

“You didn’t just lose your mother that night in Godric’s Hollow, you know? I lost a sister.” The way she emphasised certain words in her ad-libbed dialogue clued me into exactly how Petunia wanted to be perceived. A self martyring hypocrite. 

Thank god for the key grip holding the equipment in place and allowing the film to keep rolling at the spontaneous delivery. 

I rushed to bullshit my own lines before David had the opportunity to call cut. “Death is but the next great adventure.” My own homage to Dumbledore while also rubbing in the fact that Petunia was far from the only one to suffer loss. Her head swivelled, and a glassy stare pierced me. I couldn’t bear to look at her. Too many memories - none of them good. I turned instead to my right-hand side, where the cupboard under the stairs was. Kudos to Stuart Craig and the rest of the set team for making it functional, because luckily for my next pro-acting move, I opened it. “She would’ve stayed alive a lot longer if you hadn’t bothered pretending she didn’t exist.” How could I let her forget some of the kindest words they’d spoken to me?

She rolled with both the production and the metaphorical punches. A chin quivered, a lip was bit, and Petunia raced out of the house - unable to face her greatest mistake.]

Which definitely wasn’t what this take was. “Cut! We’re printing that!”

–

[Muggy weather, a lost home, and a long journey ahead - but Vernon was as close to relaxed as I’d ever seen him. 

“C’mon, Dudley. We’re off! Hrngh!” Vernon did an admirable job convincing even me that the last of his luggage was filled with anything but air. From my marker at the threshold of number 4, I watched Vernon give me the closest approximation of a polite greeting he was capable of. “This isn’t just goodbye, boy. This is farewell, isn’t it?” 

Dudley, astonishingly more confused than usual, spoke up. “I don’t understand. Why isn’t Harry coming with us?”

“Why!?” Vernon very worriedly rounded on his son. Flustered, he stutteringly tried to dissuade any notion of cousinry. “Well, he—he doesn’t want to. You don’t want to, do you?”

Since Vernon had been so polite, reciprocity came naturally to me. “Not in the slightest, no. Besides, I’m just a waste of space, isn’t that right, Vernon?” Too bad I couldn’t make it last long.

Vernon’s face fell, and then fell further as Dudley haltingly made his way towards me. The closer he got to me, the higher I raised my brow. The struggle and shame were evident in his fragile smile as he stretched a hopeful hand for me to shake. “I-I don’t think you’re a waste of space, Harry.”

For once, my reflexes failed me - I had to force my hand to grip his. We didn’t shake, just held on to each other for an uncomfortable minute. He studied my face. I twisted my lips into a more brittle smirk while his curved up into a more genuine - if tiny - grin. “Take care, Big D.”

The scene ended as the Dursleys finally stuffed themselves into their car and drove off without another look back - ultimately giving me the privacy to heave one last shuddering sigh out for the camera slowly panning up and away.]

“That’s a wrap!” David happily called out, the assistant director clapped the slate, and Richard Griffiths hit the brakes before he drove through the green screen.

The three Dursleys discarded their roles forever and joined me in the middle of the set, amidst a round of applause from the surrounding crew. “That’s enough, you lot, that’s enough!” Richard tried to, with the greatest humility, wave the congratulations away.

“Don’t listen to him. Gather around everyone. I’ve one last thing to say.” We didn’t have champagne, but I decided to give a toast, anyway. “Harry had every right to send his relatives off with a frown - but I’m absolutely of the opposite mind. This was the last scene I’ll ever get to film with this specific ensemble. All of whom have been there with me since almost day one - day five of my audition, to be exact!” Richard laughed as I swung my arm over his shoulder and reminded him of our near disastrous audition for Harry. My other hand rested on my forehead as I surveyed the crowd for someone else- ah! There she was. “Supes, I owe you just as much. So even as we say goodbye to the best worst family a wizard could ask for, I hope you know,” I addressed each of my three co-stars, “that on behalf of all of us here, we don’t mean farewell-”

“But until we meet again!” The crowd cheered all together. See? You don’t always need a script.