NOVEL WEB Chapter 9: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome
Chapter 9: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome
Heathrow Airport, London. September 2002.
I enjoy showing off as much as the next guy, probably even more so if I was completely honest with myself. But even I could tell when something left the realm of good taste and became wholly unnecessary.
Point of fact, my current predicament.
Today was the last of our allotted days we’d had permission to film in active Heathrow for Love, Actually. Despite that, though, I was being forced to run across it again for the umpteenth time today.
All because some producer discovered what parkour is and decided he wanted a free running sequence in a Christmas rom-com.
Guess who had to go around hopping like the Energizer bunny?
“Whenever you’re ready, Bas.”
[I hopped on my feet lightly. The metal detector was a few feet in front of me.
On cue, the extra dropped to one knee, securing my opening. I ran and leapt over their back.
Instead of landing on my feet, I tucked into a forward roll before I continued to run.
The actors playing airport security called out and gave chase. I raced down the wide, carpeted hallway at a full tilt, doing my best to outpace the three adults.
I was panting hard and my clothes had grown totally ruffled.
At the end of the hall, I rounded the final corner. I stopped for a beat, acted my search for Joanna, spotted her, gave one last glance to the encroaching officers, and found the handrail descending the gangway.
I sprinted to gain momentum. With a skip and a jump, I landed on the rail and slid all the way down to my last marker.
I felt ridiculous.]
A kind production assistant jogged up and handed me a bottle of water. “Thanks.” I sucked that down like a whirlpool.
I glared at the offending producer who’d leaned over Richard Curtis’s shoulder to review the footage. Pillock that he was, he nodded self satisfied, entirely ignoring the opposing expression on the staff’s faces. Seeing his work accomplished, he marched off - probably had more films to ruin.
I headed over to Curtis. “Please tell me we’re not putting that take in.”
“Oh, we’ll have to. I’ll put it right in the deleted scenes.”
Phew!
Gabriel’s Wharf, London. October 2002.
Filming Harry Potter was mostly an in-studio affair. The few on-locations shoots were generally in areas that had very little general traffic. I can only recall the nine-and-three-quarters King’s cross scenes requiring us to mingle with the public.
‘Love, Actually’ was a far less claustrophobic experience. It was fun, but the greatest downfall of this method was the horrible efficiency.
Waking up before the sun so we could get perfect lighting versus waking up to dodge the curious crowds wasn’t the same thing. I sat on the bench I was meant to, doing my utmost not to fall asleep.
Three-thirty in the morning will do that to you.
All around me, the production staff had it worse. Lights, cameras, reflectors, mics were all being set up.
The only civilians out and about were the occasional jogger and the few dedicated fisherman casting out lines. This was a marked improvement from the rest of the week where the shutter-happy crowds had rendered hours of footage unusable.
Hence, three bloody a.m. in the morning.
“Don’t be dozing off now,” came the gravelly voice of my faux father, Liam Neeson. He had a toothpick in his mouth that I could tell he was doing everything not to chew through. Quitting smoking gives anyone a serious oral fixation.
“M’not.” I rubbed my eyes and sat a little straighter in my seat. My voice came out relatively gravelly, too. Unfortunately, it had less to do with puberty and more the early hour. The bench creaked as he dropped his massive frame next to me.
His head fell back and he let out a deep sigh. “God, I hope we can clinch this before the breakfast crowds come in.”
“You sound tired. Did the housewife from yesterday wear you out?” I teased. Liam had received endless attention from a slew of dedicated fans over the last week - including a married woman who’d slipped him a note with her number and address.
He glared at me balefully. “No!”
“Huh, so you like nerdy dudes? I wouldn’t have gues- Ow! Ow! Ow!” A star wars fanatic had also propositioned him.
“Cheeky bugger!” He pinched my ear.
“Places!” Richard Curtis called out, saving my hide. The cameras started rolling.
[“So what is the problem, Samuel? Is it mom…. Or something else.” He slipped seamlessly into the role of concerned parent. “Are you being bullied? Any clues?”
All the while, I paid attention to him with a slightly distracted look on my face. “You really want to know?” I pinned his eyes with more seriousness. “Even if you won’t be able to do anything to help.”
“Even if that’s the case…” he nodded with equal sincerity.
“Ok…” I ducked my head. I felt a small rush of heat colour my cheeks. I looked into his eyes again. “The truth is, I’m in love.” I hurriedly pressed on. “I know I’m supposed to be thinking about mum, and I am! But I was in love even before she died, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” I just slightly shook my head.
“What?” Liam let out a disbelieving laugh. “Aren’t you a bit young to be in love?”
I gave him an incredulous frown. “No!” I was completely matter-of-fact.]
“Cut!” Curtis suddenly interrupted. “Liam, your toothpick!” He complained.
“Oh, geez. Sorry everybody!” He quickly pocketed it and we reset to zero.
“Man, your Padawan required lots of training if you’re that distracted.”
His eyes immediately narrowed, so far removed from the doting step-father. “No matter where you run after this, I will find you, and I will kill you.”
WB Offices, London. November 2002.
Have you ever been to a tennis match? If you have, you’d know how much head rotating the spectators do while following the ball. They always looked stupid doing it.
Which meant I looked stupid now, too.
Anita Specter, my sharky agent, and David Heyman were in a furious rally over my new contract. My poor neck was ready to cramp.
“Forty million dollars?!” Heyman just barely succeeded in not raising his voice.
Anita shrugged it off, “over three films, David, not for each.”
“Yes, I know that! It’s still a ridiculous ask.”
“Is it? If I recall correctly, the first film crossed a billion in gross months ago - and it’s still running in select theaters. Opening week alone for ‘Chamber’ was equally massive - what is it now? Nearly a quarter billion worldwide?” Anita began circling David; I wish I had some snacks.
“Our high hopes seem to be coming to fruition.”
“Do you think it has the potential to cross a billion in gross, too?”
“The initial projection had us nearer to 900 million,” he then turned to me to continue his thought. “But the response to the ‘Duels’ trailer with you and Felton really built the hype to another level. The projection analysts now believe we will probably cross the billion dollar mark.”
Made perfect sense to me. The studio was a lot more aggressive with marketing this time around, seeing as they had more to show off action-wise.
I smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up. But internally, I wished I could advise him to focus on the shark fin surrounding him. I was, however, also feeling vindicated at my choice for a little more dynamism in the more exciting portions of the movie. It felt even better when we had the London premier and someone actually shrieked during the Basilisk fight.
“So you have two billion dollar movies from a single franchise, yes? And potentially a third, fourth, and fifth. Should things go well?” Anita honed in on David; he’d bled in the water.
“Well…yes. What’s your point?”
“Do you want to lose out on those billions over a paltry forty million? That’s my point.” The shark strikes! Bye-bye baby seal.
David’s words died at the back of his throat. “Y-you,’ he stammered, “Shouldn’t you leave that decision to Bas?”
“I’m twelve going on thirteen. What do I know?” Got to have my girl’s back. She discreetly tapped my foot with hers under the table. I didn’t know if she was telling me ‘good job’ or ‘shut up’.
“The studio would never allow such an enormous expense.” David tried reasoning again.
Anita dragged him down without hesitation. “The studio will write whatever cheque you tell them to. We both know that.”
David hefted out a laborious, heavy sigh. He gave me one last glance, picked up his pen and scratched the amendment on the contract. “Fine, forty million total in remuneration for the next three Harry Potter films. The payment will be made in defined installments per film.
He then quickly threw off his mask of consternation; he smiled wide, stood up and presented his hand for a shake. “Well, that was fun!”
Anita quirked her lips in amusement, clasped his hand and shook. “It always is.”
I guess agents and producers had to find some way to make their jobs more enjoyable. Weirdos.
“Just one caveat, though. We’re going to have to do an unequal split on the payouts. WB wants to cap his salary at eight million for ‘Prisoner of Azkaban’.”
“And why is that? Is the studio facing liquidity issues?” Anita quipped.
“No, no. But there is a lot of unrest in the production. I wanted to have it done for November ‘03 but we’ve had to postpone it to June ‘04 instead.”
“Is this because Chris made the decision to stop directing?” I entered the conversation.
“Again, no. Chris made his intention to leave known to me months ago. We’re already in the process of locking in the new director.”
“Really? Who?” I already knew thanks to my magic macguffin, but it never hurts to confirm.
“Guillermo del Toro’s been approached; he turned it down because he didn’t like the already established aesthetic. He recommended a contemporary of his, though; Alfonso Cuarón. We’re quite pleased with his body of work, so have decided to proceed with him.”
“Then why the studio turmoil?”
“Well…” David hesitated, “his family, out of respect, had asked me to keep it relatively quiet. Richard Harris, our Dumbledore, as you well know, passed away a few weeks back.”
“You’ll be writing your condolences to them, Bas.” Anita demanded. I could only nod.
“So you can see how that ends up being an issue.” David continued, “An issue, by the way, we can’t solve quite so easily anymore, seeing as our resident screenwriter has quit the project, and it would be inadvisable to cast a major role without their input.”
“Kloves is out?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Kloves is out.” David reaffirmed. “I guess the frustration of not having as much leeway with the script got to him.”
I so, so badly wanted to celebrate. But in the spirit of maturity, I kept to my seat. Doesn’t mean I didn’t lean back a little and smile. Had to allow myself at least that minor victory.
“So if you’ve got any ideas on replacements, do feel free to clue me in!” I knew David was joking to make light of the situation, but I didn’t think it would hurt to make a suggestion, at least. A little research was called for.
“Can you appreciate the position we’re in now? As far as investors go, they see we lost a director, a screenwriter, and a lead character all in one fell swoop. Therefore, while I'm not worried about securing funding one way or another, dealing with this headache is something I'd rather avoid. If you can lower your price, just for this next movie, it would inspire a lot more confidence in potential investors that it’s not a hole they have to throw money into.”
I glanced at Anita in my peripheral vision. Anita clenched her hand tight on the armrest to stop herself from leaping in excitement. Why? Because money, that’s why.
“What’s the budget for the movie looking like, and how much are we short?” I broached.
Heyman opened a drawer and pulled out a file. “Hmm, we’d estimated the production budget to be around 130 million this time around. I’ve managed to fulfill around about 112 million so far between WB’s pre-existing commitment to the franchise, as well as a few legacy investors.”
“Can I contribute?”
David’s hand went to his beard, where he stroked it in consideration. “I don’t see why not.”
“The dividends come from gross revenue, right?” I questioned.
He spread his arms wide as if to say, ‘of course,’ “Our investors wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Great! How does half my salary for the movie sound?”
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