Size Matters Not: The Extraordinary Life and Career of Warwick Davis (28 page)

Well, Brian polished for all he was worth on the truly unforgettable
Leprechaun 4: In Space: One Small Step for Man . . . One Giant Leap of Terror
, and actually did a pretty amazing job. He created extraordinary comic horrors out of nothing. Yes, I know it shows, but that was the whole point – the trashier the
Leprechaun
films looked, the more the horror fans seemed to like them.

In fact, one of my favorite moments of my acting career came in that movie. It’s the scene in which the Leprechaun is zapped by some kind of laser, which causes him to expand to gigantic proportions – he then does a lot of slow-motion stomping around a space station.

To pull it off the special-effects guys built a scaled-down replica set with lots of crates made of tiny plastic boxes. I think I was enjoying myself a little too much – even bashing my head on the ceiling was a new treat. “Warwick, that was great,” Brian said, “but we’re going to have to do that again, this time try not to make the sound effects.”

I realized then that I’d been producing the sound effects myself. I thought they were in my head but every time I’d stomped my foot on the ground I’d growled, “Boom!” and every time I’d smashed a crate I’d yelled, “Smash!”

The one thing I couldn’t understand about this film was that after the Leprechaun becomes big, he looks down the front of his trousers and admires his enlarged manhood. This never made sense to me, as proportionately speaking, it would still look the same size to him. Still, it was never mine to reason why, this was a
Leprechaun
film; nothing was supposed to make sense.

I was delighted to be acting alongside Debbe Dunning, the Tool Time Girl from Tim Allen’s hugely popular TV show
Home Improvement.
Her character, Delores Costello, was named after a silent-movie star – the grandmother of Drew Barrymore.

But I was most honored to be working alongside a true legend, Guy Siner, a.k.a. Lieutenant Hubert Gruber from the classic British sitcom
’Allo, ’Allo!
He played Dr. Mittenhand, who was half man and half machine, a bit like Davros from
Doctor Who
. Poor Guy was forced to suffer so much indignity during that film. He staggered around night and day with no clothes on from the waist up and seemed to be glued to more prosthetics than any other character in acting history. Most of the film’s budget went on Guy’s makeup and costume; I imagine the local glue factory had to hire more staff and work through the night.

In the film the Leprechaun injects Dr. Mittenhand in the head with a mixture of crushed-up spider and scorpion juice he’s made in a blender. This turns poor old Mittenhand into a . . . a . . . well, I suppose you’d call it a scorpion-spiderman.

I saw Guy at a convention several years later (he’s since been in both
Doctor Who
and
Star Trek
) and we had a fun chat about the good old days, in particular the agony he went through being an arachnid. The spider costume was so massive and heavy that he couldn’t do anything once he was glued in – he couldn’t even go to the toilet so he wouldn’t drink anything and would end the day dizzy with dehydration. Despite this (or perhaps because of it) he gave a truly crazy, brilliant performance screaming his desire for flies once he was transformed. He sounded like a cross between Gruber’s evil twin brother and Dr. Strangelove. I remember Guy saying, “I am like the Wizard of Oz, am I not? Running things from behind a curtain. Only this wizard
is not a fake
!”

Unfortunately it didn’t end well for Dr. Mittenhand and me. At the end of the film I drift off into space and explode while Mittenhand is frozen by a blast of liquid hydrogen and shatters.

Why? How? Doesn’t matter. There were a lot of shots of a former Miss Teen USA runner-up carrying a gun and running around in her underwear to take viewers’ minds off any plot holes. Besides that there were some gratuitous breast shots, six corpses, a light-saber duel, a dash of cross-dressing, public urination, space discos, kung fu fighting, flame throwing, face flattening, bug blending, electrocution, and a shrink ray (and reverse shrink ray). All good, clean, family fun.

Ron Howard called me again during the making of
Leprechaun 4
and asked me what I’d been up to. Recalling that he’d told me not to make any more after the first one, I reluctantly confessed: “Well, I’ve made another three
Leprechaun
films since.”

“Well,” he said, “my daughter and her boyfriend loved that first
Leprechaun
film, so I guess anything they like is fine by me too. Besides, my brother’s in one of them.”

Sure enough, Ron’s infamously ugly brother, Clint Howard, was there in
Leprechaun 2
as “The Tourist.” Clint had appeared in hundreds of films, including nearly all of Ron’s; some say that Clint’s face served as the model for the dragon in
Willow
.

As production finally wound up, Sam and I flew home. We had plenty to think about on the flight back.

Sam was pregnant again.

^a
I didn’t fall over.

^b
He was fine, although he smelled of burned hair and ozone for a few days.

^c
Note to McVitie’s: I prefer plain chocolate.

Chapter Fourteen

Annabelle

Sam and I with baby Annabelle.

 

Nice shades!

 

Annabelle has inherited my obsession for McVitie’s biscuits.

 

Professor Charles Rodeck was calm, confident, and reassuring. “Fetal medicine has come a long way over the past couple of years,” he said with a smile, “and this little unit is the best in the world.”

He was right. The three noticeboards full of pictures of happy parents and babies on his office walls were testament to that.

Professor Rodeck was a pioneer in fetal medicine based at University College Hospital in central London. He had devised a test, which was not without an element of risk, but which we decided in our case was clearly worth doing. It would tell us if the baby was likely to survive by pinpointing some of the genes it had inherited. Although any test that involves sticking a large hypodermic syringe into a womb is risky, the odds of losing our baby to this procedure were slim – less than two hundred to one. Nevertheless, I held my breath as I watched the Prof carefully pass the needle into Sam’s womb. It’s a very delicate procedure. Both Sam
and
the baby had to keep very still.

We then had to spend a nerve-racking two weeks waiting for the result. We still didn’t know which gene produced my condition, but when the results came through Professor Rodeck was able to tell us that Sam’s gene, the gene that caused achondroplasia, wasn’t present.

That meant our baby was either going to be a tall child or an SED child (like me). The most important factor was the brilliant news that she didn’t have the lethal double-dominant combination of both of our genes. She would survive the birth. Yes! Full of optimism, I got on with redecorating the nursery and Sam and I shopped for all things baby-related.

Sam went into Peterborough Hospital on March 28, 1997. We knew most of the doctors and nurses pretty well by now and it was great to see so many friendly faces; they really took care of us from day one.

Emotions were running pretty high. Everyone was determined that this time we would leave the hospital with our child – the doctors, Mr. Hackman included, put themselves under tremendous pressure. “We’re going to win this time,” he told us with a confident smile.

Sam was knocked out for the Caesarean birth. Mr. Hackman wouldn’t let me in his operating room, which was fine by me; I doubt I would have stayed conscious had I been present. Despite having starred in half-a-dozen gore fests, I have a low tolerance for live surgery.

When Mr. Hackman yelled, “It’s a girl!” my first reaction was “What?” I couldn’t believe it. For some reason I’d convinced myself and everyone else that we were having a boy. I’d even chosen a name: Rodney.

Sam and I were both big
Only Fools and Horses
fans. I also thought it was very distinctive (nobody’s called Rodney these days) and that Rodney Davis would make another excellent actor’s name. I hadn’t even thought about choosing a girl’s name, but inspiration hit on almost the first page of a baby names book, which told us that Annabelle meant “fortunate and beautiful.”

Annabelle – who was little – was born fighting for her life and was put on a ventilator. Despite just having had major surgery, Sam joined me downstairs so we could see our daughter together. We hardly dared to say anything. Neither of us could face having to grieve again.

While Annabelle battled away, Sam and I played detective with the pediatrician, Dr. Tuck, and various other doctors who were trying to figure out what was wrong. This was something entirely new to them; so many decisions had to be made in response to sudden changes in Annabelle’s condition.

To other parents in the same situation I’d recommend being proactive. Question the doctors. Trust them by all means, but just make sure you know what they’re doing, why they’re doing it, and what the consequences might be. We’d learned so much already from our previous experiences and so understood a bit of the lingo by now.

The hours grew into days and still Annabelle hung in there. Neither of us dared to voice our hopes.

One morning a nurse came in to fetch Sam. “You need to pop down and see Annabelle and Warwick,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong, but I think you should go down.”

I turned as Sam arrived at the intensive care unit. She could tell from my smile. It was the largest I’d ever pulled in my life. I showed more teeth than the smile I pulled when I knew I was going to be in a
Star Wars
movie, and broader than the grin I wore when I won the part for
Willow
. It was a smile of pure, utterly uncontained joy.

Sam walked toward me. “Look,” I said, “look at Annabelle.”

She was off the ventilator.

Sam gasped with joy and started to wobble; I caught her as she fell.

“Annabelle is here to stay!” I said.

It was the greatest day of our lives.

It took another seven weeks before Annabelle was healthy enough to leave the hospital. It was such a joy to finally bring one of our children home. To us Annabelle was even more precious because of what we’d been through with Lloyd and George. Every day we had to remind ourselves that this was real – that Annabelle was here to stay.

As ever, I didn’t have much time to reflect. We’d literally just settled in when I received another life-changing phone call.

It was George Lucas. “Warwick, you finally talked me into it; it’s time . . .”