Size Matters Not: The Extraordinary Life and Career of Warwick Davis (39 page)

^d
A Morris dance is an English folk dance dating back to the fifteenth century. Its origins are shrouded in mystery, and all I know is that it involves a group of men dressed in white pajamas, jangling bells, hitting each other with sticks, and shouting “Arrr!” quite a bit. It isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but to each their own—and a lot of people seem to like it.

^e
Okay, I made that one up. They were from Wales and were called “Caerphilly Does It.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Paranoid Android

The prototype Marvin suit.

 

Apart from cheese festivals, I also attend many charity auctions. I’m not a massive fan of these but people must think I love them because I’m asked to do them all the time. I find it very hard to say no because they’re always for such good causes. The problem is that they can sometimes be pretty grueling affairs – and especially toe-curling for me.

Now and again, film studios will donate some amazing items for me to auction off for local charities, which makes the whole experience a delight. One example, courtesy of Warner Brothers, was the original handwritten letter from Dumbledore to Harry Potter as seen in
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
. It was inside a wax-sealed envelope with the Hogwarts crest on it and was addressed to “Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs.” It came with a photocopy of the letter so you could see what was inside without having to break the seal. It sold for £800.

I also auctioned a Quidditch World Cup program, signed by Daniel Radcliffe. Warner Brothers’ amazing art department produced these perfect programs with team listings, form guides, and notes about the day’s events for every match featured in the films. It went for a healthy £2,000.

Those sorts of things are quite fun to auction off, as collectors are desperate to have them and they are works of art in themselves, so there’s no shortage of enthusiasm and excitement.

It isn’t always like that, though.

Once, Sam said “yes” on my behalf. “Okay then,” I grumbled after she broke the news that I’d sacrificed my forthcoming Saturday night. “What’s it in aid of?”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“What? Are you sure they need
me?
”

“Well, you have to go now, I’ve said yes. They’ve promised a good dinner.”

Sam dragged me moaning and groaning all the way. I’d brought a few signed photos of me to auction off; it was all I had at short notice. I hate auctioning “me” as it looks bad either way – if I sell them for ten pounds each it looks like I’m not worth much, but if I keep pushing for higher bids it seems as if I’m flogging a dead horse and think I’m worth more.

On this occasion the dinner was very nice; Sam decided to have a few wines and was quite merry, while I stayed professionally sober. Eventually, the organizer, Pauline Miley, called me to the stage, while the 200-strong crowd looked on.

The first item, an old portrait of some bigwig, went well enough.

“Sold!” I exclaimed, “to the gentleman at the back.”

A gruff voice said, “I’m not a man.”

One of the many hazards auctioneers face.

“Sorry, it’s rather dark back there. Um . . . moving on.”

The next item was a weekend for eight in a caravan in Norfolk.

Aw, no, I thought to myself, here we go.

I loved caravans, but even I knew that you’d have to be extraordinarily optimistic to think we were going to shift this, especially as we were already in Norfolk.

The bidding started at £140. I didn’t try to oversell it, as I didn’t think it was that amazing. Unsurprisingly there were no takers.

I suddenly felt a prodding in my shoulder.

“Tell them it’s got air-conditioning,” she said.

I did. No takers.

“And heating.”

I did. Still no takers.

“And a power shower.”

It was then that I realized it was her caravan and that she was determined to find a buyer – and that meant I’d be flogging it all night. The pressure was on.

Suddenly, Sam’s hand shot up.

My mouth fell open in surprise. What on earth was she up to? I pretended not to see it. This evening was suddenly about to get very expensive. I’d be damned if I was going to come here, lose my quiet Saturday night in, make small talk with perfect strangers for two hours,
and
fork out £140 for a caravan holiday I most certainly neither needed nor wanted.

Pauline elbowed me in the shoulder. “She’s bidding!” she hissed urgently. “Can’t you see? Over there. Take it, take it!”

“Are you sure? Yes, you are. Right, um, yes, well, indeed we do have a bid, ladies and gentlemen. Anyone else? Anyone else for this beautiful van with all mod cons?”

I dragged it on . . . and on . . . and on.

“Going . . . Anybody, an amazing bargain here, it sleeps eight . . . eight people! Isn’t that amazing?”

“Going . . . A weekend in Norfolk with your whole family, come on, what’s not to love?”

I scanned the audience looking for the slightest twitch. Everybody stayed perfectly rigid, petrified in fact, like a spaceship full of people in suspended animation. They knew what I was up to. None of them dared move.

Pauline, meanwhile, was staring at me as if I were totally insane.

I saw a hand move at the back of the crowd, right on the edge of my vision. With lightning reflexes I slammed the gavel on the table.

Bang
!

“Sold for one hundred and fifty pounds! To that gentle– . . . lady at the back.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant to bid or not but it was good enough for me.

I grinned with relief at Pauline who was looking at me incredulously. “See? Good job I held out there.”

Afterward I asked Sam what she was up to. “I thought it’d be fun for me and some friends.”

“But we own a caravan in Norfolk already!”

“It doesn’t sleep eight, though.”

All arguments about caravans were forgotten the next morning when I had a very interesting call from Jim Henson’s Creature Shop. They wanted Willow Management to find an actor who could play a robot in a movie that had just been green-lit.

And this wasn’t just any film. This was for the decades-long-awaited film adaptation of the funniest, most philosophically fascinating, and all-around amazing book in the universe:
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
by Douglas Adams.

They needed someone to play Marvin the Paranoid Android, arguably the
Guide
’s most famous and cherished character, which is somewhat surprising considering that Marvin was afflicted with severe depression and boredom. He even had his own fan club, the short-lived Marvin Depreciation Society.
^a

In the book, Marvin was built as a prototype of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation’s GPP (Genuine People Personalities) technology. They had the extremely irritating idea that machines should be given “personalities.” They manufactured doors that took great delight in telling you how much of a pleasure it had been opening and closing for you and robots that were so depressed they would turn Disney chipmunks into lemmings. Marvin’s morose nature seemed to stem from the fact that he had a “brain the size of a planet,” which he was seldom able to put to good use.

Peter and I met with Jamie Coutier, the Creature Shop’s creative supervisor. He showed us a CGI model of Marvin on his Mac. He was a short white robot with an enormous head and he looked as if Apple may have influenced his design.

Jamie and I talked a bit about the costume; I wondered how we were going to find anyone short enough for the role, as I imagined that the actor’s head would have to be below Marvin’s to make the costume work. Then there was the question of how an actor would cope with the weight of the enormous head on their shoulders.

Jamie said, “Don’t worry, we’ll make all that work. Look, I’ll show you how. Do you mind if I take a picture of you, Warwick?”

“Not at all.”

He snapped a pic of me with his mobile phone and uploaded it onto his laptop. He overlaid my image with Marvin’s. “That’s interesting. You fit the prototype precisely,” he said.

“Do I?”

He showed me. I had to admit it did seem that way; in fact it was like Cinderella and her glass slipper.

“Warwick, how would you feel about doing it?”

“Blimey, well . . . I don’t know.”

As I’ve already mentioned, I didn’t take roles that came via Willow Management, so I hesitated. Jamie, however, was already certain. He was totally convinced that I was the right size and, moreover, the only person with enough experience to take on what would be one of the most physically and mentally demanding roles a short actor had ever attempted.

“Wow . . . er, can I let you know?”

On the drive home I told Peter about my reservations about taking the role. I’d gone to the meeting on behalf of the actors we represented, not for my own personal gain. It didn’t seem ethical to me. Then Peter reminded me that it was Jamie who’d come up with the idea of using me. I half wondered if he’d planned it all along.

I called Jamie back to accept.

Two Henson artists, Paul and Nicola, built Marvin. They assembled flexible plastic foam pieces to form a prototype suit for me and when I tried them, without the head, I looked like a mini Stormtrooper.

I was very impressed. “Gosh, it looks a lot heavier than it actually is,” I said. The final version, made of fiberglass, would be a lot heavier.

I then met Garth Jennings, the director, a very bubbly effervescent man who was incredibly enthusiastic about . . . well . . . well, about life, the universe, and everything!