Size Matters Not: The Extraordinary Life and Career of Warwick Davis (48 page)

“Wow, you’re good on that thing,” the cameraman said. “I thought you were going to ram me then.”

White knuckled, panting heavily, and covered in a cold sweat, I nodded.

After watching the DVD, it was time for the barbecue. Once our glasses were fully charged with pumpkin juice, butterbeer, red Currant Rum, gillywater, cherry syrup, and soda with ice and umbrella or mulled mead, Dan gave a speech.

Harry Potter had been a huge part of his life since he was nine and, with tears in his eyes, he said: “I really don’t know what I’m going to do now. This is all I know.”

It was quite a weird feeling, coming to terms with the fact that, after a decade, this was it. I think many of us were slightly stunned and bewildered and, amongst the laughter and love, we shared a strong sense of poignancy.

Dan also said that he hoped he’d be able to find work, adding: “I suppose there’s always panto.”
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Rupert brought smiles to everyone’s faces by turning up in his ice-cream truck and, along with his glamorous assistant, Emma Watson, proceeded to serve everyone ice cream. This was despite a peculiar problem with the ice-cream maker.

It produced ice cream that was more the consistency of Mr. Drippy than Mr. Whippy (who would have spun in his cone-shaped grave if he’d seen what was coming out of one of his trademark trucks).

Heads turned when shrieking suddenly came from within the van. It seemed as though the furious spirit of Mr. Whippy had sought unholy vengeance on Rupert and Emma and had taken possession of the machine, turning it into an ice-cream fountain. By the time Rupert had hammered it into submission, both he and Emma looked like a pair of sticky snowmen.

Of course, although filming was over, Harry Potter was alive and well, as Sam, Annabelle, Harrison, and I saw when we arrived in Orlando, Florida, for the opening of
The Wizarding World of Harry Potter
theme park on June 16, 2010.

We turned up bright and early with most of the cast to be given our own private tour before the official opening. After being separated into small groups, my family and I ended up taking the tour with Michael Gambon.

First stop was Ollivanders Wand Shop. J. K. Rowling had been very specific with the designers, and it was an exact replica of the shop you see in the movie. It was stunning. In fact, every little detail had been accounted for, nothing had been skimped, everything was real, and it was “actual size,” so pretty small in person. At a push, it’s possible to squeeze in about twenty to twenty-five people at one time (depending on how many little people are in your party).

Once inside, with the help of a shop assistant, you’re able to choose your own wand. It takes a while as—just like in the book and the movie—the first two or three wands have strange results, like causing flowers to wilt and die, books to fly off shelves, lights to go off and on, bells to ring, and so on. Annabelle went first, and when she finally found the right wand, she was lit by a spotlight as Harry’s theme played and a mysterious wind ruffled her hair.

The actor in Ollivanders was obviously delighted to be “working” with Mr. Gambon and put on a very fine performance. Michael loved every minute and became entranced, much like a child. A hushed silence fell over our small group at the moment “Dumbledore” got his wand. Michael broke the peace by springing up and kicking off a real wizard’s battle with Harrison and Annabelle, casting all manner of spells from a
Diffindo
to a
Furnunculus
.

As our tour continued, it was clear that the people who’d built this park really, really loved Harry Potter—the attention to detail and sheer scale was truly awesome. Sadly, I wasn’t able to go on any of the rides because I was too short. This was no bad thing as far as the roller coaster was concerned—because I hate roller coasters. Now when I say I hate roller coasters, I’ve never actually been on one, but as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have to try something to know that you’re going to hate it (like climbing into a tank full of man-eating piranhas, for example).

The first-grade students, however, leapt for joy when they saw the Flight of the Hippogriff and eagerly climbed aboard. A virtual Hagrid introduces the ride, telling the young “wizards” that he’s about to teach them how to fly this fearsome magical creature that has the front legs, wings, and head of a giant eagle, and the body, hind legs, and tail of a horse.

“Why aren’t you joining them?” one of the attendants asked.

I looked back at his smiling face in amazement. Was he trying to be funny? “Erm—because I’m too short.”

“No you’re not,” he answered cheerfully. “Here, take a look.”

He pointed out a board that showed the height restrictions. Sure enough, when I stood next to it, I was a good four inches over the minimum height.

This was the one time I wished I was shorter.

“Come on,” a six-year-old girl said, grabbing me. “Don’t be scared.”

“It’s a very gentle ride, comparatively speaking,” the helpful attendant said, “for lit—, I mean sma—, er, children.”

“I’m not scared but—”

“Well what are you waiting for then?” the attendant said, gently pushing me forward. He really wasn’t getting on my good side.

“Look!” one of the kids exclaimed. “We’ve saved you a seat at the front.”

“Ooh, lovely,” I replied as I climbed in and was clamped into my seat.

As the infernal machine slowly ground its way up its seemingly interminable sky-bound rail, I was overcome with an urge to leap out and crawl back down the rail to safety.

“This is so exciting!” a little girl’s voice said as we reached the top of our climb. I could see a long, near-vertical drop below, followed what looked like a never-ending spaghetti junction of rails, all positioned at impossible angles over a replica of Hagrid’s hut.

“Not quite the words I’d use,” I muttered just as the world blurred.

I screamed “
Were going to die!
” and looked across at the little girl seated next to me who was laughing hysterically. At that moment she might as well have been wearing a red cloak and holding a pitchfork, with pointy horns on her head.

I shut my eyes but jerked them open again; I had to see how my life was about to end. We twisted and turned, my internal organs bounced around like a collection of rubber balls, and, just as I thought I was about to pass out, it was over and we slid to a stop. As I meandered away from the ride in a daze, desperate to put as much distance between it and me as possible, I staggered into a group of journalists.

“How was it?” one of them asked.

“Erm. Well that was the first time I’ve been on a roller coaster,” I replied swaying unsteadily. “I think it might also be the last.”

I zigzagged my way toward the Three Broomsticks for a large glass of butterbeer.

That night I was due to give a performance at the grand opening ceremony. As Professor Flitwick in the
Prisoner of Azkaban
, I’d conducted the frog choir and had been given the honor of repeating this live with fifteen singers and six giant “magical” frogs.

Everyone who was anyone in the world of Harry Potter had walked up the red carpet that night—just about the entire cast as well as Her Royal Harry Potter Highness, J. K. Rowling.

I was a small barrel of nerves in front of the thousand-strong audience (and the Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra who sat behind the choir) as I raised my baton. The singers (human and frog) performed the
Hogwarts’ March
, followed by
Something
Wicked This Way
Comes
without a single duff note—or croak.

As I left the stage, another great maestro entered: the legendary John Williams, composer of the Harry Potter theme music. John was there to lead the Orlando Philharmonic through a Harry Potter medley. As we passed one another, I looked up, nodded in greeting and said, as one maestro to another: “Let’s see you top that then.”

The next big Harry Potter event was the London premier of
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I
. We did a whole lap of Leicester Square on the world’s longest red carpet, waving at the thousands of screaming Harry Potter fans, many of whom were in costume, and signing posters and, every now and again, a body part.

I get a real tingle whenever I enter the Odeon Leicester Square on premiere night; with almost 1,700 seats, it’s the St. Paul’s Cathedral of British cinema. Apart from its amazing history (I can’t help but think of all the hundreds of famous feet that have stood on the red carpet before me), the building is immaculate; it’s one of the most well-maintained and expertly built cinemas in the world. Restored touches of art deco are everywhere, and it still has an upper-circle area, rare for a cinema these days. I’ve yet to see the Royal Retiring Room, for visiting monarchs who attend Royal premieres, but I’m sure it’s something special. I’ve also yet to see its fully functional Compton Organ.
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Okay, I think I’ve established that this cinema is truly fabulous. There’s just one small but extremely significant problem as far as I’m concerned: the booster seat. I think the Spanish Inquisition invented them because after sitting on them for a few minutes you’ll do or say anything to get off.

It’s essentially a hard plastic box with a razor-sharp plastic rim around the edge, which is supposed to stop one from slipping off. My bum started aching within a couple of minutes.

Deathly Hallows: Part I
is a two-and-a-half-hour film.

After about five minutes the booster seat was all I could think about, and the curtain hadn’t even gone up. To top it all, as it was the premiere, just about anyone involved in the making of the film gave a speech, from the three young stars to the directors, producers, writers, and the tea lady. After an hour of speeches we must have looked like the most fidgety family in cinema history as we writhed as one, trying to find a comfortable position. As we clapped the end of one inaudible fifteen-minute speech and another suit swaggered up to the microphone, I stared heavenward and implored: “Just please start the film!”

I’d like to challenge the cinema manager to sit on one of these contraptions for a couple of hours or so and see if he can walk straight afterward—and still remember anything about the movie.

As soon as the film was over we leapt to our feet, almost triggering a standing ovation, and were the first out of the cinema, stretching and rubbing life back into our behinds. “I’ll look forward to getting the DVD,” I said to Sam as we limped away, “so we can actually enjoy the film in comfort.”

If you happen to see me on the red carpet in Leicester Square in the future and I’m carrying four thick cushions, you’ll understand why.

Harrison and Annabelle both appear in
Deathly Hallows: Part 2
as goblins in Gringott’s bank. In
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
, Gringott’s bank was constructed in the cavernous interior of Australia House (home to the Australian Embassy, on the Strand in London) but for
Deathly Hallows
, the bank had been painstakingly re-created in the studio.

It’s the very exciting scene where Harry, Hermione, and Ron are trying to break into Bellatrix’s vault to retrieve the Sword of Griffindor. I’m in the scene but with Hermione under the invisibility cloak, so I didn’t need to be made up at the time of shooting.

The bank was filled with sixty goblins (all represented by
Willow Management
).
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Annabelle and Harrison’s job on that day was to push a little cart laden with gold bars. While I could still recognize Annabelle, Harrison looked truly extraordinary—I’d had no idea what the makeup department had planned and I was utterly, well, goblinsmacked.