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A KIND WORD FROM DUMBLEDORE

or

A BREATH OF FRESH AIR

As everyone knows, we had two Dumbledores. Sir Richard Harris played the role in Philosopher’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets, then when he sadly passed away, Sir Michael Gambon took on the part.

At the time I had no real idea of what a legend Richard Harris was, as I had very little to do with him. He only ever said two words to me. He took me to one side in between scenes just outside the entrance to the Great Hall, peered at me in a very Dumbledore kind of way, and said: “You’re good.” Nothing more than that. I don’t think he meant to blow smoke, and I certainly didn’t realise at the time that I was receiving praise from one of the greats. Did I think I was good? Well, I had a sense that I wasn’t doing what everybody else was doing. Draco never wants to follow the crowd. If the rest of the students are standing here, he’ll be standing there. When they’re looking scruffy, he’s looking perfect. When their top buttons are undone, his are firmly fastened (a trait that I hated at the time, because what self-respecting teenager wants their school uniform to be just so?). So the character meant that it was easy for me to stand out.

But was that the same thing as being good? Did I deserve those kind words from the original Dumbledore? Truth is, these matters are completely subjective. We all knew—Daniel, Emma and Rupert included—that we had a lot to learn. Sure, we knew not to look down the camera lens and we knew how to find our marks, but it was the quality of the actors around us that made us look half decent. Like anyone in any field of endeavour, however, I had my moments that went well and my moments that were best forgotten.

Tom’s cockiness sometimes helped Draco come to life on screen, and sometimes it didn’t. In Chamber of Secrets, when Harry and Ron have taken Polyjuice Potion to transform themselves into Crabbe and Goyle, they follow Draco to the Slytherin common room. Harry has forgotten to take off his glasses, which led to a nice example of Chris Columbus’s genius. When Goyle explains that he’s wearing glasses because he’s been reading, I was asked to improvise what would become one of my all-time favourite Draco lines. After take three, Columbus appeared a little giddy as he had a lightbulb moment. He crept over to me excitedly, pulled me to one side and whispered a zinger into my ear. “When he says he’s wearing glasses because he’s been reading, you say: ‘I didn’t know you could read.’” We shared a smile and that was the take that made the final film. I knew it would because Chris burst out laughing after calling “Cut!”

The following scene, on the other hand, was not my finest moment on set. The three of us walked into the Slytherin common room, Draco leading the way reading the Daily Prophet. Draco had a fairly chunky monologue. I didn’t know my lines at all that day and it cost them a good few hours of filming. I r`eceived a very substantial reprimand from David Heyman, and a phone call was even made to my mum telling her that I had to know my lines, or else. They ended up printing out bits of the script and sticking them into the newspaper so that I could read them out. I doubt Richard Harris would have been massively impressed if he’d been in attendance that day.

As I became more experienced, I began to understand that the notion of being “good” or “bad” in a scene is more nuanced than most people imagine. You can act your socks off, but if you’re not connecting with the other actors in the scene, you’re not doing a good job, just like whacking a tennis ball as hard as you can doesn’t make for a good game of tennis. There is no individual good or bad. It’s about the ensemble performance, about context and interpretation and opinion. If Rupert had played Draco and I’d played Ron, would the films have been different, or better, or worse? Yes to all of the above. Everyone’s going to have their own view.

So I remember that kind word from the original Dumbledore with warmth, but I also take it with a pinch of salt. Much of what I exuded in those early films was the cockiness of a kid who was comfortable in front of the camera. The compliment felt good, but I kept it in perspective.

I had far more to do with our second Dumbledore than with our first. Richard Harris and Michael Gambon were very different characters in real life. Richard Harris reminded me of my grandpa in many ways. He had a warm, quiet wisdom about him, so well suited for the part he played. Michael Gambon was more of a showman. He might have played the old wizard, but he was very much a young boy at heart. He was self-deprecating, but was at that age and stature that he could say almost anything and get away with it, however outrageous. He loved a funny story or a quick joke, and I think that comes across in his interpretation of the character. He gave, in my opinion, an incredibly impressive performance, especially in Half-Blood Prince.

Most of all, he was a lot of fun. One of the cardinal rules during filming was that you were never allowed to drive yourself to work. I think there were insurance reasons for this, but much more importantly the production people knew that half their cast would be late if they didn’t have a driver sitting outside the front door at six-thirty in the morning, ready to take them to work. Not what you want when you’re trying to herd thirty people onto set at the same time. There’s an exception to every rule, however, and in this case Michael Gambon was it. He was a car guy—he had a brand-new Audi R8 at one point, and later a Ferrari. He’d drive himself into work and park the motor right outside Door 5, which was just about the most inconvenient place to put it. I’d be getting my hair dyed and I’d hear the revving of the engine outside. You’d best believe I was up out of that seat and running outside to check out Gambon’s car with a head full of peroxide and silver foil. He used to let us kids sit in it, and although I’m sure he was breaking all manner of regulations, who was really going to argue with him? I mean, he is Dumbledore, after all.

Gambon liked to play dumb. He would often put on a pretence of confusion—“What scene are we doing, darling? Where are we? Which character am I again?”—but I’m sure he was largely winding people up. There were occasions when he had a less-than-complete grasp of his lines—they once had to be held up for him on massive boards behind the camera, which made me feel a little better about my own occasional shakiness in that respect. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t taken very seriously. He was, and particularly by me when the time came for us to shoot what was perhaps Draco’s most significant and memorable scene: atop the lightning-struck tower in Half-Blood Prince. There were quite a few scenes in that film with Draco and just the adults, and this was the biggest of them. Draco has Dumbledore at wand-point and is summoning the courage to carry out Voldemort’s instruction to kill the headmaster.

I wasn’t exactly nervous about shooting that scene. I was excited. But I knew that this was my moment. I was used to coming in for rehearsals with all the other kids, but I’d never been asked in to rehearse by myself before. That changed for this scene, and I revelled in it. So much of my previous direction had been limited to: “Loiter in the corner and look pissed off!,” or “Watch the tennis ball and imagine it’s a dragon!” It felt good finally to have such a significant moment in the film, a piece that I could really put my mind to. So I rehearsed it well and I knew my lines backwards.

The big day arrived. For some reason, despite my preparation, I kept stumbling over a particular line. And it’s a strange thing, but once you go down that particular rabbit hole, it’s difficult to scramble back up. A little voice starts nagging in your head. “You know these lines. You were awake all night reciting them. Why can’t you get it right?” And once that voice starts nagging, there’s no turning back—a bit like corpsing on set. We did three or four takes, maybe more, and on each occasion I messed it up. They called for a break, and Gambon magicked up a cigarette from out of his beard. He and I were often to be found outside the stage that housed the Astronomy Tower, having “a breath of fresh air,” as we referred to it. There would be painters and plasterers and chippies and sparks, and among them all would be me and Dumbledore having a crafty cigarette. “Breath of fresh air, old chap?” he suggested.

We stepped outside, Gambon in his robes and the beard sock he wore (mostly to keep it straight but partly out of fear that he’d set it alight with his cigarette), me in my full black suit. We lit up, took a few puffs and then I apologised. “I’m sorry, Michael. I do know the lines. I don’t know why I keep messing it up. I’m just a bit all over the shop right now.”

He kindly waved my apology away but I was on edge and the apologies kept coming. “Really, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I can’t get the lines straight.” So he smiled and he said, “Dear boy, do you have any idea how much they pay me per day? At this rate, if you keep fucking it up, I’ll have a new Ferrari by next week.” He was absolutely deadpan, no hint of a joke. “You keep doing what you’re doing, son.”

Did he say that to calm my nerves? I don’t know. But I do know that I instantly felt the pressure lift. We went back onto the set, and from that moment everything went swimmingly. For the second time, I’d received a kind word from Dumbledore. Michael Gambon’s method of encouraging a less-experienced actor was very different to Richard Harris’s, but it was effective.

You never know, until you see the finished film, how many of the scenes you’ve filmed are going to be in it. Sometimes there’s almost nothing. It was gratifying to watch Half-Blood Prince because everything I shot made the cut. That’s a good feeling. Had I lived up to Richard Harris’s early compliment? As you know by now, I have reservations about stating whether an individual performance is good, because there are so many other contributing factors. Certainly I received lots of plaudits, but in truth, although I was pleased with the result, I felt unfairly praised. So much of the effectiveness of that scene derives from the way it was shot and where it lands in the story. From factors that were far beyond my control.

In between the time it took to shoot Half-Blood Prince and actually see it, I changed address. I’d moved out of my mum’s house by now and was living in my own flat in Surrey, along with my beloved puppy Timber. My dear friend Whitey moved into my old flat. He called me one day to say a letter had arrived for me. I immediately assumed it was a parking fine, but he said he’d opened it by mistake. “It’s from some guy called Jo,” he said.

Some guy called Jo?

“And it’s got an owl on the top of the page.”

The penny dropped. “What does it say?” I demanded.

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”

“Well read it!”

“Something about a Half-Blood Prince…” Safe to say, Whitey wasn’t a fan.

“Just hold on to the letter,” I told him. “I’m coming round now.”

That letter from Jo Rowling was the first contact I’d had with her for years. It was written on her beautifully gilded home stationery, said how pleased she was about how the film had turned out, and complimented my performance. Safe to say, that ended up in a frame and is still with me to this day. If it hadn’t been for Michael’s unorthodox pep talk during our breath of fresh air, however, it could have turned out very differently indeed.