At this point I had no idea that Yoda was going to bounce around like a nutter in all of the prequels. Added to this was the complication that I would be naturally slower as my legs were half the length of everyone else’s. I couldn’t exactly jog down a gangway in my Yoda costume.
“I’m not a sprinter!” I said as we lined up to try yet another take. I had to focus on the character’s integrity – I didn’t want to turn him into Charlie Chaplin, but at the same time I still had to keep up with everybody else. Thankfully we got it in the end. But I made the entire cast walk up and down that gangplank about half a dozen times before I did – and after all that you have to look very carefully to spot me as Yoda. I considered it a great honor to have played the Jedi Master, albeit for a tiny amount of screen time.
As I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m a big fan of film soundtracks and have been collecting them since I was a kid. So after the filming and editing was completed I asked George if I could come to the recording of the score to The Phantom Menace. To my surprise and delight he said yes. It was recorded at the famed Abbey Road Studios in London; George was there on the day and I watched spellbound as John Williams and the London Philharmonic ran straight into the main theme, one of the most recognizable pieces of film music ever written. It was incredible; I could hardly believe I there with George, watching the film play out on a screen while a world-class orchestra played the music live.
I’d brought David Sibley, my dialogue coach, with whom I’d filmed in my student days, along as well. We were both in the studio when the orchestra suddenly launched into the opening Star Wars fanfare. If you’ve ever stood next to a full orchestra then you’ll know just how incredibly loud they can be – it’s like standing next to the QE2’s foghorn. Poor David was so surprised by the volume, he jumped back as if he’d been shot by a blaster, knocking into a huge speaker that toppled from its stand and crashed to the floor, bang! The orchestra crashed to a cacophonic halt and poor David turned bright purple as John Williams and the entire London Philharmonic turned around to glare at him.
I looked at John Williams and said in a matter-of-fact voice: “So, are those speakers expensive then?”
A couple of hours later, I was sitting with George in the recording booth when my mysterious scruffy character from the “Willow shot” appeared on screen.
“George,” I said.
“Yes, Warwick.”
“What are we going to call this guy?”
“I don’t know, what do you think he should be called?”
“Well,” I said, “in all of your films my characters’ names start with the letter W. There’s Willow, Wicket W. Warrick,d and Wald, so I suppose it has to start with a W.”
“Okay, let’s call this guy Weazel.” He paused, adding, “With a ‘zee.’”
This led me nicely to a subject that I’d been meaning to ask George about for some time.
“George, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, Warwick.”
“Why do my characters’ names always start with W?”
I knew George’s middle name was Walton and I wondered whether it had something to do with that. Or was it just W for Warwick?
“I’m not telling,” he said, “my little secret.”
And that was that.
The Phantom Menace was probably the most eagerly awaited sequel of the twentieth century and it was perhaps inevitable that it would come in for a lot of criticism. Kids loved it, and I think that’s the point, it’s a Star Wars film for a new generation. For those of us who grew up with the original trilogy it’s difficult to accept a new version; and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that people get extremely militant and passionate about every aspect of Star Wars (just ask Carrie Fisher). Some fans can’t stand Ewoks, never mind Jar Jar Binks, but, as George has said, these characters are there for children. The films are supposed to appeal to everyone – but they’re primarily for younger people.
At Star Wars conventions I always have a brilliant time talking to people who are passionate about the films and who are very clear about their likes and dislikes. For me, one of the best things about these conferences comes from seeing grandparents arrive with their very young grandchildren. Star Wars was something they could all share; I consider myself very lucky to have had a foot in both the prequels and the classic trilogy.
By now, life had stabilized somewhat, thanks in part to the fact that I was busy with work and Sam and I were enjoying life with Annabelle. Even so, I was keen to look to our future security and so never stopped seeking new opportunities.
Inspiration struck one day while reading an article about the smash hit film The Full Monty.
a Five years later I would be standing on exactly the same stage, except on that occasion I’d be watching a Quidditch match.
b For a long time Ep. 1 didn’t have a “name” and The Phantom Menace was chosen at the last minute.
c “Great” is George’s favorite and most-used word.
d The U.S. spelling. The “W. Warrick” was added to the character name on merchandise for Return of the Jedi.
Chapter Sixteen
The Half Monty
During my early career as an actor I never had an agent as such (my mum did a fantastic job of representing me professionally until I was eighteen); I generally waited for the phone to ring or a script to drop through the letterbox. In my experience, some agents who represented a lot of little people treated them more like a commodity rather than talent.
They’d ask something like: “How many do you want?” and would reduce their rates according to the size of the order. The little actors’ particular talents didn’t come into the equation; they just sold them short.
This unsatisfactory situation inspired my father-in-law, Peter Burroughs, and me to set up Willow Personal Management in 1995. Out of courtesy, I called George Lucas and checked with him that he was okay with me using the name – of course, this also let him know that if he needed short actors then he knew where to find them.
I’m very grateful to Kevin Wood, a panto producer who offered us space in his office and the use of his staff to get us started. Now all we had to do was wait for the phone to ring. It didn’t, and we spent the first few weeks staring at it. When the first job came in (looking for a girl four feet tall to appear on a book cover), I suddenly realized I hadn’t a clue how to negotiate.
And it wasn’t easy persuading short actors to join; after all, I was also the competition. Whenever I rolled up at auditions, because I was quite well known and had a high profile (especially among little people), I’d hear things like “Oh God, Willow’s here, we can forget it.” It made the audition very uncomfortable but I took their point – their fear was that if they joined my agency, then I would take all the best work for myself, leaving them all the bit parts – it would be like playing the lottery except I got to choose the numbers.
In reality it’s not like that at all – every single person brings different skills and abilities to a role. Besides, casting directors sent us very specific briefs, e.g., someone precisely four feet tall who can do an Irish accent. Obviously, someone who is three-foot-six from Surrey who can’t do an accent to save their life is not going to get the role.
We constantly argued that we were trying to make things better for short actors, that by matching people to the right part we’d improve the standing of little people in the acting community and therefore bigger and better parts would be written for them. We got off to a slow start but in the end Willow Management was saved by Christmas.
Every year lazy tabloid hacks take great delight in digging out and dusting off the headline “Dwarf Shortage” as panto season gets under way – just Google it and see. Soon business was booming and we were dishing out seven dwarfs left, right and center, resolving disagreements between potential Dopeys and Docs about who should play who. Kevin’s decision to let us share some of his office space proved to be a canny one as he was always able to have first choice of littl
e actors for the pantos he was producing.
One of the most rewarding things about Willow Management is when someone I’ve sent to an audition gets the part. Sometimes this proves to be a life-changing moment for the person involved, increasing their self-esteem as well as the width of their wallet.
Day to day, my father-in law, Peter, answers the phone, does the deals, and smokes the big cigar. Running the agency is a full-time job for him and requires a lot of hard work. He’ll often still be in the office negotiating deals long after my own agent has stubbed out his cigar.
Lots of agents shut the door on people without experience, which is crazy; many potentially great actors never even get a shot. If someone comes to me who’s genuinely enthusiastic and has the drive, I’ll give them a chance.
I also take great delight in talent spotting. There was a boy who appeared in a play at Annabelle’s school who I thought was fantastic. He really wanted to act, so I put him in touch with a well-known casting director and he’s since appeared in several commercials and TV programs.
Willow Management now represents over 120 short actors below five feet tall (we’re probably the world’s largest agency for short actors) and we’ve found work for all of them (and I happily admit this is thanks to good old pantomime).a
Our success meant I started to receive a few inquiries from tall actors, asking if there was a similar agency for big people. There wasn’t, and so we added that string to our bow as well and created a new division called Willow Tall. We now represent actors over seven feet tall, including the UK’s tallest man, Neil Fingleton (seven-foot-seven), and second-tallest, Chris Greener (three-quarters of an inch below Neil), who had been the record holder until Neil showed up.
As it happened it fell to me to break the news to Chris that he was no longer the UK’s tallest man; it was only afterward that I realized how humiliating that must have seemed, coming from someone who was three-foot-six.
I think I’m actually better off being “too small” as opposed to “too tall” because I can fit in all sorts of places, whereas Chris and Neil struggle to fit into cars, plane seats, toilets, restaurants, cinemas, et cetera. Of course, being small does mean I face a few unusual hazards, for example, the more expensive the hotel, the higher the bed. So if I’m in a five-star hotel and a bit sleepy, I sometimes forget I’m not at home and end up wishing I’d worn a parachute with my payjamas.
For some reason, the agency began receiving more and more requests for little people to appear at nightclubs and this led Peter and me to come up with the idea for a twenty-minute show based on The Full Monty – the now infamous Half Monty.
I soon had a bunch of little guys who were prepared to bare all in the name of entertainment. They were Gee Williams, Phil Holden, Ray Griffiths, Chris Chapman, and Big Dave.b
I hired a very camp, very strict, and very brilliant choreographer, Paul Harris, who had played the very agile Catsmeat in the first panto I’d appeared in. I explained my idea and he got it straight away. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide before skipping across the room with excitement. “I can see it all now! Leave it with me!”
Paul’s mantra was “Fame hurts!” He envisaged the Village People and put together routines for our troop of little guys dressed as an American Indian, builder, strongman, cowboy, and soldier. When they were all dressed I couldn’t help but think of them as the “Model” Village People. The show started with “You Sexy Thing” and closed with “You Can Leave Your Hat On.”
Sam made the costumes at lightning speed while we rehearsed in a dance studio in Dartford. The costumes were extraordinarily difficult to make; everything had to be fixed with Velcro so it could be put on and – more important – removed in a flash. Sam needed to get it just right because we couldn’t afford any “wardrobe malfunctions.”
I don’t think the lads knew what had hit them when Paul got started. He actually began with the line: “You’re gonna be the best but you’re gonna have to sweat blood!” He even straddled the chair backward and rehearsals turned out to be a cross between Boot Camp and Fame Academy. None of the guys had ever danced professionally before but, thanks to Paul’s fanatical approach, they all got it in the end. It was dance or die trying.
One of the first routines Paul came up with was “Jailhouse Rock,” where all the guys danced with fold-up chairs while wearing prisoners’ uniforms complete with arrows.
I wasn’t going to dance. This was the limit of my extroversion, but what I did do was sell the concept. This turned out to be the easiest job in the world. I’d call a nightclub and would say something like: “Five guys, all under four feet tall, do the Full Monty.”
“I get it. It’s fantastic. When can they come?”
The first night was in Batley in Yorkshire, in one of those enormous superclubs. I was more nervous than the guys but it went down an absolute storm. Afterward the guys were buzzing. “The girls went mad!” Ray said, grinning from ear to ear after his “I just wanna make love to you” finale, “they even stole my G-string!”
Sam sighed. “I’ll get my needle and thread then, shall I?” This turned out to be a real problem – female fans sometimes stormed the stage and fought tooth and manicured nail for trophies. Poor Sam often had to work through the night making repairs or producing yet another pair of security guard’s trousers.
Peter and I were also kept pretty busy. We were inundated with booking requests once the word of mouth spread, and soon we were fully booked for two years in advance – all around Europe.
The lads toured everywhere with Peter accompanying them as their “roadie.” One of the strangest gigs they did was at a private party in Stevenage where they were asked to perform the show in someone’s lounge. This was a tight squeeze – even for them – and so Paul and I went along to make sure none of the audience had their knees broken during the chair-swinging sequence in “Jailhouse Rock.”
The Half Monty created a lot of press controversy but it was not at all exploitative, it was professionally performed, and I can categorically say that the girls loved it as much as the performers. We had two versions of the act: The “Full Monty,” which left nothing to the imagination, and the “Not-Quite-Full-Monty” version where the G-strings stayed on.
However, one booking that did raise all of our eyebrows was for an all-girls’ Catholic school graduation party.
“Yes, we let the girls choose whom they’d like to perform,” the mother superior said, speaking in exactly the prim sort of voice you’d expect from a Catholic headmistress. “But I am instructing you that under no circumstances are you to go the – uhm – ‘Full Monty.’”
I assured her that the G-strings would most definitely stay on and wondered how on earth the girls had managed to talk her into letting us perform in the first place.
Paul, who could sometimes be quite terrifyingly hysterical, would often turn up at shows as a “secret shopper” to make sure the lads were putting everything into their performance. He made a surprise appearance at the school and – for reasons that still remain unclear to all of us – demanded that the lads do the Full Monty.
“But we can’t,” protested Big Dave in his strongman outfit, “Warwick’s had to promise the mother superior.”
“Nonsense! I’ve spoken to the head girl and she wants you to do the Full Monty! Do you think for a moment that she would demand such a thing without the permission of the mother superior”?
Five little guys looked at each other and shuffled their feet uncomfortably. “Well . . .” Ray began.
“Exactly”! Paul boomed. “If you don’t get out there and get all your kit off right now then I’m going to sack the lot of you. There’s plenty of other men out there ready to climb into your thongs!”
The first thing I knew about all this was 9 a.m. on Monday morning when a hysterical mother superior called me. “We have let the girls decide their end-of-year entertainment for over fifty years!” she shrieked, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear.
“After this ungodly act we can never let them choose again! You’ve ruined it for everybody!”
I was tempted to say, “At least you’ll have the memories,” followed by “To whom should we send the invoice?” Instead, I apologized and quickly hung up, my ears ringing.
Paul was a genius but a real force to be reckoned with. During rehearsals at one nightclub, Paul yelled at Gee the fireeaterc so much he became flustered and knocked over his fuel, which burst into flames, causing his lighter to explode and shoot a column of fire up to the ceiling. There we were, half a dozen little people and one very camp hysterical man running around a column of fire, everyone shouting at once. It looked like some bizarre pagan ritual where a witch doctor had shrunk the Village People.
I sprinted out to the lobby where a receptionist seated behind a high counter was filing her nails.
“We need a fire extinguisher!” I yelled.
Size Matters Not: The Extraordinary Life and Career of Warwick Davis Page 19