A Graves Story

On Monday 30th of January 2012, I met a great man, one I admire though I have not seen much of his work. You probably know him most recently as D.I. Lestrade in Sherlock. 

It's a dark early morning when my father awakes me to ask if I would care to join him at work that day - he's spent the last 10 days working on a Channel Four documentary about the sinking of the Concordia (airing Tuesday 31st) and it's the last big push towards broadcast. He's not particularly busy, my father tells me, just supposed to be there if anyone needs help. The editing for Tuesday's all done. That's his job, tv editor. Puts it all together, makes everyone happy.

I agree to go with him once he tells me there's going to be a special someone there. He knows what a big Sherlock fan I am...


So we travel into London and I become acquainted with the Air Post Productions building in Shoreditch. It's all cute little edit suites and fridges hidden in cupboards. Everyone looks the same mostly, taller with glasses and dark hair and at least half of them have beards. I even worked out how they rank - the bigger the beard and/or glasses, the more important! Well, apart from Simon who is sort of boss for the project; he has no beard, but a rounder stomach, so maybe that's how it goes. I notice it's a very male dominated work place; I only see maybe four women the entire day. I chat to a few editors, one is a man my father trained close to 20 years ago, I think? He was tweaking some of the subtitles with a woman, Vanessa, who speaks Italian and seems to have translated most of the interviews with the Italian people in the show but I'm still not really sure what her job title actually is.

Not much is really happening there, so I head over to the sound studios that are just up the road and along, but for the life of me I can't name them. Now I look on the website, it may be called the Shoreditch Strongroom but don't hold me to that. It's maybe 11ish and I stay in there until just after 1ish when I grab some food just after almost getting hopelessly lost but managing to run into my dad somehow, who had left me there earlier. I had observed an older woman I don't know the name of mixing sound for the documentary in a dimly lit room and it was reasonably interesting to watch. I don't think I could do that though, I'm too much of a perfectionist if I care enough and it seems tedious to be frank. I'll stick to video editing, rather than sound (though that crushes my music dreams).

After we eat, it's up to studio 4 at around 2ish, and lo and behold, who is recording the commentary? Why, it's Rupert Graves. The people who are there aren't too pleased at my sudden appearance but they do look rather stressed. There's Simon and Vanessa, and Will the researcher, and the two Marks (one of them looks like a combination of Mark Gatiss and a drama teacher at my old school), and one other chap I can't name but is the sound technician.

Most of the script is quite poorly written and rushed (blame the stupidly long hours everyone's on and the deadlines) so they have to keep rewriting the lines and Rupert is very patient, although they've already been going an hour when I arrived. I listen carefully and soon the team are relaxing again and Rupert is mostly a one take wonder (like I would ever doubt his fine acting skills). I manage to peek in the little window between my room and his, and he's sitting there slightly hunched over the transcript with his little glasses and I try not to swoon too hard. I go back to sitting by the wall and just listen to his voice. I get starstruck far too easily so I don't want to expose myself to too much raw Graves.

Eventually we take a break, mostly because Rupert needed the loo and I am suddenly assigned tea duty. I'm in the little kitchen and I hear someone take Rupert's order (bit of milk, no sugar) and he walks past the door, looking in a little, so I smile at him and he smiles back and I swoon quite badly once he's gone. I'm telling you that man is stupidly swoon-able. The boy from reception who looks my age, or only a tiny bit older gets me the milk I requested and I manage to giggle out "I'm making tea for Rupert Graves" and he was sweet about my starstruck-ness (and to me the rest of the day, which was comforting when you're surrounded by mostly people who are twice your age). I got to go in his little booth and give it the tea to Rupert too. I hear him slurping it as his microphone is boomed all through the room I'm in via large speakers in the corners.

The hours go on and he's quite funny in between the takes which have mostly sped up through parts 3 and 4; only a few, but quite large rewrites. I got a word in edgeways during one of the discussions about the wording of a line I don't really remember. I recall the look on one of the Mark's face when I spoke and explained, like a light bulb's gone on, like "oh my god, this kid has a brain" and I was ever so proud of myself and tried not to look too chuffed. It really is a team effort and I learnt a lot being there. Rupert was a great sport, quickly memorizing the new lines as they came, listening to Simon and Mark when they directed him a little, not that he needed it really. He blew a raspberry when he messed up one time, it was cute.

The discussion about whether to keep the word 'dawn' in killed my heart. Because Rupert decided to keep saying it deeper and deeper and huskier and gruffer and longer and longer. I seem to be a sucker for that tone of voice. Or maybe just Rupert Graves' voice. I'm not sure if I entirely care which one it actually is.

I also learnt a lot about Rupert that I didn't expect to know. He has a big red van to carry his five children around in. He bikes with all the florescent gear. He goes to Arsenal games on Sundays with his friends. 

When we finally finished, and it must have been a least half past four now, and he's been working from one, Rupert is still cheery and friendly and bright and lovely, shaking everyone's hands, joking, talking about the documentary. I freeze up when he passes me to come into the room the first time, my eye wide and my chin pretty much scraping across the carpet. He still smiles at me though. I must have made good tea.

Eventually I ask for a photo as nicely as I can and he's so charming and nice about it, though he's got all his bike gear on. I yank my camera out of my bag and pass it to Simon who snaps us together. 

A little bit of conversation that happened went a little like this:

"Um, can I ask for a photo, even though I don't have a bear?" (Everyone laughs because there's kind of an inside joke somehow that is too complicated to explain now) And Rupert says of course because he's such a good chap.
Simon says, "Oh, you haven't happened to see him on tv or anything? Not on a little show called Sherlock or anything?"
And I say, "Well yes actually." and I try not to giggle so nervously.
And Rupert says, "Well I know I'm not Benedict Cumberbatch or anything..."

And after that all I can remember is more laughing and Rupert putting his arm around me and my internal screaming that he is just as good as Benedict would be and how could I be disappointed with this handsome brilliant guy at all!

I look crazed and I certainly felt it. But Jesus Christ, Rupert Graves, a man who is the same age as my father and twice as grey? He looks like a freaking superstar, even in yellow. How is this fair? Please someone tell me. Just ignore my face for now and look at his, it's much prettier.

I spent the rest of the evening telling anyone who will listen how amazing Rupert is and how starstruck I am. That kinda ends up just being a lovely Welsh runner who seemed to be the youngest person in the building, omitting myself and the milk boy, who has his own stories too and I wish I could have stayed longer to talk to him because he was ever so lovely. Maybe if I actually go into media I'll meet him again some day. I mean, why not? It happens to my dad all the time!