The life of a BAFTA begins in an industrial estate in Braintree

You would be forgiven for not knowing that the birthplace of the BAFTA is a rather innocuous and uninspiring industrial estate in Braintree. It is here that the thrillingly named Antislip Antiwear Treads International (AATi) forges the iconic and intricate faces by hand, using good old-fashioned molten metal.

AATi is owned by Hugh Bisset, who welcomes me into his office after a journey involving two trains, a 45-minute bus, and a 15-minute walk through the mud and rain. He is joined by Sophia, his wife and AATi’s marketing manager. An army of the shiny trophies stand to attention on almost every surface. These are UK’s answer to an Oscar; highly coveted among the starriest of acting royalty — and they are holed up in a drab office, patiently waiting for their time to shine. This will come on February 22, at the BAFTA Film Awards, presented by Alan Cumming at the Royal Festival Hall, London. The likes of Jessie Buckley, Timothée Chalamet and Jacob Elordi may, in under two weeks, be crying during an acceptance speech, while clutching one of the awards in this very room. From Braintree to Benicio del Toro. The thought is very exciting.

AATi has been a family-owned firm for almost 100 years, originating in Glasgow as part of the ship-building industry. They are the leading UK producer of anti-slip stair nosings (the useful bits of kit that prevent you from tumbling to your death while scaling the treacherous steps of the London Underground on a wet day). The sixth-generation company also casts bronze and metal for architectural clients such as Foster + Partners and brands such as Aesop, Paul Smith and Burberry. Hugh estimates that, in any UK city, you will never be more than 50 metres away from an AATi casting. In terms of instant recognisability, however, nothing beats the BAFTA.

In about 2020, the previous supplier of the awards, which was located in West Drayton, London, ‘dramatically’ closed their business after a fire. Scandalously, BAFTA didn’t have any of the specific tooling that made the moulds for the awards, because they had gone up in flames. Hugh and his team were only told this in the summer of 2021, and had until February to make the first batch (usually between 70-100 awards), without any equipment. Their only hope was one old BAFTA that had been kept by the academy for display purposes. In three weeks, Hugh and his team had produced a sample award and the pressure was on to create the machinery that could make many more. ‘They like to have the awards two weeks before the ceremony, and we had such a small amount of time that we were still finishing them the day before the awards,’ Hugh says.

The effect that making the awards has had on the business has been incredible. ‘It really is the best of British acting meets the best of British manufacturing,’ Hugh says. However, watching the awards ceremony, when so much love and care have been put into each BAFTA, can be painful viewing. ‘They're quite heavy, and [the actors are] usually quite drunk when they receive one, so when they accidentally drop one, as the stems are quite thin, they can snap,’ Hugh explains. ‘So we get quite a lot back.’

BAFTAs have to be made the old fashioned way, from molten metal — the intricacy of the shape demands it. The original BAFTA was designed by the American sculptor Mitzi Cunliffe in 1955 and is based upon the traditional tragi-comic theatrical mask. What you may not know, however, is that the back of the mask also tells a story. It features an atom around one eye and a symbol that represents a screen around the other to celebrate the link between drama and technology. The first BAFTA, as we know the trophy today, was awarded to Charlie Chaplin in 1976 by the Academy’s president, The Princess Royal.

Making the BAFTAs requires 35 people to work on the factory floor, four days a week for 10 hours each day (including half an hour’s lunch break). To pass the time, they listen to music; Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira is the tune of choice on the factory floor as I observe the process. The first stage involves computer aided design, which determines the tooling — or pattern — that moulders use to leave a BAFTA-shaped imprint in some sand. Phosphorus bronze is then melted down in a furnace and, once it reaches 1,200ºC, poured into the mould. This is left overnight to set, then ‘knocked out’ of the sand the following day. From there, a thread is added, which essentially turns the mask into a massive bolt so that it can be screwed into a base made of Italian marble. Finally it is polished: once by machinery and once by hand, before it is given a final inspection by Hugh himself — ever the perfectionist. A base is attached and the final trophies go off to BAFTA, where they are engraved with a unique number linked to the winners names, so the awards night's results are kept secret.

‘Craftsmanship is a word we celebrate here,’ says Hugh, ‘but it’s something that I think is getting diluted in the world. And I think we’re at a risk, as a country, of losing our craftsmanship.’ Rising energy costs aren’t helping, Hugh explains. The foundry is a ‘huge energy user’ and since the Russia-Ukraine war broke out they have had to increase their prices to deal with the added costs of running the factory.

It’s a profession, however, that despite its current difficulties, is much beloved. Tim Breaker-Rolfe has been working at AATi for 45 years. ‘It’s good money here,’ he says. As a foundry foreman, Tim is responsible for training some of the younger factory workers. His grandfather was a foreman and he studied it at school, which ignited his passion. ‘I just love doing it,’ he says. Tim made AATi’s first BAFTA. ‘I watch it on TV sometimes and I see all these stars getting their awards and I think: “Oh my gosh. I made that.” It’s nice to see.’ The hardest part of the job is the physical toll it takes on his body, Tim says (he is now 61). ‘When I was 16 and I was doing my apprenticeship I was running around like a headless chicken — it didn’t matter, but with age it’s become a bit more of a struggle,’ he says. The award, he thinks, has a continual appeal because of its design: ‘If you look at the face, it’s really weird. When it catches the light it looks different and it stands out. It’s unique.’

Paul Flannery, who is 50, has been at AATi for 20 years and is now a supervisor. Along with Tim, he thinks that it’s more difficult to entice young people into jobs like theirs: ‘A lot of kids don't want to come into this industry covered in dirt and smelly metals every day, when you can be sitting behind a computer,’ he says. This is a shame, because making the BAFTAs gives Paul a huge ‘sense of achievement’, especially when he sees someone receive one. ‘Sometimes it gets stressful,’ he says, of the BAFTA-making season. ‘You’ve got deadlines to meet, obviously, and you can be sitting at home watching TV and see the BAFTAs advertised, and think “Hang on, I have to go make them!” … I wouldn't want Anthony Hopkins standing there without his BAFTA, would I?’

The most curious thing to Paul is how this job causes two entirely different parts of life to come together, if only for a moment. ‘Our worlds would never collide: an actor, and some old engineer like me, down here, but when they actually pick up the trophy, it's the one point in time where they do meet. Not that they know it — because no one really knows who makes them — but I do.’