On 'Death In Paradise,' I had a CGI pet lizard and had to react

“On ‘Death In Paradise,’ I had a CGI pet lizard and had to react to nothing, which was hideously embarrassing.” Thus spoke Ben Miller, an actor of wit and intellect, reflecting upon the strange craft of his profession. Though his words may at first seem light-hearted, even comical, they conceal within them a deeper truth about the human experience—the struggle to believe in the unseen, to perform one’s duty even when surrounded by uncertainty, and to act with conviction though the world may be watching in confusion. For this moment, absurd though it may appear, mirrors a universal condition: we all, at some time or another, must face the invisible, must place our faith in what others cannot yet see.

The origin of this quote lies in Miller’s time portraying Detective Richard Poole in the beloved television series Death In Paradise. The show, set on the sunlit island of Saint Marie, blended mystery and humor in equal measure. One of its most memorable touches was the detective’s constant companion—a small green lizard named Harry, who, though real to the audience, existed only in the imagination of the actor. The lizard was added later through CGI, or computer-generated imagery, meaning that Miller, while filming, had to pretend to see and interact with a creature that was not there. He confessed, with humility and humor, that this was a “hideously embarrassing” experience—an admission that reveals both the vulnerability of art and the courage it demands.

For in this confession lies a profound insight into the nature of imagination. To act, to create, or to lead often requires one to engage with what is not yet visible—to speak to shadows, to labor toward visions others may find foolish. The actor before the camera, gesturing to empty air, is not so different from the inventor sketching a machine that does not yet exist, or the poet describing beauty that no eye has seen. Such moments are always attended by embarrassment, by the fear of ridicule or failure. Yet, as Miller’s story teaches, it is precisely this willingness to look foolish that allows the invisible to become real. Without imagination, there is no art; without courage, there is no creation.

The ancients understood this truth well. When the sculptor Phidias was carving the great statue of Zeus at Olympia, he labored for years upon a form that lived only in his mind. His assistants, unable to perceive his vision, mocked him for his obsessive precision—until the day the masterpiece was unveiled, and the people wept to behold its divine majesty. So too must every creator, every dreamer, endure a season of appearing ridiculous before the revelation of their purpose. Ben Miller, standing alone before the lens, speaking to an absent lizard, embodies this same ancient courage—the courage to believe in what is not yet manifest.

But his words also remind us of the humility required in every endeavor. To admit embarrassment is to acknowledge our humanity, to reveal that even those who seem confident must wrestle with doubt. In a world that prizes perfection and polish, Miller’s honesty is a kind of wisdom. It tells us that mastery does not mean the absence of discomfort; rather, it means pressing forward despite it. Every performance, every act of creation, carries within it a measure of awkwardness—a space where the human and the divine meet, where uncertainty is transformed into art.

This story, though rooted in the world of acting, speaks to all who walk the path of faith—in art, in work, or in life itself. For often we, too, must react to nothing: to trust in unseen outcomes, to invest in relationships or dreams that have not yet borne fruit. The teacher speaks to uncomprehending students, the entrepreneur builds before success appears, the parent sacrifices for a future they may never witness. These, too, are moments of “embarrassment”—when the heart must act though reason falters. Yet it is through such moments that greatness is born.

So, my friends, take heed of the wisdom hidden in Ben Miller’s laughter. Do not fear to look foolish when following your purpose. Be willing to stand before the invisible and speak as though it were real. For in every act of faith—whether before a camera or in the theater of life—there is a touch of divine comedy. Let your embarrassment be your offering, your uncertainty your teacher. When you act with sincerity, even the unseen will one day take form, as Miller’s imaginary lizard did, and the world will believe in what you once dared to imagine.

And thus, the lesson endures: that to create, to lead, to live meaningfully, one must sometimes perform before an empty stage, trusting that truth will appear in time. So act boldly, even when no one yet believes—because faith, like art, begins with pretending until the dream becomes real.