There and Back Again (15 page)

As a kid, I loved auditioning. The idea of competing was exciting. I was cocky and confident and enjoyed the process. I wanted to go in and prove to myself, and anyone else who happened to be around, exactly what I could do. A long time ago I did a Disney TV movie called
Brat Patrol,
about a bunch of rabble-rousing kids who live on military bases and have a lot of fun by riding around on their skateboards, crashing the officers club, having water-balloon fights, and generally driving the stiff-shirted adults crazy. Formulaic stuff. The character I played was described in the teleplay as a tan, brash, skate-punk kind of kid, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Before auditioning I made a decision that the way to get the part was to
become
that kid, so I put on the appropriate clothes, adopted the appropriate attitude. I walked into a room filled with studio executives, sat down, threw my feet up on the desk, and acted real cocky. As soon as I walked out after the audition, I had a nervous feeling in my stomach, like when you almost get into a fight, but you avoid it at the last second. My knees were shaking, and my body was bathed in sweat.

Oh, boy, if they didn't buy that act, I'm in big trouble. They might really think I'm a jerk.

It wasn't the most professional approach, and it wasn't something I ever tried again. But I wanted to blur the line for them; I wanted them to wonder whether they were hiring the actor or the character. Not that they didn't know who I was. I had already starred in
The Goonies,
which had made $100 million, when I was twelve, so in that world, the Disney Sunday-night world, I was a reasonably well-known commodity; I had some cache, and while I didn't understand it completely, I was unquestionably emboldened by that knowledge.

The Method approach of auditioning (in which the actor disappears into the character) is not the sole province of desperate, unknown actors. There are A-list performers today who are more than willing to act the part in order to get the part. And there always have been. A few years ago Dan Petrie Jr. shared with me an interesting story that illustrates this point. Dan's father, Dan Petrie Sr., was a very successful director whose credits included
A Raisin in the Sun
. According to Dan Jr., Mr. Petrie told the story of a visit to the home of Gregory Peck, at a time when Peck was one of Hollywood's greatest and more bankable actors. The director was casting a movie that featured a character who was a rather rustic, gardener type, a man who liked to have his hands in the soil. Petrie was interested in hiring Peck, but wasn't sure whether the actor was serious about getting involved—until he went to Peck's mansion. A butler answered the door and invited Petrie into the foyer, where he waited for several minutes. Finally, Gregory Peck walked into the room, sunburned and wiping sweat from his brow. He removed a glove and extended his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was out in the garden.”

Interpret that any way you like, but to me it's fairly obvious. I mean, we're talking about one of the biggest stars in the history of Hollywood, a man revered not only as a performer, but as a consummate professional. He knew he had an appointment with Dan Petrie Sr. He knew the subject of that meeting and the time it was supposed to begin. His intent, subtle as it may have been, was to make an impression, to demonstrate that he was right for the part. And perhaps to provoke a reaction from the director.

It had been a while since I'd been willing to take a chance like that. Truth be told, it had been a while since I'd felt even a ripple of enthusiasm over an audition. Nausea was a more common response.
The Lord of the Rings
was different. In this case, I felt nothing but excitement. The fact that there was so much history with my father and Peter and Fran, and with Victoria Burrows—well, it just felt safe. I had no problem with the process of preparation, of diving into the book and hiring a dialect coach, and working on Sam's Cockney accent. I must admit, however, that I did not read the entire book at that time. I stopped when the fax arrived: it consisted of four or five pages about the language of Tolkien, and a handful of speeches by and about Sam, including one from the first movie in which Gandalf yanks an eavesdropping Sam through a window, and another from the third film in which Sam laments the apparent death of Frodo after his epic battle with Shelob, the giant spider. (“Please don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I cannot follow.”) As I read that language my heart swelled with hope, and I fell in love with the character.

This is poetry. This is … beautiful.

The dialect coach came to our house that night, and we put in a good long session together. I wanted to play Sam, not only because it was a substantial part in a substantial movie, but also because I thought there was strength and dignity in the role. Rather than being too daring or experimental, we settled on a rather standard Cockney accent, a reasonable choice given the character's rural heritage. I wanted the accent to be real, more like a working-class Michael Caine than a broad style like that of Mary Poppins, so I dialed it back just a bit, curled the vowels a little less obviously, and tried to soften the pitch of my voice. The effect was my own personal brand of Cockney, and within a few hours I felt reasonably confident that I had begun the process of inhabiting the role. Like Rudy, Samwise Gamgee is indeed a working-class hero, a distinction that holds tremendous appeal to me. You may think this sounds odd, coming from someone perceived as having been raised in the bubble of celebrity, but I always felt as though our family had its collective heart in the right place in matters of class and social justice. We weren't blue-collar people, but we were progressive and liberal, and our sympathies and sensibilities rested earnestly with those who knew what it was like to really work for a living. I like to think that my father was basically a hippie. My mother was president of the Screen Actors Guild; matters of business were routinely presented to us with a particular slant: us versus them. “Us” was the rank and file, and “them” the suits in the front office. As much as I wanted to be a Hollywood mogul, maybe even the head of a studio, in my family you couldn't help but absorb into the fabric of your skin a kind of passion for working-class people. I married a girl whose father was a firefighter and operated a crane. Normal, good-hearted, hard-working people. I relished that kind of normalcy, and I recognized it at once in the character of Sam.

At the same time, because I'd been reading so much, I admired the quality of Tolkien's writing, and felt it was an elegant, emblematic vision of working people. One of my favorite books in college was
Candide,
the last line of which, when translated roughly to English, is, “Cultivate your own garden.” There's something sacred about having your hands in the soil, planting seeds and growing food that can sustain you. So what the hobbits represented, what Samwise represented within the context of the hobbit world, just felt right. It was to me a no-brainer. I was meant for the role. It helped, too, that right from the beginning I enjoyed the process of preparing for it. I'd lived in London for a while, so I had no problem popping into a British accent. By the end of the night, I found myself not just excited about the audition, but ready, too. And I hadn't felt that way in a long, long time.

The next day I talked by phone with a friend named Dan Lyons, who had been a technical adviser on
Kimberly
, starring Gabrielle Anwar. We'd filmed for six weeks in Philadelphia, and had a wonderful time living in a great apartment and shooting on Boathouse Row. Dan and I developed a strong connection. A graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, he had rowed for one of the best crews in the school's history, a team that won the equivalent of the national championship by beating Harvard, Yale, and all those other traditional powerhouses. Dan is a smart, successful man who moves easily among the East Coast cultural and social elite, yet somehow remains eminently approachable and pleasant in virtually all interactions. In short, he's a good and decent man, and we've maintained the friendship forged while working on
Kimberly.
When I called Dan from my office and told him I was auditioning for the part of Sam in
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy, he practically flipped out.

“Oh, man, I've read that book every year since high school!” he shouted. “I cry in the same spots every time. You're perfect for that role.”

This to me was not a hollow endorsement. Dan probably has a couple of postgraduate degrees and is married to a woman who is some kind of rocket scientist for the navy. He's one of the smartest people I know. And here he was freaking out, yelling into the phone.

“This was meant to be, Sean! It's perfect.”

The fact that this man, whom I had placed on a pedestal and tried to emulate, a guy full of integrity and good feelings—well, for him to react in this way really increased my appreciation for the power of the franchise. I knew
The Lord of the Rings
was a big project, but suddenly it seemed even bigger. Dan was more excited than I was. Oh, I was diligently doing what I needed to do, but his reaction was just frenzied. I was focusing on getting the job; he was thrilled with the whole concept. He understood the magnitude of it in a way that I did not and could not.

What I also got from Dan was a kind of profound confidence that I was right for the part. I was having trouble with the notion that Frodo and Sam, in the book, are fifty-five years old. Granted, they live to be more than a hundred, so they're still somewhat youthful, but the fact remains that I was, physically, not quite what the role called for. I was only twenty-eight at the time. None of this bothered Dan in the least. That he knew me so well and knew the book so well, and felt we made a good match, helped erase any doubt that lingered in my mind. His endorsement, combined with Victoria Burrows's involvement, my father's history with Peter Jackson, and my own connection with the character made it feel as though the stars were lining up.

*   *   *

I dressed casually for the audition, just jeans and a T-shirt. No costume, no makeup. I worked “off-book” (without a script) because, helped as usual by my wife, I had memorized the scene completely—not a difficult task when the material is compelling and you really want the job. The only people in the room were myself, Victoria, and an assistant whose chief function was to videotape the audition for Peter. Ideally, an audition involves a second performer, someone with whom you can share the task of bringing a scene to life. Often, as in this case, you simply work with the casting director, which is more difficult simply because you're not getting as much as you're giving. Acting, even when it's just an audition, is a collaborative endeavor. It's much easier to sink into a character when you're acting on the set, with cameras rolling—or better yet, onstage, in front of an audience—when you're with other people who are similarly invested. On this occasion, though, it didn't seem to matter, for I absolutely nailed the audition. Victoria deserves a good bit of the credit for that. She handled the process extraordinarily well, making me feel like I wasn't just another guy on the long list of actors hoping to portray Samwise Gamgee, even though I knew that Peter was indeed looking at a lot of different candidates, from all over the world.

Even before the audition, I got the distinct impression that I had a legitimate shot, and that they—specifically Victoria—wanted me to do my best. How can I say that? Well, it's an intuitive thing; if you've been through the audition meat grinder enough times, you begin to sense whether you're being taken seriously or not. Often the atmosphere that permeates an audition is one of exhaustion and annoyance:
We've been through hell to get this movie off the ground; now we'll sit back and wait for the perfect guy to walk in. Then we'll get excited.
You don't usually get the feeling that the casting director really wants you to do your best.

With some casting directors, it's such a callous kind of transaction; they're trafficking in human flesh. They have filing cabinets filled with résumés and perfectly airbrushed photographs, but they develop a rapport with certain actors, and those are the ones who get the jobs. The good casting directors genuinely care about the people they're calling in. They get offended when you're late or don't take the audition seriously. There's always a Cinderella element to it:
Here he (or she) is—the perfect fit!
To a degree, my motivation was no different. I had to audition, I had to prove I was right for the part, I had to work for it and want it bad. But within that context, it was a safe, nurturing environment, one that discouraged the little voice that sometimes pulls an actor out of focus. That voice, the voice of doubt and fear and insecurity, did not win the day; instead, I sailed through the audition. I knew I had met the challenge. It's like when a singer has the opportunity to interpret great material, or when a race-car driver gets behind the wheel of a perfectly tuned automobile. Something happens when you are resonating correctly with good drama. You feel it in your stomach, in your heart, and it's visible to everyone in the room.

Moreover, Victoria projected an attitude that reflected a certain kinship or camaraderie. I felt as though she wanted me to have this job. Now, the truth is, I'll bet she made a lot of actors feel that way, because that's her job; that's how she gets the best possible audition out of every candidate. But she was so good at it that I really believed she wanted me. I think she was doing her job to make sure the director had a good selection from which to choose, but I also felt like she had a special something inside of her that wanted me to have the job. She was simply too nice to me the night of
The Frighteners
premiere, and I knew from my agent that much of the excitement about my potential involvement stemmed from Victoria. As an actor, you get that feeling sometimes, that someone is really pulling for you. There's so much negative energy in the world, so many people who don't treat you that way, that when you do experience it, it's identifiable and palpable and genuinely inspiring. I could tell when I walked into the room that Victoria was happy to see me and wanted me to do well. Whether that means she wanted me to get the role, I don't really know. But she was a very positive, nurturing woman, and I don't doubt for a second that her attitude and outlook played a role in what turned out to be the best audition of my life.