There and Back Again (16 page)

“I'll send everything to Peter right away,” Victoria said afterward. “Good luck. You did great.”

I thanked her, gave her a hug, and walked out. Before I hit the parking lot, I was on the phone, calling everyone—Christine, my father, my manager, and my agent—to tell them I hadn't screwed the proverbial pooch. The audition had exceeded my wildest expectations. I had a legitimate chance to get this part.

And then I waited. And waited.

And waited.

Feedback, direct and indirect, came sporadically. I tried to put it out of my mind, because to fixate on it was to court madness. And yet, how could I think of anything else? This was not just another little independent film that would go straight to the art-house circuit or, worse, straight to video. This was
The Lord of the Rings
. This was a movie—three movies!—that would dramatically impact the career of anyone and everyone involved. It often takes time for a project to come together, especially one of this magnitude, but that knowledge was only moderately reassuring. I couldn't tell if the studio was simply taking its time or posturing so it could get me cheaper; after all,
The Lord of the Rings
was such a big epic adventure that you just knew the studio was trying to get everybody to work for less money so it could afford to make the damn movie.

At one point Nikki heard through the grapevine that Peter Jackson was seriously interested in someone else for the role of Sam—a British actor who tended to be more naturally stout than I was. In an attempt to refute the wrongheaded notion that I wasn't capable of “playing fat,” my father and I spliced together some footage from a few of my earlier movies, including numerous scenes that, under different circumstances, might have caused me considerable embarrassment, so obvious was it that I'd let the health-club membership lapse. Accompanying this montage was a deeply sincere letter to Peter, thanking him for the opportunity of a lifetime. I closed the letter by saying, “I know this is going to be a great adventure. Whether I'm along for the ride or not, I wish the best for you.” That probably sounds a bit desperate, if not downright unctuous, but I was willing to do or say almost anything to get the job. Besides, I meant it. It
was
going to be a great adventure, and I
did
wish Peter nothing but the best. But I also knew how I would feel when the movie came out if I wasn't part of it. At different times Peter has said that he remembers that note, and that it was meaningful to him. At other times he's said, “You wrote me a letter, Sean?” Where the truth lies, I really don't know. I don't even know if he ever saw the tape, either. I only know that I sent it, and that I hoped it would have meaning.

After the audition I went back to what would, for most of our time in New Zealand, affectionately be called the “bible,” the three-volume set of
The Lord of the Rings
. I remember picking up the book one night to read to Christine, starting where I'd left off at page 150, and continuing to page 166. And then stopping. Cold. A week later I picked it up again. And stopped again. Three or four times I did that, started reading with the best of intentions, only to give up after ten or twenty pages. Why? I couldn't concentrate on the story, couldn't enjoy it, and the reason was simple: I was afraid I wasn't going to get the part, and that possibility was paralyzing. To read the trilogy and fall in love with it and then not get the part—that would have been too painful. So, time after time, I respectfully closed the book and placed it on the nightstand next to my bed.

Don't worry, I'll be back. Soon as I get the part.

*   *   *

A second audition followed a couple of months later. Same office, higher stakes, for this time I was auditioning for Peter Jackson himself. Fran Walsh was there, too, and I have to say that they seemed almost as supportive and nurturing as Victoria had been. It was amazing, seeing these people who had been so nice to me years earlier, and who seemed so familiar because of all the stories I'd heard from my dad. After I walked into the room, we embraced, shared a few stories about my father, and then we went to work. But the wall—that barrier between actor and director, between employer and prospective employee—never really went up. It was like we were already part of the same team.

That day Peter talked about Tolkien's service in World War I, and how important it had been to him. It was clear that Peter was a student of the war, and that he understood how Tolkien's wartime experiences shaped both his artistic sensibilities and his worldview. Peter also told me that he considered the relationship between the characters of Frodo and Sam to be the central relationship in the books, and that making the relationship believable and viable on film was crucial to achieving his vision for the movie. It was, he said, a specifically English relationship, not just a mythological thing that happened in the space of your mind. It was based on a kind of history. That was exactly what I wanted to hear, supporting as it did everything I believed and suspected about the character of Sam: his inherent nobility and loyalty and courage.

Hearing it wasn't enough, though. The point of the talk, and the subsequent exercise, was to give me a chance to demonstrate to Peter and Fran that I truly understood the character. To that end, I fought my natural tendency to claim at least fifty percent of the words in any given conversation. I'm a chatterbox by nature. Always have been. Here, though, protocol and common sense dictated that I take a different approach:
Shut up, listen, absorb, and give back what he wants.
I was given an opportunity to offer my take on the subject:
Who is Sam?
As I rambled on, though, I noticed Peter nodding, and it became apparent that he was constructing something in his head, quietly multitasking, as it were, and I took that as a cue to wrap up my biographical synopsis. But he was doing his best not to let me know that he was starting to drift away.

Later I would learn that Peter is an unusually adept and versatile leader: he has a quiet, intellectual mode, but he can turn up the volume when the situation calls for it. He is most assuredly not a screamer or tyrant; in fact, he is a perfect example of how a director can accomplish great things and motivate a veritable army of foot soldiers without resorting to hysterical, petulant behavior. Neither is he naturally a showman, except to the extent that he has to be one to accomplish whatever task it is that needs to be accomplished. For example, one of the untold stories, one of the great achievements of
The Lord of the Rings
, is that Peter actually directed six or seven other directors. Because we were all over the place, with different units in different locales, he was compelled to cede control to others. He'd essentially have to say to John Mahaffey, the second unit director, “You need to film the sequence; I trust you.” Then Peter would watch the dailies and make comments. The hard part for those directors was to try to capture Peter's vision. One of the most memorable sequences in the trilogy, the battle of Helm's Deep in
The Two Towers
, involved ten or eleven weeks of night shooting. (I don't mean evening; I mean
night
, as in, “Show up when it gets dark; go home when the sun comes up.”) Peter wasn't there for most of the Helm's Deep shooting. He was with us, the hobbits, during the day, doing myriad other things. That was the nature of his job, to serve as general manager of the project. He directed, to be sure, day in and day out, scene after scene. But he also
directed,
in a macro sense, taking complete charge of a project that required him to be all things to all people, and to never show the strain of the effort. Not often, anyway.

Peter's capability as a director, as someone who can inspire actors as well as martial every technological device at his disposal, is easily illustrated. Take, for example a sleepy Saturday morning in New Zealand, when we all showed up to rehearse what would become one of the most memorable scenes in the trilogy: the nine members of the Fellowship battling against a giant cave troll. On film, the scene is a wonder, a visceral thrill ride that demonstrates the power of computer-generated imagery and world-class sound design—when applied by the right hands. In rehearsal, though, it was a tour de force for Peter Jackson, who endeavored to ensure that everyone in attendance—actors, stunt doubles, cinematographers, assistant directors, and the second unit directors—understood what he wanted to see on the screen. Peter had an idea of how the scene would be played out, and the best way to convey that idea was to perform the scene himself. Every word, every movement, every role. Every thrust of a sword, every grunt and growl and howl. The way he assumed the visage of each character—in front of an awestruck crowd of roughly sixty people—was nothing short of remarkable. Aragorn, the hobbits, the cave troll—he played them all. Flawlessly. He choreographed the fight sequence, and by watching him, we all got it. Then, for the next week, we filmed the scene, each of us giving Peter what he wanted; interpreting it in our own way, too, of course, but essentially following his lead.

If we had merely looked at the storyboards or discussed the choreography over dinner, it wouldn't have been the same. By acting it out, by throwing himself completely into the process, Peter got us to understand what he needed, and the tone that he had in his performance was exactly what was captured in the final film: that feeling of adventure reminiscent of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, a feeling and scene that were central to the movie, capturing as it does the bonding of the Fellowship. It is one of the most thrilling sequences in the movies, and it wouldn't have happened if Peter hadn't been willing to risk embarrassment and let his imagination run wild.

Not that I knew any of this when I auditioned. I had no context at the time, only a proper degree of reverence based on my limited personal experience and the tales my father had shared. For some reason, though, I wasn't terribly anxious. Just as Victoria had done, Peter and Fran created an atmosphere practically devoid of tension. They seemed to me almost like long-lost relatives, and I was filled with a sense of wanting to please them, a sense of excitement and anticipation, rather than the feeling of dread that is generally common during an audition. Not that I wasn't nervous; I was. But once again, I thought I performed well—really well. Afterward, Peter and Fran paid me nice compliments and said they'd be in touch. We shook hands and I left. Then Christine and I drove right around the corner to a coffee shop, where my father and my stepmother, Val, were waiting for us.

Dad took one look at me and smiled.

“You did it, didn't you? You got the job.”

I took a deep breath. “I don't know. I mean, I think I nailed it, and they were really nice to me. But…”

“What?”

“I'm just not sure. Peter is so hard to read.”

That was the truth. I would come to discover through my long months in New Zealand that being hard to read is a trademark of Peter Jackson's, a signature of his unflappable managerial style. It's not that he's joyless. He just never gets too high or too low. Or at least that is the image he projects and cultivates, never letting anyone see him as anything other than a rather rumpled, bearded, unkempt fellow in baggy shorts and sandals (or bare feet) seemingly floating through life—despite carrying an enormous weight on his shoulders. I remember being exhilarated as I walked out of the audition, but not quite sure what to think. I knew that an answer would not come right away, so I had to keep busy with the business of life: spending time with my family, trying to be a good husband and father, and working.

Among the job opportunities I explored was a relationship with Four Square Productions, a San Diego communications and production company. Four Square had been responsible for, among other things, the 1978 sci-fi/horror parody, kitsch classic, and cult hit
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes
, as well as its 1990s-era sequels (
Return of the Killer Tomatoes, Killer Tomatoes Strike Back
, and
Killer Tomatoes Eat France
). My father played the mad scientist Dr. Gangreen in the sequels, and for some time he'd been promoting the company to me. It was, he said, populated by good, smart people who knew how to get movies made and distributed, and make money in the process. That summer, with time to kill and nothing heavy on my plate, I decided to take Dad's advice and drive down to San Diego with my family. A tour of the production facility revealed a company that seemed to be every bit as viable as my father had indicated, and I wondered if there might be some way to form a strategic alliance that would benefit Lava Entertainment. But I wasn't really as focused as I might have been, for even as I engaged in meetings with the company's executives, I kept thinking about
The Lord of the Rings
.

Oddly enough, the good news arrived while I was sitting in the office of Michael Bayer, Four Square's vice president. It was my agent, Nikki, on the cell phone, saying the producers at New Line had called. They wanted quotes.

This was important. “Quotes” refers to an actor's salary history. A studio asks for quotes only when it's serious about making an offer. Nikki said she'd get back to me when she had more information.

When I hung up the phone, I turned to face Michael and Christine.

“What's up?” he asked.

“I think I'm about to get offered an amazing job,” I replied. “I'm gonna get to play Sam in
The Lord of the Rings.”

Unfazed by the unraveling of yet another potential Hollywood marriage, Michael merely laughed. “I'll remember you were here when it happened,” he said, reaching out to pat me on the back.

“It hasn't happened,” I corrected him. “Not yet.”

Two weeks later, just as I was leaving my office late in the afternoon, Christine and Jeff Owens, my assistant, told me my agents were on the phone.