There and Back Again (19 page)

In a much broader sense, Peter develops important relationships with important people based on trust and mutual respect. I don't think Peter gives trust too easily, and yet in my case, once I arrived in New Zealand, I felt as though he trusted me almost completely—and almost instantly. Of course, he would have known that I had signed the nondisclosure agreement by then, and that knowledge would most certainly assuage any fears that I or anyone involved might betray his confidence. But, I'm talking about a feeling between people, one of openness and honesty, a sense that not only are you free to express yourself, but that your thoughts and opinions are encouraged. Granted, the sword cuts both ways, because what you say counts with Peter and Fran, and if your thoughts are insincere or poorly developed, it won't be lost on them. I say this from personal experience. More than once I've stumbled into a conversation or found myself making utterances that I've not wanted to stand behind upon further reflection. Peter and Fran can be very understanding and forgiving, but I've also seen what happens when people try to take advantage of them or behave too selfishly. I've watched Peter make a mental note and resolve to guard himself more closely in the future. I find it extraordinary that Peter doesn't seem to hold grudges or to act out of malice or revenge. I like to think of him as a somewhat benevolent and more fully evolved creature than most, who by sheer force of will accomplishes spectacular feats and by the grace of his talent can afford to be generous of spirit. He can be exacting when he needs to be and rewarding when it's earned.

Yet I can't deny that I was somewhat nervous about signing this particular confidentiality clause, containing as it did some of the most onerous language I had ever seen. The agreement essentially stipulated that if I disclosed anything I'd seen in the process of making
The Lord of the Rings,
the studio could sue me for the entire cost of the movie, a figure that was estimated to be $270 million! That was slightly more than I had in my savings account, so you can understand my trepidation.

“Jesus! Should I sign this?” I asked my attorney.

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want the part.”

Knowing I was in no position to demand a softening of the language in the confidentiality clause, I adopted the attitude of a soldier in a covert military operation and signed the agreement. However, I made it clear that I would remain true to the spirit of the contract only until the movies were released. I can understand and appreciate trade secrets and rights and all of that, and I did sincerely want to protect the movie. So I signed. But there was an ominous feeling to it. I was on the inside of this organization, and I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the door suddenly slammed and I couldn't get out. That's a silly feeling, of course, because it was after all just a movie. I was going to work for New Line Cinema, not for the Pentagon or the CIA. Nevertheless, I felt like I was taking a chance by signing that agreement.

Any doubt that the stakes were higher than on a typical film was laid to rest when I got to New Zealand, and it became instantly apparent things were going to be done differently. Great sums of money had been invested, and the result was an unusual alliance between the production and the New Zealand government, from the department of immigration right down to the local law-enforcement officers. It was all done with great aplomb, mainly because Peter has such an easygoing, hippified personality, but you knew, if you were intelligent and reasonably observant, that things were different than they were in Hollywood. You realized when you passed the gate and the guard looked you in the eye that there were people who were not getting in. It didn't feel like the studios in Los Angeles, where I can always talk my way onto a lot because I'm a child of that community and I'm not a threat, and they recognize me or my parents. Not in New Zealand. Uh-uh. When you crossed the threshold that separated the city of Wellington from the city within a city that served as the headquarters of
The Lord of the Rings,
you felt like you were entering the vortex. You felt like you were in Peter Jackson's domain.

*   *   *

I had signed the confidentiality agreement, had agreed to play by the rules. Next came a series of clandestine conversations, the subject of which was the transference of information—specifically, the scripts. Typically, the discussions went something like this: “You signed the agreement? Good. You'll have to talk to Jan next. She's Peter's assistant. She'll tell you precisely when the scripts will arrive—right to the minute. You'll have to be there to sign for them.”

I'd respond with a guttural, “Understood,” as if I were an undercover agent. Really, though, what I was thinking was:
What's the problem here? It's just a script
. But there was a culture of secrecy about it. When the scripts arrived, I opened the package and noticed immediately that the title page did not reflect the title of the movie, which caused me more than a little confusion. I spent five minutes trying to figure out the title page, at the center of which, in big bold letters, was the word “Jamboree.” Finally it dawned on me that this was a deception: a fake title on a fake page! Why? Well, imagine you're an actor sitting in a coffee shop or some other public place, trying to combine a little work-related reading with some relaxation. That happens, although it's not usually a great idea. The fake page allows for a degree of privacy. A fan might know you're looking at a script, but at least this way he or she won't know the name of it.

All in all, it was an impressive package. Most scripts are held together with brads, but this one had big circular binders, so the pages couldn't be easily ripped out. There were watermarks, too, on every page. This in itself is not all that unusual: important scripts, those attached to “name” directors, or propped up by fat budgets, often have watermarks. But not like this. I had seen Steven Spielberg's watermarks; I had seen Spike Lee's. Usually they're nothing more than a series of numerals: 001, 002, 003. Each person is assigned a particular code. But the watermarks on “Jamboree” were different. Across the first page, in red, were two words:
Sean Astin

Seeing that watermark took my breath away. The notion that I was literally burned into the work of the director and writers left no doubt in my mind that I belonged in the movie. It's hard to describe how that felt, not just turning each page and reading the story, but also seeing my name, over and over, a constant reminder that I was in the loop. On the first pass I merely looked through the script to see how many lines of dialogue were attributed to Samwise Gamgee, because I really didn't know yet how vital or visible a character he really was. I had heard from others that Sam loomed large in the story, but having not yet finished the books and not having seen the scripts, I could only guess what that meant. I had agreed to do this movie and accept a specific salary without even knowing who the character was, which was quite a leap of faith, but an appropriate one, I thought, under the circumstances. A quick gallop through the scripts confirmed that belief: “Sam draws his sword and charges!”

Oh, that is so cool! I'm going to get to charge with a sword!

I was giddy, despite the fact that while Sam was deeply involved in the plot and received a fair amount of screen time, it was also apparent that there were huge chunks of story where he wasn't involved at all. At least in the first script. Then I flipped through the second script and the third. Hundreds of pages in roughly ten minutes. I couldn't really engage the scripts at first, so distracting was the appearance of my name, the image of Sam brandishing swords, the secrecy surrounding the whole project, and the thought of what the movie might be. On that first day I could manage no more than a cursory glance, a sizing up, perhaps, of my own character and the decision I had made. And it didn't seem half bad.

*   *   *

Although I lacked a deep understanding of the story, it came as no surprise to learn that inhabiting the role of Sam would require more than mere emotional immersion.
The Lord of the Rings
was a fantasy, Middle-earth was a place that existed only in the mind of J. R. R. Tolkien, and hobbits were tiny, noble creatures with pointy ears and bulbous, hairy feet. Bringing these characters to life would involve not only computer-generated wizardry, but also extensive use of makeup and prosthetics. The transformation, for me, began in Beverly Hills, at the Ma Maison Sofitel hotel.

I had been racing around for days, trying to tie up loose ends and prepare for the trip to New Zealand, when I received a phone call from the studio informing me that I had an appointment with Peter Owen to discuss my wig.

My wig?

This was a surprise only because I hadn't given it much thought. I had seen pictures of hobbits, but hadn't really concentrated on what I was supposed to look like. I was trusting, figuring I'd look like me and get absorbed into it. My body would be there, on location, and I'd give myself over to the process. I wanted to read the scripts when I could really read them (which turned out to be on the plane during the long flight to Wellington). There was so much else going on that I found it hard to absorb the scripts or to worry about how I'd become the character. Six weeks of rehearsal time had been built into the production schedule, so I wasn't terribly concerned. By the time principal photography began, I'd be sharp. Unlike so many movies I'd done in the past, this was a major production in every sense of the word. I understood the importance of having my body and mind prepared, my family cared for, and my personal and professional lives in order. Everything else would be, well,
handled.
And for the most part, that's the way it worked.

Step one on the agenda was my hair.

My own hair, by the way, is substantial. I may be short and I may have a little trouble with my weight, but hair is not a problem. In that area at least, I'm blessed. Follicly gifted, as it were. But I didn't have hobbit hair, which in the movie would be long and matted, carefully crafted to give the appearance of being weathered. Rather than attempt to tame my own hair (or the hair of anyone on the production), it was far easier and more sensible to rely on a set of wigs. Upon hearing this, I reacted like a newcomer to the craft:
Oh, I've heard about these guys. This is going to be cool!
And so it was.

Peter Owen is a wonderfully stylish British gentleman, with baby-fine blond hair and long slender fingers, each adorned with a perfectly manicured nail. He welcomed me into his hotel suite with a flourish, and instantly I sensed something special about him and his place in the food chain. There was something about the way he carried himself, the fact that he was working out of this luxury hotel. He wasn't just a hairstylist. He was an artist, and meeting him was tangible proof that on this production I'd be working with and be inspired by the most talented and successful people in their fields. It was exciting, but also daunting. Every step down the hallway and into the room provoked a feeling of nervousness. My agent had given me a snapshot of Peter's career, including the names of several prominent clients for whom he had designed hairpieces. Not just movie stars either, but towering figures in business and media culture. If these people were willing to give themselves over to Peter, he had to be good. No, check that. He had to be great.

“Why, just yesterday I had a nice little session with Johnny Depp,” Peter said. That got my attention. Johnny Depp is not just a terrific actor; he's a treasure. I told Johnny when we met at the premiere of
Blow
that, for an actor, meeting him was like going to Mecca. A bit too fawning? Maybe, but I didn't care. It meant that much to me, in part because his story reminded me of my story. Okay, he's an edgier, funkier guy (who else would show up at a premiere with Marilyn Manson at his side?), but there were similarities. Johnny had first made an impact doing mindless television piffle like
21 Jump Street
. He had earned a lot of money but not much in the way of respect. Then he veered off on a different path, choosing projects based on their artistic merit, and somehow it all worked out. He went from teen idol to respected actor. That kind of stuff strikes a chord with me. You can do one type of job for money and another type of job for art, but whether the business views you as reaching critical mass before you view it yourself … well, that's dangerous, that's a gamble. But you really can continue to find yourself and challenge yourself. If you're righteous and believe in yourself, you can come back. You can rise from the ashes.

“Why was Johnny here?” I asked Peter.

He laughed, fanned at the air with a hand. “Oh, we were just having a little play.”

That made me envious, the notion that some actors have so much money, and so much time, and so much passion for their craft that they will invest several hours just to see what types of characters they can come up with. Whether Peter was telling the truth or not—whether Johnny was really there, and whether they were “just having a little play,” I don't know. I think he was simply trying to earn my trust by sharing stories of his A-list environment. Not that it was necessary, since he had me at “Hello.”

Peter was gracious, even eager, as I peppered him with questions. “No offense, but why do I even need a wig?” I asked, running a hand proudly through my own mop. “Can't we just turn this into hobbit hair?”

“Well, maybe if your hair grows out nicely we'll be pulling little bits through the wig lace,” he said softly. “But probably not.” Then he began talking about “scale doubles,” smaller men and women who more closely approximate the size of hobbits, and who would lend an air of authenticity by standing in for the actors in certain scenes. It was the first time I'd heard of this, or at least given it any serious consideration. Peter pulled out a piece of paper and sketched an image depicting Sam's hair, and explained how the wig would make it easier for the actor and the double to mirror each other. That made sense, although upon hearing this news, my first reaction was,
But I don't want a double. I want it to be all me!
Very quickly, however, that sentiment was replaced by an immense appreciation for how much thought and effort had already been invested in the process.