There and Back Again (28 page)

When the Academy Award nominations came out in the spring of 2002, after the first movie, my publicist asked me to call a Los Angeles radio television station.
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
had received thirteen nominations, including a best supporting actor nod for Ian McKellen, and I was asked to provide a few sound bites. So I called in and they put me on hold, and while I was listening to the show, guess who called in live from London? Ian McKellen! They congratulated Ian and chatted for a few minutes about his nomination and the film's success, and then, to my great surprise, the host said, “So, Ian, what do you think of Sean Astin's performance in the movie?”

Ian paused for a moment. Then he said cooly, “Oh, well, to be fair, he didn't really have much to do now, did he?” The way he said it … well, it seemed they hadn't told him I was on the phone, and they hadn't told him that he was going to be answering that question, so it was an honest reaction. And yet it allowed for the possibility that he might have been kidding. So afterward the host said, “That's funny, Ian, because guess who's on the phone? Sean Astin! Sean did you hear what Ian just said?”

What could I do? I laughed. “Oh, Ian and I know exactly how we feel about one another. I just wanted to call and congratulate him. Congratulations, Ian, on an extremely well-deserved nomination.”

“Why, thank you so much, Sean. Good to hear from you.”

As I said, he's complicated. While I was working on a television show in Vancouver in the summer of 2002, Ian was filming the
X-Men
sequel nearby, and I called him one day just to say hello. He invited me over to his place and we talked and had tea; then he drove me to the theater and introduced me to Dame Edna Everage, who I had never seen before, and we had a wonderful, interesting evening. We parted with an embrace and a kiss and a fare-thee-well. Unfortunately, it's not always like that with Ian. He's a towering presence, and when we see each other I always feel a bit disappointed that he's not nearly as interested in me as I am in him.

Then again, I'm sure he has a lot of incredibly interesting people to choose from.

CHAPTER TEN

Peter broke the news toward the end of the six-week prep period, in a quiet, private conversation at his house, probably because he sensed my anxiety.

“You know, Sean, Sam is not going to be that big a character in the beginning. He's going to grow with each film.”

Sadly, he wasn't referring to my girth. No, Peter was trying to let me know that I would have to be patient, that Samwise Gamgee would have his moments, but most of them would come late in the game. Very late. This was not an easy message for Peter to deliver, and it wasn't easy for me to hear. In fact, it nearly broke my heart. I felt that in order to have earned the emotional impact of the third film, it was critical that the character, in all of its sweetness, sincerity, and earnestness—in all of its integrity—needed to be clearly established early in the first film. Also, on a much more selfish level, I couldn't imagine that if we were going to be shooting for eighteen months, that I'd spend six or seven of them inhabiting a weak and underdeveloped character. And then I'd have to endure two years of press cycles following the release of
The Fellowship of the Ring
and
The Two Towers
, knowing the impact it would have on my career if my character was little more than a shadow.

Of course, as the director and cowriter of the screenplay, it was Peter's prerogative to shape the story and its characters in whatever manner he deemed appropriate. And, after all, I had begged him to be in the movie. I had written him a very specific letter, wishing him well and offering my services at any level. When I reflect on the sentiment expressed in that correspondence, and the fact that I used it to get a seat at the table, it seems unfair and selfish of me to second guess how much or how little Peter wanted to include me. But there were times in New Zealand when reflection wasn't my greatest strength.

Peter earned my respect by being honest with me, by revealing his vision for the film and the character, and asking me to trust in him. But I disagreed with him in my heart, and I was devastated by his decision. I remember hearing him explain the rationale behind his decision, and I remember feeling my eyes dilating, and a tightness in my chest. I didn't want to cry in front of him, but I very nearly did. I just couldn't understand his logic, and his words went in through my ears and straight to my heart, provoking that flood of adrenaline, or whatever it is, that occurs when you hear bad news, that hot rush of blood that you can feel in your fingertips. Knowing full well that if I responded badly, it would send the wrong message to my boss—it was, after all, my job to weather such decisions with calm professionalism—I swallowed hard and blinked back the tears.

“I understand, Peter,” I responded, even though I didn't want to.

There was a sense on the project that rampant egotism would not be tolerated, that no one was bigger than the film itself. This was an ensemble piece in the truest sense of the term, and each of us was expected to accept and perfect his role as a cog in the machine. If you couldn't meet that standard, for whatever reason, you could and would be replaced. The most glaring example of this dynamic occurred on Day One of principal photography, when the hobbits were sequestered and informed that Stuart Townsend had been dismissed from the production.

Stuart is a talented Irish actor who had been cast in the role of Aragorn, even though at twenty-seven years of age he was surely too young for the part, at least as it was written. Aragorn is a mature man, closer to middle age than adolescence, scarred by loss and weary from years of battle. It was obvious why Peter and the producers had fought for Stuart—he was charming and handsome and was no doubt going to be a big movie star—but it was also apparent that he was wrestling with the notion that he was perhaps too young and lacking the physical stature for the role.

We were all getting to know each other in those first couple of months, and on a fairly intense level, since we understood that the right thing for us to do was to become real friends, and to do so quickly. To that end, we opened up to each other almost instantaneously. The family element for me made it different, but not really difficult. The other actors were open to the idea that I'd show up with my wife and daughter, and Ali would sit on everybody's lap, and they'd be the uncles and the big brothers and we'd all have a good time. Inevitably, though, they'd pull away and go off to the pubs or the clubs, and I'd go home. But I'll say this: the natural half-life of the interaction with a youngster ended sooner for a lot of other people than it did for Stuart. He was young and single; he'd never been a parent and had no intention of becoming one in the near future. And yet he was great with my daughter. He was just really cool. If Elijah had that
thing
that I was studying—what to do if you're an A-list movie-star type—then Stuart had something else. Stuart reminded me of Bono, the lead singer for U2. He fairly dripped cool.

Maybe it's because I have Irish blood in my veins that I'm drawn to the Irish sensibility, that lust for life, that honesty you see in an Irishman's eyes. I know he drives a lot of people nuts, but I think you get the same thing from Colin Farrell. It's unique, it's real, and he has it. Stuart Townsend has it. But there is a difference. I think Colin might have more of a sense of humor about himself, a more playful attitude toward his work and life. Stuart isn't going to sell out on any level, whereas Colin is willing to sell out a little bit because it's fun and will give him a more extraordinary ride around the planet. Stuart isn't like that. He seems to torture himself and submit to his own demons more readily than is good for him, I think. That's the feeling I got in New Zealand. So when Peter and the producers broke the news that Stuart was gone, no one was shocked. Mortified? Yes. Saddened? Deeply. But shocked? No.

My wife and daughter had a lot of affection for Stuart, as did I. My heart ached for him. But insomuch as it was possible to consider anyone being dismissed from the project, it wasn't a surprise. My wardrobe fitting occurred at approximately the same time as Stuart's, so I saw firsthand some of the trauma he endured while trying to inhabit his role. The guy was absolutely beside himself with discomfort, both mental and physical. He just didn't look right, didn't feel right, and he couldn't explain what needed to be done to correct the problem. Even Ngila Dickson, who is a genius at costume design, couldn't figure out what to do. Neither could Peter. They were all trying to work toward a solution, but Stuart wasn't helping matters. He was a black hole of negative creative energy.

I kept wondering why he couldn't just relax and enjoy the process. This was supposed to be the fun part of acting, the dressing-up and playing. When I tried on my costume, a couple of things were not quite perfect, but by and large it felt right. I liked being Sam, and I felt a sense of ownership with the character and the clothes. It felt
good.
There were similar problems with Orlando Bloom's costume, but Orlando was so keen and so obviously right for his part that no one was overly concerned. They just kept working at it until they got it right. But a combination of factors for Stuart—primarily his own fear—proved insurmountable. There was one time in particular when I could see how hard it was for him, and how heavily the job weighed on him. We were eating at a great little bayside restaurant called the Chocolate Fish—my family and I, Stuart and Orlando and the other hobbits—all of us having fun, praising the production, sort of toasting the adventure of a lifetime. At some point during the evening I found myself alone with Stuart, and I could sense his anxiety.

“This is a pretty awesome opportunity for you, isn't it?” I asked the question almost out of empathy, as a way to give voice to that great pink elephant in the living room that no one wants to talk about. Stuart was so intense, and yet so clearly agonized by what was happening. He wasn't enjoying the experience in any way. And yet he wasn't false. He wasn't manufacturing the pain. This was almost like a personality trait for Stuart, a genuine recurrent theme. As much as I liked him, I could tell that others, particularly those in charge of the production, found him challenging. There were, for example, times when they wanted him to do sword training, but he was focused on something else. You could just see him struggling to figure out the character, and he was so connected to the nature of the struggle that the solution wasn't presenting itself. Now, I carried no position of authority—we all had moments of insecurity about our own capacity as actors—but I think in my Zelig-like personality, I instinctively try to have something in common with whoever it is I'm talking to. So, when Stuart projected trepidation, I probably manifested my own trepidation about myself as a way to connect. And he responded to it.

“A pretty awesome opportunity…”

His head snapped around, and on his face was a soulful, almost pained, expression.

“Yeah,” he said, and as he spoke, the breath seemed to leak from his body. I waited for more. But that was it. A single, sad word.

That image came back to me a few weeks later when we were told of Stuart's departure. There was something about his acknowledgment of the magnitude of the role, which carried with it the promise of making him a major bona fide motion picture star and serious actor for generations. Maybe he just couldn't handle it. Or perhaps Peter determined that Stuart's way of handling the role would have been inconsistent with the spirit of the production. Regardless of the reason, and regardless of whether it was a surprise or not, it was a terribly unnerving development. Suddenly you got the feeling that things had changed, that job security was not to be taken for granted, and thus a prudent man would know better than to whine too loudly whenever his ego was bruised. I had been reluctant to advocate passionately for my position regarding the character of Sam, and now that seemed like a wise course of action. You have a survival instinct as a person who's been hired to do a certain job, and the efficacy of that awareness was made all too clear when they told us that Stuart had been fired.

Already, Peter explained, they were out looking for the next Aragorn, and I knew why. Stuart hadn't been capable of doing what I had done, and what most of the other actors had done, which was to sublimate his own desires about his character to Peter's vision of the character, and to say with your whole consciousness, “I'm going to lean forward like a skier at the top of the mountain and give myself over to the process. I'm just going to trust that I'm the right guy for this job, that it's going to work, that Peter is that good and that talented, and he'll take care of me.”

That's quite a leap of faith, but it was necessary if we wanted to survive on such a sprawling, at times incomprehensible, production.

*   *   *

While in New Zealand, part of my research for the project involved renting and viewing much of Peter Jackson's early work, most notably
Meet the Feebles
, an almost impossibly raunchy and funny movie. Let's put it this way: I'd never seen a movie in which the characters curse like longshoremen, drink and vomit like frat boys, and engage in sex acts that would make a porn star blush. At least, not one in which the characters are portrayed by puppets! Imagine if Jim Henson had been kidnapped and raped and forced to do LSD—
Meet the Feebles
would be the nightmare that experience provoked. Written by Peter and Fran, the movie tells the story of an eccentric, demented acting troupe in all its self-indulgent, pseudoartistic glory. While watching it, I experienced a number of reactions: laughter, shock, revulsion, and outright fear.
Meet the Feebles
demonstrated that Peter and Fran were so sophisticated about the egos and set politics of actors that there would be no pulling any crap with them. There were no little theatrical, drama-queen tricks that you could play to elicit a response. They were through the looking glass. They absolutely understood the nature of vanity in the actor, and the nature of self-serving comments coming from actors trying to jockey for position in a show.