There and Back Again (39 page)

Simply and succinctly put: Are Frodo and Sam gay?

I think it's a legitimate question. A lot has been written about homoeroticism throughout the three-year cycle of the movies, and many people on the Internet have had a field day fantasizing about the hobbits or writing humor pieces. I've even been interviewed on this subject by both
The Advocate
and
Out,
two of the most visible and successful publications that cater to a gay audience. So I do think it's a subject worth discussing; in fact, it would be a bit spineless not to.

There was an inordinate amount of male bonding during the film-ing of
The Lord of the Rings
. When you put a bunch of men together in a relatively confined space, with little female influence to mitigate their bad behavior, things can and do get ugly. Raunch was often the order of the day, and as in any all-male environment (locker rooms, army barracks, prison cell blocks), there was a lot of juvenile behavior: ass grabbing, horrifyingly graphic insults regarding anatomy and sexual proclivities, and various permutations of gay jokes that have been around since the dawn of time. Or at least the dawn of Monty Python.

I'm not talking about making jokes about homosexuals who weren't in our presence, but rather making jokes that centered on the possibility that any one of us might be gay. I think that happens a lot with guys in such circumstances. When you change clothes together, eat meals together, travel together, and get your makeup and hair done together (okay, maybe that's a bad example), you can't help but grow close, and humor, perhaps defensive humor, arises out of that scenario. But when it comes to the actual sexuality of the characters, I don't think there's anything there. I don't believe Sam and Frodo are homosexual. I really don't. That said, I think it's true that if two males live together for a long time, travel together, and share almost every aspect of their lives, it's inevitable that they develop a rapport, and I can see why gay men might identify with their relationship. I've tried to be very careful in interviews not to disavow anyone else's take on it. I'm not bothered in the least that some people—maybe even a lot of people—enjoy the notion of Frodo or Sam as gay.

That's not how I played the character, and it's not how I see the character, but it's okay. To me,
The Lord of the Rings
depicts a powerful bond of love between two male hobbits, with the complete absence of sexuality. In that sense, it's remarkably innocent and pure. Not everyone sees it that way, of course. A New York journalist once told me how angry he had become when he first saw the movie because a small portion of the audience was giggling during some of the tender moments. I want to be careful not to intrude upon anyone's interaction or personal experience with the material. That's their privilege, their right. But this guy was annoyed, and he asked me if I thought there was a lot of cynicism about the relationship between Frodo and Sam. I told him I didn't think so. Some people might not be accustomed to experiencing that level of emotional honesty in their own lives, and they might want to cover up the fact that they felt something by being cynical or irreverent. The giggling, especially among adolescent males—who make up a significant percentage of the audience—is an involuntary response to something that makes them feel awkward. Thus, you could argue that the movie is accomplishing something simply by facilitating that nervous giggle; it's cracked the armor in which some people wrap their emotional lives. Personally, I think that's a great achievement.

Elijah and I never had a serious discussion about this subject. Not one. I must admit, however, that we did engage in a broad range of homosexual humor with each other, and with Billy and Dom. It was just another way of relating that wasn't meant as an affront to anyone. Look, I was raised in Hollywood. I've had, and continue to have, more gay friends than I can count. But we did enjoy the jokes. It was a way to release tension, and to acknowledge what was on everyone's mind in a way that seemed harmless and funny.

Most of the time, while acting, it didn't cross my mind. The scene on Mount Doom, for example, was uncolored by sexuality. Sam is cradling Frodo in his arms, crying over the possible loss of his friend. They are fellow travelers, warriors, brothers. To me, that plays less like a love scene than a battlefield death scene. But there were other times—in scenes when the envelope was pushed in a way that invited not just speculation, but an arched eyebrow as well—when as a male actor working with another male, you couldn't help but think,
Oh, God, that is so gay!

Near the end of
The Return of the King,
for example, the reunited hobbits gather around a healing Frodo and hug him and hold his hand, and eventually they begin jumping on the bed together, and it's like,
Okay, do you guys want to be alone for a little while?
I think our standard of awkwardness was significantly higher than an adolescent boy's, but there was a standard, and when it was met, either because of a longing look that you could see magnified tenfold on a monitor, or because someone inadvertently touched the backside of a fellow hobbit—well, it provoked laughter.

There was one rather memorable day during the looping phase of the production when Elijah and I were working on a scene in which Sam reaches around Frodo to lift him off the ground. The technicians kept rewinding and playing the scene as we tried to match dialogue to the film—back and forth, back and forth—the result being a slightly pornographic image of what appeared to be Sam having his way with Frodo from behind. Elijah and I fell victim to our most sophomoric tendencies in this setting, as we looped dialogue appropriate for the moment.

What can I say? These were the kinds of jokes that sometimes bubbled to the surface over the course of an eighteen-month shoot. Sometimes they helped us get through the day. I'm sure it would be off-putting to some people, but to us it was funny, and it seemed harmless.

To me, though, the emotional scenes involving Sam and Frodo stand on their own merit. Whatever is at stake is what it's about. If you prefer to think of Sam and Frodo as two gay males, that's fine. You could take that reading of the relationship and extend it as long as you want to, and it would sustain that reading. When Frodo says good-bye and kisses Sam on the forehead, it's whatever it is. It's sweet and tender and honest. And that's all that really matters. But don't forget something. Sam did go on to marry Rosie Cotton. And he was, as it turned out, a rather prolific little hobbit.

As far I'm concerned, it comes down to this: Sam is the best friend anyone could ever hope for. His relationship with Frodo is a perfect study in dedication, devotion, and heartfelt companionship. Despite the hundreds of interactions I've had with folks who prefer to see the bond between Frodo and Sam through a prism of homoeroticism, I remain convinced that the power of their friendship derives primarily from the purity and innocence of their love for one another. As the member of a beautiful if untraditional hodgepodge of a family, and someone who has had connections with and lost touch with more people I consider friends than many folks ever meet in a lifetime, I gain strength from my understanding of the character I got to play.

Sam probably knows that time and experience reveal the true nature of our loyalty, and that even after extraordinary circumstances real friends emerge from the scars they have caused one another with a deeper understanding of just how important they are to each other. Making movies brings you into extremely close contact with tens of thousands of people over the course of a career (a fact that can be simultaneously thrilling and exhausting). It occurs to me that stardom is won oftentimes by the formation and retention of close alliances with those practiced in the art of success through a series of critical decisions. To the extent that cynicism plays a mitigating part in that selection process, I am saddened. Conversely, I love it when strategic interpersonal alliances are formed in organic ways. I usually can't quite help myself when I feel the impulse to “make a new friend,” and I'm not above trying to capitalize on the formation of a new friendship with someone who can help me. You see, because I played Sam, a lot of people ask me questions about myself and just what kind of friend I really am. I've gotten the impression from folks that they are looking to me, Sean, as an authority on the nature of friendship. I've worried, frankly, that I'm not worthy.

My personality is such that I try to meet or exceed the positive expectations that many have of me and for me. When I'm traveling, I think sometimes that people are saddened because they realize or sense that I may not be as good a friend as Sam. I am always quick to point out that in fact I am
not
as good a friend as Sam; I couldn't be, because fundamentally I'm too selfish. My wife and others have a hard time understanding what I mean when I tell them that I like to be “used.” I'm not going to bore you too much with my half-baked philosophy, but I do think there can be real value to heartfelt, sensitive, respectful engagement in discovering where mutual self-interests can collide when you meet people. But friendship? That is something else. I've come to learn that friendship is more about making an effort to act on your thoughtfulness toward others than trying to get stuff out of them, even when you honestly believe that you give as good as you get.

I guess I'll have a lifetime to consider how playing Sam has affected my life, but at the very least, I'd like to believe that he taught me that it's worth trying to be a better friend than I was before I played him. In that regard, my journey of self-discovery and individual improvement continues.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

To this day, Elijah insists it was his idea. Given half a chance, though, Orlando will also take credit. Or responsibility. Or blame. And while Viggo has never sought any recognition for his role in the episode, I'm pretty sure he was a major player. Regardless of its origin, I do know that the seed was planted shortly after we arrived in New Zealand and took root in the months that followed. Every so often, someone (usually Elijah) would bring it up, and someone else would second the motion. Then we'd all forget about it. In the final week of principal photography, however, as it finally began to dawn on us that the adventure was really going to come to an end and we'd all be going home, the discussion began anew, this time with an almost religious fervor.

“Let's all get tattoos!”

My initial reaction back in the summer of 1999 was one of self-righteous dismissal:
Ah, that's stupid. I'm not doing that.
To me, the concept lacked an air of authenticity. It felt like Elijah trying a little bit too hard to form a bond among the actors that mirrored the bond between the members of the Fellowship. Not that I doubted his sincerity. Far from it, in fact. I knew Elijah would leave Wellington sporting a fresh tattoo. Not me, though. I would be nearly thirty years old by the time we left, and in all those years I'd never once succumbed to the urge to brand my body. For a kid who had been raised in the bubble of celebrity, who had been hanging out with artists and writers and actors since he was a toddler, I was an unusually conservative fellow. Not politically, perhaps, but certainly in my personal life. Let's put it this way: I was more Ozzie Nelson than Ozzy Osbourne.

The idea of me getting a tattoo seemed patently ridiculous and a little bit pathetic, like a middle-aged man who goes out and buys a flashy sports car, leaves his wife, and begins dating a fitness instructor barely out of her teens. I wasn't that guy. I didn't want to be that guy. Getting a tattoo seemed a tentative step down that slippery slope.

As I said, though, that was in the beginning.

My attitude toward the production improved in its last few months. As Sam's character was presented with exactly the type of heroic moments that Peter had promised, I was filled with pride about the work I had done and more than a little regret over not having handled the setbacks and frustrations with more elegance. Moreover, a closeness had developed between the cast members—the hobbits in particular—that could not be denied. We had spent nearly a year and a half together, living like brothers, working, playing, arguing, and supporting each other through the hard times and celebrating as one in the good times. Regardless of the outcome, we had shared and endured something extraordinary, and the likelihood that any one of us would ever be involved in a similar cinematic experience was remote, to say the least. (Remember, we really didn't know then how the films would be received, and I don't think anyone assumed they would become the worldwide phenomenon that they have.) As the countdown to our day of departure reached single digits, an inevitable and inescapable sadness permeated the air. It was almost as though we couldn't believe that it was really coming to an end. But it was, and that truth prompted another, more serious round of discussions about commemorating our experience with a trip to a local tattoo parlor.

A few days before our scheduled exodus it came to my attention that Viggo had already begun negotiations with the proprietor of a little place on Cuba Street called Roger's Tattoo Art. The idea was to open the shop for a couple hours on a Saturday or Sunday morning, at a time when it would normally be closed and the streets would not yet be flocked with shoppers and tourists. I remember smiling to myself when I heard about this. Somehow, after so much time in New Zealand, working so closely with this group of people, it no longer seemed like such a silly or self-destructive thing to do. It seemed appropriate. It seemed honorable.

“You know what?” I told Christine that night. “If everybody else agrees, I think I'm going to do it.”

She gave me a hard look, the kind that only a wife can give a husband, and while she didn't exactly shake her head or roll her eyes, I could tell she wasn't crazy about the idea. Whether her disapproval stemmed from a simple dislike of body art (on her husband, anyway), or from concern that my decision was due to simple, sophomoric peer pressure, I can't be sure. Nevertheless, Christine gave me her blessing.