There and Back Again (41 page)

“No, Sean, I did not,” Ian said. In his voice was a hint of condescension, as if this was precisely the sort of gaffe he expected of me. “As a matter of fact, I haven't shown it to anyone, just as we agreed.”

I hung up the phone and stood there, shaking.

Kmetko, you son of a bitch!

The next time I saw Steve, I playfully accused him of lying to me, which he denied. And then I got to thinking about it:
Wait a minute. Maybe Ian was lying! Or they were both playing with me
. Anyway, I called Elijah and told him I'd screwed up. He was terribly disappointed in me for being stupid and for giving such a lame excuse. But you know what? He forgave me. And, of course, he later revealed his tattoo as well.

*   *   *

The wrap party is a Hollywood tradition, an opportunity for the studio to thank everyone for all their hard work, a chance for cast and crew to say farewell, and to celebrate the end of the journey. At one point, I went through a phase during which I didn't like wrap parties and often opted to skip town before they were held. Why? Sometimes, I suppose, it was because I didn't feel particularly proud of the work I'd done and thus wasn't interested in paying tribute to it. I simply wanted it in the rearview mirror. Other times, on the better films, I couldn't bring myself to say good-bye. So I'd just leave.

At the end of filming
The Lord of the Rings
, though, I was okay with it. I was happy to be leaving, happy to be saying good-bye to people, happy the movie was over. It felt right, as though we'd all been there long enough and done all that we could to make
The Lord of the Rings
the best it could be. I was proud of what we'd accomplished, but I was also tired and homesick and ready to move on to the next phase of my life, whatever that might mean. (I certainly didn't comprehend just how completely the movies would come to dominate my career, or that the roller-coaster ride was, in fact, just beginning.)

So Christine and I got a babysitter, I pulled on a red Dr. Seuss sweater bearing the words “I am Sam,” and we went to the wrap party, which had to be one of the biggest in the history of cinema. By “big,” I don't mean lavish. I mean just plain big, as in huge. The party was held at a warehouse in downtown Wellington, near the waterfront. There were searchlights outside and mountains of food within. Generally speaking, it was a casual and comfortable affair, but sprawling, as well; intimacy is difficult when there are more than a thousand guests.

As always happens at these affairs, great gobs of time were devoted to the exchanging of gifts. The actors, collectively, presented Peter with a mockette, courtesy of the makeup wizards at Weta Workshop. Mockettes are little sculptures used as models for all the different fictional characters in the films. The models would be scanned into a computer and the digital gurus would build off those, so the images that appeared on screen were not just based on drawings, but three-dimensional characters. Anyway, we had a mockette created for Peter, and of course it looked not only like Peter, but also like a hobbit: big feet, wild, unruly hair, and a bemused expression on its face. Peter seemed genuinely touched by the gift, and I remember feeling somewhat disappointed in myself for not putting more effort into the process. Elijah and I had gotten the cards done, and we had written notes to people, but here in the swirl of celebration our efforts seemed insufficient.

Bliss Macgillicuddy, my makeup artist, gave me a rather extraordinary gift, an enormous collage of pictures and images encased in Plexiglas. There was a head shot illustrated by Alan Lee; photos of me with Elijah; me with Peter, Dom, Billy; my scale double and chess partner, Kiran “B. K.” Shah; everyone. What struck me about the gift was not just the time and thought that went into it, but that I seemed to be smiling in virtually every photo. Clearly, Bliss was trying to send me a message.

“See, you don't have to be such a sourpuss. You really did have a good time, and you connected with a lot of people in a lot of meaningful ways.”

Leave it to the makeup artist to deliver a gentle kick in the ass. Bliss routinely allowed me to go through some of my interior monologue of anguish and insecurity with her; she would let me be grumpy and not hold it against me. She was wonderful, and I appreciated her thoughtfulness as much as her professionalism and attention to detail.

The party went on for hours. There was lots of eating and drinking and dancing, as well as the customary viewing of a gag reel, wherein some of the funniest outtakes of the production were compiled in a single, gut-busting collection. I remember laughing pretty hard at the gag reel, but also feeling sad that I wasn't in more of it; I knew that my absence could be attributed to the fact that I had internalized the process too much and hadn't allowed myself to become part of everyone's fun.

Most of my colleagues, however, were forgiving of my tendency to take things too seriously, and that included Peter and Fran. Although we had several different “good-bye” moments, the official farewell occurred at their house during a dinner for the acting ensemble. Each of us was presented with a green bound yearbook with
The Lord of the Rings
etched into the spine. Between the covers was a collection of beautiful photographs that eloquently told the story of the making of the trilogy. And each book was inscribed with a personalized note. Mine included a few words of thanks for the work I had done, and reassurance that the performance had been meaningful and would one day resonate with audiences. Then came the kicker, the part about my wife and daughter, a reminder of why I had admired Peter and Fran in the first place: they were the coolest couple and the hippest parents on the planet.

“Thank you for giving us Christine and Alexandra,” they wrote, “and for bringing them into our lives.”

I closed the yearbook and ran my hand over the spine. I looked at Fran and Peter. And then I started to cry.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The veil of secrecy was officially removed on May 10, 2001, at the Cannes Film Festival. Cannes, of course, is the world's biggest movie-related party, a sprawling hedonistic seaside celebration of fame and stardom and wealth, as well as an occasional forum for serious filmmaking. Thanks in no small part to the swelling influence of the Internet, there had been significant buzz about
The Lord of the Rings
, most of it positive. But aside from the occasional screening of an isolated scene or two at Peter Jackson's home in Wellington, nothing had been released for public consumption. That all changed at Cannes, when a montage of scenes—essentially a very long trailer for
The Fellowship of the Ring
—was displayed for the first time.

There had been moments in the past when I had some vague notion that the movie might accomplish precisely what Peter had set out to accomplish. Whenever we'd come back from a short hiatus, for example, Peter would try to get everyone back in the proper frame of mind by showing us some rough footage accompanied by temp music. On those occasions I'd be reminded of Peter's awesome talent and the potential for the trilogy to be everything fans hoped it would be. Unfortunately, for me the impact of those brief glimpses quickly faded. I'm embarrassed now to think about how easily I slipped back into the drudgery of moviemaking, of putting on the makeup and the ears and soldiering on day after day, while failing to recognize the scope of the achievement. The excitement would wear off, and I'd forget about the big picture—or maybe I just couldn't
see
the big picture. At Cannes, however, it began to come into focus. This was the first time I realized that
The Lord of the Rings
was going to be something truly extraordinary; it was also the beginning of the “rock star” phase of our lives.

The special screening, a brilliantly conceived marketing gambit by New Line, gave journalists from around the world their first big taste of
The Fellowship of the Ring
, and the resulting publicity nearly overshadowed the movies ostensibly at the center of the festival. Running for twenty-six minutes, the footage opened with the elegant wizard Gandalf arriving in Hobbiton at the home of Bilbo Baggins, whose dramatic birthday disappearance (through the use of the ring) preceded a swift and efficient introduction of the members of the Fellowship. Then came the centerpiece of the footage: a fourteen-minute sequence depicting the Fellowship's harrowing trek through the Mines of Moria that climaxed, as the movie does, with a thrilling battle against an army of orcs and a harrowing encounter with a giant cave troll. The footage concluded with the appearance of a flying dragon (a Balrog), and Gandalf bravely standing between the Fellowship and the fiery beast.

When the screen went dark and the lights came up, the theater erupted with applause. Like everyone else, I was awestruck. Digital characters had blended seamlessly with human actors to create a cinematic experience like nothing that had come before it. The media gushed over the quasi-premiere, noting that it bore Peter's unmistakable stamp and suggesting strongly that the film promised to deliver on New Line's huge investment. I knew then that
The Lord of the Rings
, or at least the first installment of the trilogy, was going to be huge, and that life was about to change for all of us. This was the beginning of the endless ride of parties and premieres and public relations.

It was also the start of me losing my mind, fretting constantly about what
The Lord of the Rings
would mean to me, worrying about whether I was in a horse race with other actors, trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted, instead of just relaxing and enjoying the experience.

That same week, for example, I had a regrettable interaction with one of my costars, Orlando Bloom, who had already been plucked out of the ensemble and targeted for stardom. Not that there was anything remotely surprising about that. Orlando was so talented and appealing, so ridiculously good-looking, that there was never any doubt about what lay ahead for him. He had “movie star” written all over him.

From the very beginning, I found Orlando likable. He wasn't a hobbit, but he was part of the hobbit group, and we all connected right away. More than most of us, Orlando was excited about the physical work involved in the films, and his attitude was terrific. He was fresh out of drama school and incredibly happy to be in New Zealand, working on a big-budget movie. There were times when Orlando would get selfish and try to take advantage of the production assistants—“Hey, baby, could you go get me something to eat, please?”—but it wasn't the sort of behavior emblematic of movie star entitlement; it was just lazy guy stuff, and it was harmless and even kind of endearing. We ridiculed him mercilessly whenever he did it, and he weathered that ridicule pretty well, which only added to his appeal.

Like Legolas and like some of the characters he has played since, Orlando is legitimately dashing and swashbuckling. He's an extreme sort of guy who doesn't mind breaking an occasional bone in the pursuit of adventure and thrills. We rented motorcycles one day and did some off-road biking in the hills of Queenstown. I was relatively cautious, but Orlando was utterly fearless, at one point opening the throttle and charging to the top of a steep incline against the advice of our guide.

“I wouldn't do that,” he yelled as Orlando leaned into the handlebars and gunned the engine. A few minutes later there was Orlando, sitting proudly atop his bike at the summit. Then he turned the bike around and prepared to descend. There was just one problem: it was too steep. Facing the very real possibility of flying over the handlebars and getting seriously injured, Orlando removed his helmet and yelled to us at the bottom.

“How do I get down?”

The guide laughed. “Hey, mate, you found your way up there, you're gonna have to figure out how to get down.”

Which he did. After all, this is a guy who broke his back and somehow escaped any long-term disability or pain. He's got nine lives, and he's living each of them to the fullest.

Orlando and I talked a few times about the business of movies and the stardom that was destined to come his way. We talked about money, and I remember being somewhat amused by the realization that I was probably making a lot more than he was, because that certainly wouldn't be the case in the very near future. Orlando didn't much care about any of that. He was just so happy and easygoing, and it was screamingly obvious what the industry had in store for him.

“You have a chance to be a major star,” I said at one point. Orlando just shrugged and smiled, like someone who either didn't care or had just heard something he already knew. I gave him advice about agents and managers, and he went off and made a lot of decisions that I wouldn't have made—decisions that have since proved to be a hell of a lot smarter than decisions I would have made. But there were times when I ran into Orlando, or read some story about him, and thought,
Oh, my God, it's gone to his head, and he's become a cataclysmic jerk!

That's what happened in Cannes, when I approached Orlando while he was chatting with Barry Diller, one of the more powerful and influential men in Hollywood. I got the feeling that Orlando was blowing me off, that he wasn't about to waste time embracing a friend when there was an opportunity to cultivate a business relationship. And I got mad at him. After Barry left, I gave Orlando a little shove in the chest and said, “Who the hell do you think you are? We're supposed to be friends.” He was shocked and sort of apologized, but he also made it clear that he had intended no disrespect at all. When I thought about it afterward, when I really analyzed what had happened, I came to the conclusion that I was the one who had behaved badly. I had misread the situation and overreacted. Envy and insecurity had gotten the better of me, and I'd briefly lost it. Orlando, to his great credit, was instantly forgiving, and we got through it with no discernible fallout.