There and Back Again (48 page)

I reached over and held Philippa's hand. She smiled, but I could tell she was nervous. Then they announced her name (as well as the names of her cowriters, Peter and Fran), and I thought,
My God, it's going to be a sweep!
I think everybody felt that way. It was like watching a no-hitter in baseball: in a way, it's boring as hell, but then in the last two innings it gets really exciting because you don't want anyone to get a hit.

In accepting the award, Peter mentioned his two children, Billy and Katie; he thanked them, in essence, for their patience, because “Mommy and Daddy have been working on this movie for their entire lives.” With those words, I think, Peter won the room. You could see the heads bobbing in agreement, as if the magnitude of the effort and accomplishment had been driven home:
You know what? He deserves it.

Peter shambled to the stage again a few minutes later to accept the award for directing, and then once more at the end of the night when
The Return of the King
was honored as best picture. I held my breath before the last of the awards, worrying for just a moment or two that something freakish might happen, and the perfect game would come to an end. But that didn't happen. When the winner was announced, Peter and Fran and producer Barrie Osborne rose from their seats. I was sitting between Billy Boyd and Dominic Monaghan; at the end of the row, closest to the aisle, was Elijah Wood. Before walking to the stage, Fran turned to me and said, “Let's go; the hobbits have to come with us.”

Elijah raised his hands in protest. “No, no. This is yours. I can't go up there.”

But then Peter got into the act. And Fran and Philippa and half of New Zealand, it seemed, and suddenly there we all were, up on stage, crying and laughing and hugging. It's hard to explain how it felt to climb the stairs and stand on that stage. It was an electric moment of arrival. It felt important. But it wasn't about me. It was about being part of something much bigger: the idea that when you walk into the Kodak Theater, you pass these massive pillars on which is inscribed the name of each film that has been honored with an Academy Award for best picture. As long as that building survives,
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
, of which I am a not insignificant part, will be on those pillars.

I exited the stage alongside Steven Spielberg, who had presented the award for best picture. Don't ask me why, but for some reason this is what I said to him: “You know how many people want us to make
Goonies II
?”

Steven shook his head and laughed. “Come on, Sean, you guys just made history tonight. Let's not talk about
The Goonies
right now.”

A few seconds later, my cell phone rang.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Honey, I'm so proud of you. You were the heart of that movie, and you were the heart of the awards show tonight.”

“Oh, Mom, stop!”

“No, really. You were!”

“I love you, Mom. I'll call you later.”

In the middle of the chaos, Steven Spielberg began talking to Liv Tyler and me. He said something I will never forget.

“You know how many kids around the world are happy right now, because the Academy finally agrees with them and has the same sensibilities? They wanted it for
Star Wars
; they wanted it for
Raiders.
” He paused for a second.

“And now the Academy has graduated in its thinking?” I interjected. “And they'll honor fantasy and science fiction?”

Steven nodded. A smile crossed his bearded face; even now, in his mid-fifties, he looked like a kid.

“Yeah. I hope so.”

*   *   *

After both the SAG Awards and the Oscars, when we met the media backstage, we were asked whether the on-screen friendships in
The Lord of the Rings
had been mirrored in real life. Everyone nodded and offered their own take on the subject. I thought about what Elijah had said years earlier, when we first arrived in New Zealand for preproduction training.

“Friends for life.”

At the time I had dismissed his comment as the product of youthful optimism and naïveté. But now I wondered whether he was right after all. It's nice to think so, anyway.

Time has a way of distorting memory, of amplifying the good things and muting the bad; nostalgia replaces clear recollection. With each passing year my time in New Zealand seems less arduous, less painful. Every once in a while I'll pull out a scrapbook and flip through the pages, and I'm surprised at how happy everyone seems to be. The exhaustion and boredom and frustration that were so much a part of the experience—or at least of my experience—are not readily evident. There's a lesson there, I guess.

I owe everything to
The Lord of the Rings
—and to Peter Jackson.

In the past six months I've had a few nice roles: first, in a hugely successful romantic comedy called
Fifty First Dates
, starring Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore. I also worked for a month in South Africa on David Van Eyssen's
Slipstream
, which is a low-budget but innovative project worthy of the time invested. Most recently, I filmed a coming-of-age drama called
Smile,
about the relationship between an American teen who travels to China with a charitable organization, and a Chinese counterpart who receives surgery to correct a facial deformity. The film, written and directed by Jeff Kramer, a journeyman actor and first-time screenwriter, is based on his daughter's experiences with Operation Smile, an organization that helps provide funding and services for children who need reconstructive facial surgery. Jeff started out a quarter century ago in the touring company of
Grease
and has done a lot of television and theater work through the years. He never quite made it big as an actor, but now, through optimism and persistence, he's done this film, and it's the realization of a lifelong dream. His daughter was there on the set, and the righteousness of why he was doing it permeated our experience. It was only a few days of work for me, playing a teacher who inspires and encourages the young woman to get involved in volunteerism, to follow her passion.

The role, you might say, was in my wheelhouse. In fact, as I review the last few pages of this manuscript, I'm standing in the customs section of Los Angeles International Airport. Christine is waiting for the luggage. Ali and Elizabeth are with us. We've just returned from a weekend visiting Jeff in Shanghai.

What's next? I don't really know. There have been other offers, lots of them. I'm trying to wade through the scripts and make smart decisions. I might get a chance to direct, which would be cool. Or I might just focus on acting (but I doubt it). I look ahead and see nothing but blinking lights. Some will turn red; some will turn green. Either way, this much is certain:

The road goes ever on.

Notes

CHAPTER ONE

1
. “Piece of shit” is a phrase I use comfortably in everyday conversation. In this context it's meant to be both funny and descriptive, but not mean-spirited. It does, however, reflect a certain point of view, which I can't deny.

2
. Please forgive me for being pompous, and grant me a little fun. There's a very thin line between delusions of grandeur and extraordinary human achievement, if only in the early stages of planning. If I succeed—wonderful! If I fail—well, at least you all were gracious enough not to spoil my good time.

CHAPTER SIX

3
. Please take the paranoia reference in the spirit it's intended: Funny, people, funny …

4
. Not that I have anything against comic books. In fact, one of my goals now is to work on a film actually based on a comic book.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

5
. I hold nothing against Elliott, either. The fact is, he's a good man and a gifted actor. When we wrapped
The Rules of Marriage
, he presented me with a gift: a tiny mezuzah inscribed with the words, “Forever, Elliott.” That, in the end, far outweighed any discomfort I might have experienced on the set.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

6
. John now claims to have sent his stunt double. He knows, or should know, that he doesn't need a tattoo to be a permanent, deserving, and integral member of our Fellowship—for all time.

THERE AND BACK AGAIN
. Copyright © 2004 by Sean Astin. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 0-312-33146-0

EAN 978-0312-33146-7

First Edition: October 2004

eISBN 9781466856356

First eBook edition: October 2013