by Martin Sheen
I’ve been in the cathedral twice before, once in 2003 when I drove the Camino with Matt Clark and my grandson Taylor, and again on August third of this year. It was my sixty-ninth birthday and church officials honored me by lighting the Botafumeiro at the end of the Pilgrim’s Mass.
At 176 pounds and almost five feet in height, the Botafumeiro—which means “smoke expeller” in Galician—is the largest censer on the planet. A select group of men in pilgrim costume reverently pull on its long, knotted ropes, causing it to swing in a wide arc from one side of the cathedral to the other, from floor to ceiling. The first time the magnificent silver capsule came whizzing by me overhead at fifty miles per hour, depositing thick, fragrant clouds of incense in its wake, I ducked. Then I watched it swing up and away, descend rapidly back down again, and continue like this for a full five minutes.
The spiritual image, we were told, is that the Botafumeiro goes all the way up to heaven, comes down to collect us, and then carries us back up. Whatever its symbolism, the process was mesmerizing and drew thunderous applause from the pilgrim congregation at its conclusion. Emilio also was inspired by the Botafumeiro and planned to include it in The Way. But four months later, as we’re preparing to film inside the cathedral, we are keenly aware that our presence here can’t be taken for granted. Until forty-eight hours ago we were officially denied permission to film inside the cathedral. In fact, we learned that no production has ever been permitted to film there: Only an occasional documentary and some news coverage have been allowed.
It seemed that church officials had some concerns about how we were depicting Catholicism and the Catholic church in general. The provincial government of Galicia also was concerned about how our film would depict the Camino and Spain. This was a critical situation, with an importance that could not be underestimated. If we were forbidden from filming interiors in the cathedral, our film would suffer a critical blow. Not only would one of the most critical sequences of the film have to be eliminated, but it would also preclude the very goal of every pilgrimage and destination of every pilgrim: the cathedral itself.
Fortunately everyone in the cast, crew, and production unit of the film rose to convince both church and state that the concerns were unfounded. Emilio offered to rework any part of the script that either entity found objectionable. David worked hard to assure the local and national government that we intended to celebrate the Camino as a national treasure and honor the Spanish culture. Taylor, Carmen, and I assured the local bishop of our sincere respect for Catholicism and the sacredness of the cathedral. In the final analysis, it didn’t hurt our cause that Carmen and I are practicing Catholics as well as first generation Galicians, and that Taylor was a resident of Spain and married to Julia, a Spanish citizen.
Deeply grateful and greatly relieved that permission has been granted, we now turn to the conditions that come with it. We’ve been given a total of only three hours—and not a minute more—to film the entire sequence inside the cathedral. Okay, I think, Beggars can’t be choosers. Yet in those three hours, some of the most extraordinary moments of the film occur, from the moment when the four of us arrive at El Pórtico de la Gloria (The Portico of Glory) where Joost drops to his knees in front of the statue of Saint James in a moving gesture of innocent faith and adoration; to Sarah’s acceptance of grace and forgiveness; to Jack’s profound emotional release; to Tom’s visitation at the tomb of Saint James beneath the main altar; to the solemn Pilgrim’s Mass and the final blessing of Daniel’s ashes; to the extraordinary Botafumeiro spectacle filmed for the first time for any movie. And all of this is achieved without a single word of dialogue.
Any pilgrim who has walked at least one hundred miles of the Camino is entitled to receive a compostela, an official document or diploma of sorts (suitable for framing) that confirms their efforts. In the story, our seasoned “gang of four” has walked the entire five hundred miles and has the scars to prove it. They proudly present themselves to the upstairs office next to the cathedral for the pilgrim’s final ritual.
The office is staffed by volunteers who ink each pilgrim’s passport with the official stamp of the cathedral. Then, before receiving the personalized compostela, they are required for the record to answer the standard question: “What is your reason for walking the Camino?”
The answers are as varied as the pilgrims themselves. After walking for weeks, sometimes even months, much of it in solitude, many pilgrims begin to reveal deeply personal information they’ve never expressed before. Some even break down and weep as they recount their experiences along the way. Often the volunteers remain late into the night listening like skilled therapists or priestly confessors. It’s almost as if the pilgrims are being asked, “What is the reason for your life?” and respond with, “I thought you’d never ask.”
But Tom is a rare exception. He’s caught off guard and isn’t inclined to share his deep personal feelings or insights despite the life-changing experience of his pilgrimage. Put on the spot, he tries to summon up an answer.
“Ah . . .” he says. “Well . . . I mean . . .” He stammers on, “I guess . . .”
He can’t find the words to explain why he’s there in place of his dead son, Daniel. In fact, until that moment Tom has hardly considered the reason for his journey. Back in St.-Jean he’d decided to walk the Camino on impulse, perhaps in a desperate effort to understand the mystery of his son’s sudden death while on a personal quest in a strange place, and also to understand the deep regret he felt about their estrangement. In truth, he may have had his son’s remains cremated and carried the ashes with him to hold on to Daniel for as long as he could. Any explanation is possible, Tom realizes, but how can he articulate such possibilities to a complete stranger?
Instead, he manages a simplistic response to satisfy the questioner: “I thought I should travel more.” But we’re left to wonder about his true motive, and the question lingers for the remainder of his journey, as well as for my own. It will accompany both of us to Muxia along the coast, where we surrender Daniel’s ashes to the raging tide of the North Atlantic and then south to Morocco, where the final sequence suggests that Tom has embraced Daniel’s spirit and sense of adventure and by doing so, becomes his true self.
As expected, the same question—“What is your reason . . . ?”—is waiting for me back in Malibu when I return from Spain. Indeed, this question has been the one constant throughout my journey since May 1, 1981, in Paris and I suspect that it will accompany me to the end, or so I hope.
There’s an old saying: If you arrive at the Kingdom alone you must answer just one question: “Where are the others?”
We are made so that we must travel alone, yet we cannot do so without community. No one can live our lives for us or carry our inner burdens, yet we can come to know ourselves only through our compassion for others. “I may not feel your pain or understand your situation, but I will stay with you so that you never feel alone or forgotten.” This, I believe, is the basic understanding and purpose of community, and the simplest form of love.
Our first concept of community is family, the one into which we were born or adopted and where we learn to forge our own life, and then the family we create as we enlarge the original one. As we have been formed, so we form, and so on. As I age I can hardly believe how much I have become like my father, for good or ill. I suppose that my children will come to the same realization about me, if they have not already.
I’ve loved all of my children equally, always, but I’ve also loved them differently, each one according to his or her needs, which has always seemed quite natural to me. While this shared memoir has involved my personal and professional relationship with Emilio, I trust that Ramon, Charlie, and Renée understand and rest assured that their stories with me are forthcoming.
The Way has been described as a film inspired by a grandson, dedicated to a grandfather, and created by a father and son in between. Taylor is that grandson, Francisco was that grandfather, and Emilio and I are that father and son. We
are part of a community that spans four generations and three continents, and we continue to grow and challenge the best in one another. But maybe the best is yet to come. If the road ahead is anything like the one we’ve already traveled—and I suspect it will be—I welcome every positive gain and painful loss, with a renewed sense of gratitude and joy.
The Irish tell the story of a man who arrives at the gates of heaven and asks to be let in.
“Of course,” Saint Peter says. “Just show us your scars.”
“I have no scars,” the man replies.
“What a pity,” Saint Peter says. “Was there nothing worth fighting for?”
EPILOGUE
EMILIO
2000–2012
The sun sets quickly in Malibu, descending behind the ocean like a bright coin slipping into a distant slot. The sky offers a stunning display of pinks and oranges and reds. Especially in the fall and winter, after a day out working in the yard, the sunset feels like a reward from the heavens. The day’s labor is finished, the job well done, and Sonja and I can sit outside with a bottle of our estate Pinot Noir, its grapes grown on the vines in front of us. As the sun goes down, we admire the awe-inspiring streaks across the sky as the vineyards slip into dusk. We’re home.
This must be the place.
Our vineyard has become a communal effort, bringing friends and family together for pruning and harvests. Some days a dozen people populate the yard, each working in quiet, individual contemplation. It’s meditative, peaceful work once you get into the rhythm.
My father likes to walk over, pull on a set of work gloves, and pick up a pair of pruning shears. The man who hasn’t had a drink in more than twenty years has come to understand what Sonja and I have learned, and what my grandfather Francisco and his family must have known as well: that winemaking is not about wine drinking. It’s about community. It’s about growing and harvesting the plenty together, about creating and engaging in a common activity that at some level is familiar to us all. It’s not about getting drunk. It’s about sharing an experience. And that we can all do, in abundance.
After fifty years my father and I have arrived at a place of comfortable peace with each other, despite our divergent views about faith. When he talks about scripture he still speaks as if he just witnessed the events last night on Dateline. My argument is always, “How do you take the Gospels as fact? When you say ‘Jesus said . . .’ how do you know he did? Or is that an interpretation of what he may have said? In which case, the Bible is the greatest story ever told.” I know my skepticism frustrates him and that he still holds out hope I’ll become a Catholic one day, but for now skepticism suits me. I need the tactile experience of verification. I’m always looking for a measure of proof, and even as proof reveals itself, I still want more. It keeps life interesting.
I’ve come to recognize my father’s connection to faith and his devotion to attending weekly Mass as his form of sustenance, akin to a sobriety meeting, and I respect that. I used to question it, but I’ve had enough sober people in my life by now to know how vital that sustenance is. We each have our own form of spirituality, and that’s how it should be. As my father says, “Faith is deeply personal. If it’s not personal, it’s impersonal, and if it’s impersonal, who cares?” Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t even have entertained a discussion about spirituality or faith, but as I get older and more in touch with my own mortality, I’m more open to the dialogue. That’s been a surprise for me, but one that I welcome.
An even bigger surprise, perhaps, has been the relationship my father and I now share as adults. Whenever we embark on a personal journey we never know if we’ll encounter people on our travels, if someone will be at our side to help us along, or if we’ll arrive at our destination alone. For much of my life I thought it unlikely that my father and I would end up on this path together. It’s been a wonderful surprise for me to discover him right here beside me.
The public mythology of our family is that we all grew up blessed, with silver spoons in our mouths. The spoon part isn’t true at all, though I do feel blessed. Every day I feel as if I’ve won the lottery, though not in the traditional sense. Certainly not in the way others might expect.
Success to my grandfather was not measured by what a man achieved in his career or how much money he made but by the state of his health, his relationships with his children, and the strength of his marriage. I think that’s how my father always defined success as well. Instead of chasing fame he chose to compile a vast body of work, share a fifty-year marriage, and raise four children, all of whom he’s worked with over the years. Now he gets to reap the benefits of those choices. Making The Way together, as a family effort, created an art form that celebrates us all. The War at Home and Bobby, too—these were experiences we shared together. For a father and son to share this level of collaboration is very special, even in this town.
Our family is not unique in terms of dealing with alcoholism or competition or arguments about faith. But we may be unique, at least by Hollywood standards, in that we’re still together. So many families around us have fragmented and dismissed and abandoned one another. That’s something my father has never done. He always hung in there, with each one of us, through everything we’ve faced, and he always finds the will to forgive.
That, I think, is his greatest lesson of all.
Reliving our relationship in its entirety for this book wasn’t always easy. It required painful, honest gazes backward, whereas I prefer to always look forward. But it was well worth the time. My father and I learned things about each other we’d never known, and we shared stories we’d forgotten or never told before. We spent time again with people who are no longer with us, people who meant a great deal to us over the years: the actors Marlon Brando, Dennis Hopper, George C. Scott, Chris Penn, and Patrick Swayze; the director Robert Wise; our dear friend Roscoe Lee Browne; my godfather John Crane; my grandfather Francisco; my aunt Juaquina; and my uncles Mateo, Lorenzo, Manuel, Conrad, Mike, Al, and Carlos.
Remembering them and missing them all over again has made me all the more grateful for the people who are still here. I think specifically of Matt Clark; Joe Lowry; Laurence Fishburne; Jimmy Keane; Lee Arenberg; my aunt Carmen, and, most of all, my partner Sonja, my mother Janet, my siblings Ramon, Charlie, and Renée, and my children, Paloma and Taylor.
And of course, first and foremost, my dad. Ramon. Otherwise known as Martin. The man who for so many years walked ahead of me, who briefly walked a separate path, and who now walks by my side.
Passport photo of Francisco Estevez
John Crane, the best man at Janet and Martin’s wedding and godfather to Emilio and Ramon, 1962, New York City. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Christmas with Martin and Emilio, New York City, 1966. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Emilio, Charlie, Ramon, and Martin, at Janet’s mother’s house in North Benton, Ohio, 1968. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin, Emilio, Ramon, and Charlie on the set of Catch-22, Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico, 1969. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Emilio and Ramon, running toward the camera, on location for Catch-22 in Rome, Italy, 1969. Photo by Martin Sheen.
Emilio in Uncle Matias’s vineyard, Galicia, Spain, 1969. Photo by Martin Sheen.
Emilio, Uncle Lorenzo, and Ramon, Galicia, Spain, 1969. Photo by Martin Sheen.
Cross-country trip, Emilio sleeping in the back of the Ford Wagon, Charlie looking into the camera, 1970. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Emilio and friend, grade school, Tucson, Arizona, on location for the movie Rage, 1972. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Gomby the Tiger and Martin outside Martin’s on-set hut for Apocalypse Now, the Philippines, 1976. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin with PBR crew: Frederic Forrest, Laurence Fishburne, Sam Bottoms, and Albert Hall, Apocalypse Now, 1976. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Emilio and Martin on location in the base camp hut, Apocalypse Now, 1976. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin with Ifugao tribespeople, Apocalypse Now, 197
6. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Laurence Fishburne throwing a baseball, Apocalypse Now, 1976. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Denah Harris, ACSW, New York, family therapist and lifelong friend, New York City, 1977. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin and Emilio, Hotel Plaza Athénée, Paris, France, 1977. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin in India, location of the film Gandhi, 1981. Photo by Emilio Estevez.
Martin and Uncle Matias in Galicia, during the third visit to Martin’s father’s home, 1983. Photo by Ramon Estevez.
Martin at a nuclear testing protest in Nevada, 1987. Photo by Renée Estevez.
Emilio with daughter Paloma in Malibu, California, 1988. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Emilio with son Taylor in Malibu, California, 1988. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin, Charlie, and Ramon on the set of the movie Cadence, in Kamloops, Canada, 1989. Photo by Martin Sheen on timer.
Emilio and Martin on the set of The War at Home in Austin, Texas, 1995. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Martin, Taylor Estevez, and Paloma Estevez in costume on the set of Bobby, Los Angeles, California, 2005. Photo by Janet Sheen.
Emilio and Taylor on the set of The Way, Spain, 2009. Photo by David Alexanian.