There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  Early in my school career I suffered because of this inability to focus, to simply sit down and do the work uninterrupted and without accompaniment. I know what you’re thinking: Sounds like a kid with attention deficit disorder. Well, the truth is, there was a period of time when I think that diagnosis would have been made so hard and so quick and been so totally accurate that it’s not even funny; then again, they probably could have gotten me for a bunch of things.3 There was a time when my parents were worried that I was depressed because I was so much shorter than everyone else, so they had me meet with a psychiatrist. We chatted for about a half hour, after which he shrugged his shoulders and said, “This kid is fine.” Not entirely true, but pretty close. I had goals in mind. I wanted to write and direct movies. I wanted to act. Hell, I wanted to be president of the United States. There was no way I was going to allow myself to be assigned a label. Somehow I’d fight through all the ideas in my head and find a way to harness the motor that never stopped running.

  And boy was it humming now, as I stood in the bookstore, shifting my weight nervously from one foot to the other, thinking about how I had to have a perfect British accent so that I could portray this famous character, known and apparently loved by millions of readers, yet completely foreign to me. I’d already called Christine and asked her to line up a dialect coach— fast!

  And oh by the way, honey, make sure the fax machine has paper in it, because we’re going to be getting an important correspondence from New Zealand, and another from the casting director, and I have to buy this book, and I don’t know which one to get, and, and, and …

  There was an urgency to it—not quite a sense of panic, but a real determined urgency, accompanied by an implied ticking clock and the feeling that I had to get a handle on what this whole thing was about. All of which provoked some uncomfortable yet familiar emotions. When we were kids, my little brother would wear certain clothes to school, and I would look at him in wonder and say, “What are you wearing that for?”

  He’d just laugh. “Oh, you don’t understand.”

  Sure enough, the next day, or the next week, everyone would be wearing what Mack wore. He was smart that way, savvy and cool about trends and fashion and style. Not me. I was the guy who was happy during my three years at Catholic school because we all wore uniforms and I didn’t have to worry about what to wear; I was the guy who on “free dress day” would have a panic attack because he had no cool clothes and wouldn’t have known they were cool even if he did have them. That was the feeling pouring over me as I looked at this cool, hip thing—the Tolkien section of Barnes & Noble—that I knew nothing about.

  I flipped through the Howe book first. For some reason it just didn’t trigger anything that normally draws me in. I felt bad about that years later, when I was in Paris and attended the opening of one of John’s art shows, and saw firsthand the original artwork he’d created for those books. It was absolutely stunning. On that day in the bookstore, though, in my frenetic state, I didn’t give John’s illustrations the time and consideration they deserved, and so they didn’t grab me.

  But Alan Lee’s did.

  Alan, as most Tolkien fanatics know, is one of the most prolific and revered book illustrators in the world. Inspired by Tolkien, his fellow countryman, to devote the lion’s share of his considerable talent to the realm of fantasy, Alan has become forever linked with the characters who inhabit Middle-earth. He also was awarded the Carnegie Medal for his illustrated edition of Homer’s epic The Iliad, which implies a different sort of sensibility, one that is rooted in mythology as well as fantasy. Perhaps that’s what struck me that day, when I picked up Alan’s illustrated edition of The Lord of the Rings. It looked like mythic history, rather than fantasy—a book that had more in common with the Arthurian legend than it did with Harry Potter. I ran my fingers over the cover, leafed through the pages, pausing not to read but merely to admire the artwork, and I couldn’t help but think, Wow, these drawings are unbelievable. It looks and feels like real history.

  So I bought The Lord of the Rings illustrated by Alan Lee. Unfortunately, I didn’t buy The Hobbit, which, in retrospect, was a mistake. If I’d been listening more closely to Nikki, I might have absorbed her reference to The Hobbit and understood the value of reading that as well. Reading it first, actually. But I didn’t. Instead, I went home with Alan’s three-volume set and read aloud with Christine the first 150 pages in about three hours, reading very quickly, not really understanding the story, but soaking up descriptions of the land and characters, and stopping to reread, or at least read more carefully, any time I saw the words “Sam” or “Samwise Gamgee,” the character I hoped to portray. My goal was to absorb as much as I could, as fast as I could, to figure out how important Sam was to the larger story and the world in which he lived. And it seemed to me that he was indeed a pivotal character.

  A few things resonated. For example, I liked that Sam was a gardener, and I liked the way he spoke. There was, it seemed, a rural, almost agrarian, pastoral sound to his speech. I thought that the simplicity of it, the idea that Sam was at peace with himself and the land he tilled, was so cool. Not that I understood what it meant. I had no idea yet that Sam’s heroism and courage were rooted in his simple, noble approach to life. I knew only that Nikki and Victoria were excited about this project and this story, and I figured I’d better try to find out what it was that piqued their interest. So I didn’t come to the character organically; I didn’t really appreciate the value of Samwise from the beginning. I just knew that he was an important character, and that if I was playing him I had to present myself as an important actor, someone whose credibility and credentials—from starring in Rudy (whose titular character displays a courage that, in a way, mirrors Sam’s) to putting myself through college, where presumably I had done a fair amount of reading (though obviously not quite enough). No problem there, really, since I considered myself to be a serious actor, recent setbacks notwithstanding. I was a legend in my own mind, if not in the minds of studio executives, and I knew that if The Lord of the Rings was an important project (and what trilogy isn’t important, at least from a financial standpoint?), then I had to approach it with the proper combination of reverence and confidence.

  What I understood from the moment I began reading the trilogy was its level of artistic achievement. It was clear from the first three paragraphs that the language employed by Tolkien was exceptional. He was brilliant. The book was brilliant. This was not a dressed-up, fleshed-out comic book,4 which is the way I had viewed most books in the fantasy realm or genre. It was literature, and I felt humbled and embarrassed that I had never read it and knew nothing about it. It was important, serious, world-class art, and the moment was now upon me to demonstrate that I was equal to the task of engaging the material in a serious way and bringing my talents to bear on a cinematic interpretation of Tolkien’s work.

  Understand, please, that this is not the response typical of an actor being introduced to a project. What usually happens if you’re offered a role in a movie is this: you sit down with the script, or with the book or magazine article on which the script is based, and with sweaty palms sticking to the paper, you begin to read. In those first few paragraphs or pages, the thought running through your mind is: Oh, God, please don’t let it suck. Let it be something I can sink my teeth into. You want more than anything to be working, to be earning a living, but you also want to have an opportunity to work on something you feel really good about, because that makes the process enjoyable, fulfilling. Acting is hard. Not hard in the way that firefighting or law enforcement is hard. But it is hard. Even on the best of days it’s emotionally exhausting. There’s a stunning openness to it, a vulnerability that comes with stripping your soul bare in front of a group of strangers (and that’s what actors are in the first days of a movie production) in the hope that your combined efforts will result in work that will be sufficiently interesting to another, much larger group of strangers—the moviegoing public—a few month
s down the road. But it all begins with the written word. If the source material fails to hold your interest, well, you know it’ll be a long, uphill climb. Therefore, Please don’t suck becomes the mantra in your head.

  Sadly, the undeniable truth is that much of what gets produced does, in fact, suck; there are so few scripts of quality, and so many that are merely retreads. In the years leading up to The Lord of the Rings I reached a point in the auditioning cycle where I lost faith, where it simply wasn’t fun anymore. I had starred in enough movies, and had done enough television pilots that didn’t go. I hated the feeling of auditioning cold for parts that I really didn’t want, in projects of modest to little merit. And yet, like my mother before me, I wasn’t at a place where I felt particularly confident about being selective, saying to my agents, “No, I don’t want to do that.” Like anyone else, I had to earn a living. Moreover, I wanted to have the freedom to flex my entrepreneurial muscles on occasion, and that was an exercise regimen requiring substantial capital. As a result, when it came time to audition for a given director, especially first-time filmmakers or people who hadn’t done well in their previous endeavors (and that happened a lot), I had difficulty mustering the requisite enthusiasm. I preferred going to meetings, pitching projects, because I do those things pretty well. In general, my auditioning skills had dulled considerably, although my level of self-confidence and interest ebbed and flowed according to a variety of factors: whether I was physically fit, working out, eating right, and feeling good about the project at hand. If I was in shape and excited about a particular project, I’d get a little of the swagger back and be happy to go into a room and put on a show, just as I had so many times when I was younger.

  As a kid, I loved auditioning. The idea of competing was exciting. I was cocky and confident and enjoyed the process. I wanted to go in and prove to myself, and anyone else who happened to be around, exactly what I could do. A long time ago I did a Disney TV movie called Brat Patrol, about a bunch of rabble-rousing kids who live on military bases and have a lot of fun by riding around on their skateboards, crashing the officers club, having water-balloon fights, and generally driving the stiff-shirted adults crazy. Formulaic stuff. The character I played was described in the teleplay as a tan, brash, skate-punk kind of kid, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Before auditioning I made a decision that the way to get the part was to become that kid, so I put on the appropriate clothes, adopted the appropriate attitude. I walked into a room filled with studio executives, sat down, threw my feet up on the desk, and acted real cocky. As soon as I walked out after the audition, I had a nervous feeling in my stomach, like when you almost get into a fight, but you avoid it at the last second. My knees were shaking, and my body was bathed in sweat.

  Oh, boy, if they didn’t buy that act, I’m in big trouble. They might really think I’m a jerk.

  It wasn’t the most professional approach, and it wasn’t something I ever tried again. But I wanted to blur the line for them; I wanted them to wonder whether they were hiring the actor or the character. Not that they didn’t know who I was. I had already starred in The Goonies, which had made $100 million, when I was twelve, so in that world, the Disney Sunday-night world, I was a reasonably well-known commodity; I had some cache, and while I didn’t understand it completely, I was unquestionably emboldened by that knowledge.

  The Method approach of auditioning (in which the actor disappears into the character) is not the sole province of desperate, unknown actors. There are A-list performers today who are more than willing to act the part in order to get the part. And there always have been. A few years ago Dan Petrie Jr. shared with me an interesting story that illustrates this point. Dan’s father, Dan Petrie Sr., was a very successful director whose credits included A Raisin in the Sun. According to Dan Jr., Mr. Petrie told the story of a visit to the home of Gregory Peck, at a time when Peck was one of Hollywood’s greatest and more bankable actors. The director was casting a movie that featured a character who was a rather rustic, gardener type, a man who liked to have his hands in the soil. Petrie was interested in hiring Peck, but wasn’t sure whether the actor was serious about getting involved—until he went to Peck’s mansion. A butler answered the door and invited Petrie into the foyer, where he waited for several minutes. Finally, Gregory Peck walked into the room, sunburned and wiping sweat from his brow. He removed a glove and extended his hand.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was out in the garden.”

  Interpret that any way you like, but to me it’s fairly obvious. I mean, we’re talking about one of the biggest stars in the history of Hollywood, a man revered not only as a performer, but as a consummate professional. He knew he had an appointment with Dan Petrie Sr. He knew the subject of that meeting and the time it was supposed to begin. His intent, subtle as it may have been, was to make an impression, to demonstrate that he was right for the part. And perhaps to provoke a reaction from the director.

  It had been a while since I’d been willing to take a chance like that. Truth be told, it had been a while since I’d felt even a ripple of enthusiasm over an audition. Nausea was a more common response. The Lord of the Rings was different. In this case, I felt nothing but excitement. The fact that there was so much history with my father and Peter and Fran, and with Victoria Burrows—well, it just felt safe. I had no problem with the process of preparation, of diving into the book and hiring a dialect coach, and working on Sam’s Cockney accent. I must admit, however, that I did not read the entire book at that time. I stopped when the fax arrived: it consisted of four or five pages about the language of Tolkien, and a handful of speeches by and about Sam, including one from the first movie in which Gandalf yanks an eavesdropping Sam through a window, and another from the third film in which Sam laments the apparent death of Frodo after his epic battle with Shelob, the giant spider. (“Please don’t leave me here alone. Don’t go where I cannot follow.”) As I read that language my heart swelled with hope, and I fell in love with the character.

  This is poetry. This is … beautiful.

  The dialect coach came to our house that night, and we put in a good long session together. I wanted to play Sam, not only because it was a substantial part in a substantial movie, but also because I thought there was strength and dignity in the role. Rather than being too daring or experimental, we settled on a rather standard Cockney accent, a reasonable choice given the character’s rural heritage. I wanted the accent to be real, more like a working-class Michael Caine than a broad style like that of Mary Poppins, so I dialed it back just a bit, curled the vowels a little less obviously, and tried to soften the pitch of my voice. The effect was my own personal brand of Cockney, and within a few hours I felt reasonably confident that I had begun the process of inhabiting the role. Like Rudy, Samwise Gamgee is indeed a working-class hero, a distinction that holds tremendous appeal to me. You may think this sounds odd, coming from someone perceived as having been raised in the bubble of celebrity, but I always felt as though our family had its collective heart in the right place in matters of class and social justice. We weren’t blue-collar people, but we were progressive and liberal, and our sympathies and sensibilities rested earnestly with those who knew what it was like to really work for a living. I like to think that my father was basically a hippie. My mother was president of the Screen Actors Guild; matters of business were routinely presented to us with a particular slant: us versus them. “Us” was the rank and file, and “them” the suits in the front office. As much as I wanted to be a Hollywood mogul, maybe even the head of a studio, in my family you couldn’t help but absorb into the fabric of your skin a kind of passion for working-class people. I married a girl whose father was a firefighter and operated a crane. Normal, good-hearted, hard-working people. I relished that kind of normalcy, and I recognized it at once in the character of Sam.

  At the same time, because I’d been reading so much, I admired the quality of Tolkien’s writing, and felt it was an elegant, emblematic vision of working people. O
ne of my favorite books in college was Candide, the last line of which, when translated roughly to English, is, “Cultivate your own garden.” There’s something sacred about having your hands in the soil, planting seeds and growing food that can sustain you. So what the hobbits represented, what Samwise represented within the context of the hobbit world, just felt right. It was to me a no-brainer. I was meant for the role. It helped, too, that right from the beginning I enjoyed the process of preparing for it. I’d lived in London for a while, so I had no problem popping into a British accent. By the end of the night, I found myself not just excited about the audition, but ready, too. And I hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time.

  The next day I talked by phone with a friend named Dan Lyons, who had been a technical adviser on Kimberly, starring Gabrielle Anwar. We’d filmed for six weeks in Philadelphia, and had a wonderful time living in a great apartment and shooting on Boathouse Row. Dan and I developed a strong connection. A graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, he had rowed for one of the best crews in the school’s history, a team that won the equivalent of the national championship by beating Harvard, Yale, and all those other traditional powerhouses. Dan is a smart, successful man who moves easily among the East Coast cultural and social elite, yet somehow remains eminently approachable and pleasant in virtually all interactions. In short, he’s a good and decent man, and we’ve maintained the friendship forged while working on Kimberly. When I called Dan from my office and told him I was auditioning for the part of Sam in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, he practically flipped out.