by Sean Astin
“Oh, man, I’ve read that book every year since high school!” he shouted. “I cry in the same spots every time. You’re perfect for that role.”
This to me was not a hollow endorsement. Dan probably has a couple of postgraduate degrees and is married to a woman who is some kind of rocket scientist for the navy. He’s one of the smartest people I know. And here he was freaking out, yelling into the phone.
“This was meant to be, Sean! It’s perfect.”
The fact that this man, whom I had placed on a pedestal and tried to emulate, a guy full of integrity and good feelings—well, for him to react in this way really increased my appreciation for the power of the franchise. I knew The Lord of the Rings was a big project, but suddenly it seemed even bigger. Dan was more excited than I was. Oh, I was diligently doing what I needed to do, but his reaction was just frenzied. I was focusing on getting the job; he was thrilled with the whole concept. He understood the magnitude of it in a way that I did not and could not.
What I also got from Dan was a kind of profound confidence that I was right for the part. I was having trouble with the notion that Frodo and Sam, in the book, are fifty-five years old. Granted, they live to be more than a hundred, so they’re still somewhat youthful, but the fact remains that I was, physically, not quite what the role called for. I was only twenty-eight at the time. None of this bothered Dan in the least. That he knew me so well and knew the book so well, and felt we made a good match, helped erase any doubt that lingered in my mind. His endorsement, combined with Victoria Burrows’s involvement, my father’s history with Peter Jackson, and my own connection with the character made it feel as though the stars were lining up.
* * *
I dressed casually for the audition, just jeans and a T-shirt. No costume, no makeup. I worked “off-book” (without a script) because, helped as usual by my wife, I had memorized the scene completely—not a difficult task when the material is compelling and you really want the job. The only people in the room were myself, Victoria, and an assistant whose chief function was to videotape the audition for Peter. Ideally, an audition involves a second performer, someone with whom you can share the task of bringing a scene to life. Often, as in this case, you simply work with the casting director, which is more difficult simply because you’re not getting as much as you’re giving. Acting, even when it’s just an audition, is a collaborative endeavor. It’s much easier to sink into a character when you’re acting on the set, with cameras rolling—or better yet, onstage, in front of an audience—when you’re with other people who are similarly invested. On this occasion, though, it didn’t seem to matter, for I absolutely nailed the audition. Victoria deserves a good bit of the credit for that. She handled the process extraordinarily well, making me feel like I wasn’t just another guy on the long list of actors hoping to portray Samwise Gamgee, even though I knew that Peter was indeed looking at a lot of different candidates, from all over the world.
Even before the audition, I got the distinct impression that I had a legitimate shot, and that they—specifically Victoria—wanted me to do my best. How can I say that? Well, it’s an intuitive thing; if you’ve been through the audition meat grinder enough times, you begin to sense whether you’re being taken seriously or not. Often the atmosphere that permeates an audition is one of exhaustion and annoyance: We’ve been through hell to get this movie off the ground; now we’ll sit back and wait for the perfect guy to walk in. Then we’ll get excited. You don’t usually get the feeling that the casting director really wants you to do your best.
With some casting directors, it’s such a callous kind of transaction; they’re trafficking in human flesh. They have filing cabinets filled with résumés and perfectly airbrushed photographs, but they develop a rapport with certain actors, and those are the ones who get the jobs. The good casting directors genuinely care about the people they’re calling in. They get offended when you’re late or don’t take the audition seriously. There’s always a Cinderella element to it: Here he (or she) is—the perfect fit! To a degree, my motivation was no different. I had to audition, I had to prove I was right for the part, I had to work for it and want it bad. But within that context, it was a safe, nurturing environment, one that discouraged the little voice that sometimes pulls an actor out of focus. That voice, the voice of doubt and fear and insecurity, did not win the day; instead, I sailed through the audition. I knew I had met the challenge. It’s like when a singer has the opportunity to interpret great material, or when a race-car driver gets behind the wheel of a perfectly tuned automobile. Something happens when you are resonating correctly with good drama. You feel it in your stomach, in your heart, and it’s visible to everyone in the room.
Moreover, Victoria projected an attitude that reflected a certain kinship or camaraderie. I felt as though she wanted me to have this job. Now, the truth is, I’ll bet she made a lot of actors feel that way, because that’s her job; that’s how she gets the best possible audition out of every candidate. But she was so good at it that I really believed she wanted me. I think she was doing her job to make sure the director had a good selection from which to choose, but I also felt like she had a special something inside of her that wanted me to have the job. She was simply too nice to me the night of The Frighteners premiere, and I knew from my agent that much of the excitement about my potential involvement stemmed from Victoria. As an actor, you get that feeling sometimes, that someone is really pulling for you. There’s so much negative energy in the world, so many people who don’t treat you that way, that when you do experience it, it’s identifiable and palpable and genuinely inspiring. I could tell when I walked into the room that Victoria was happy to see me and wanted me to do well. Whether that means she wanted me to get the role, I don’t really know. But she was a very positive, nurturing woman, and I don’t doubt for a second that her attitude and outlook played a role in what turned out to be the best audition of my life.
“I’ll send everything to Peter right away,” Victoria said afterward. “Good luck. You did great.”
I thanked her, gave her a hug, and walked out. Before I hit the parking lot, I was on the phone, calling everyone—Christine, my father, my manager, and my agent—to tell them I hadn’t screwed the proverbial pooch. The audition had exceeded my wildest expectations. I had a legitimate chance to get this part.
And then I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Feedback, direct and indirect, came sporadically. I tried to put it out of my mind, because to fixate on it was to court madness. And yet, how could I think of anything else? This was not just another little independent film that would go straight to the art-house circuit or, worse, straight to video. This was The Lord of the Rings. This was a movie—three movies!—that would dramatically impact the career of anyone and everyone involved. It often takes time for a project to come together, especially one of this magnitude, but that knowledge was only moderately reassuring. I couldn’t tell if the studio was simply taking its time or posturing so it could get me cheaper; after all, The Lord of the Rings was such a big epic adventure that you just knew the studio was trying to get everybody to work for less money so it could afford to make the damn movie.
At one point Nikki heard through the grapevine that Peter Jackson was seriously interested in someone else for the role of Sam—a British actor who tended to be more naturally stout than I was. In an attempt to refute the wrongheaded notion that I wasn’t capable of “playing fat,” my father and I spliced together some footage from a few of my earlier movies, including numerous scenes that, under different circumstances, might have caused me considerable embarrassment, so obvious was it that I’d let the health-club membership lapse. Accompanying this montage was a deeply sincere letter to Peter, thanking him for the opportunity of a lifetime. I closed the letter by saying, “I know this is going to be a great adventure. Whether I’m along for the ride or not, I wish the best for you.” That probably sounds a bit desperate, if not downright unctuous, but
I was willing to do or say almost anything to get the job. Besides, I meant it. It was going to be a great adventure, and I did wish Peter nothing but the best. But I also knew how I would feel when the movie came out if I wasn’t part of it. At different times Peter has said that he remembers that note, and that it was meaningful to him. At other times he’s said, “You wrote me a letter, Sean?” Where the truth lies, I really don’t know. I don’t even know if he ever saw the tape, either. I only know that I sent it, and that I hoped it would have meaning.
After the audition I went back to what would, for most of our time in New Zealand, affectionately be called the “bible,” the three-volume set of The Lord of the Rings. I remember picking up the book one night to read to Christine, starting where I’d left off at page 150, and continuing to page 166. And then stopping. Cold. A week later I picked it up again. And stopped again. Three or four times I did that, started reading with the best of intentions, only to give up after ten or twenty pages. Why? I couldn’t concentrate on the story, couldn’t enjoy it, and the reason was simple: I was afraid I wasn’t going to get the part, and that possibility was paralyzing. To read the trilogy and fall in love with it and then not get the part—that would have been too painful. So, time after time, I respectfully closed the book and placed it on the nightstand next to my bed.
Don’t worry, I’ll be back. Soon as I get the part.
* * *
A second audition followed a couple of months later. Same office, higher stakes, for this time I was auditioning for Peter Jackson himself. Fran Walsh was there, too, and I have to say that they seemed almost as supportive and nurturing as Victoria had been. It was amazing, seeing these people who had been so nice to me years earlier, and who seemed so familiar because of all the stories I’d heard from my dad. After I walked into the room, we embraced, shared a few stories about my father, and then we went to work. But the wall—that barrier between actor and director, between employer and prospective employee—never really went up. It was like we were already part of the same team.
That day Peter talked about Tolkien’s service in World War I, and how important it had been to him. It was clear that Peter was a student of the war, and that he understood how Tolkien’s wartime experiences shaped both his artistic sensibilities and his worldview. Peter also told me that he considered the relationship between the characters of Frodo and Sam to be the central relationship in the books, and that making the relationship believable and viable on film was crucial to achieving his vision for the movie. It was, he said, a specifically English relationship, not just a mythological thing that happened in the space of your mind. It was based on a kind of history. That was exactly what I wanted to hear, supporting as it did everything I believed and suspected about the character of Sam: his inherent nobility and loyalty and courage.
Hearing it wasn’t enough, though. The point of the talk, and the subsequent exercise, was to give me a chance to demonstrate to Peter and Fran that I truly understood the character. To that end, I fought my natural tendency to claim at least fifty percent of the words in any given conversation. I’m a chatterbox by nature. Always have been. Here, though, protocol and common sense dictated that I take a different approach: Shut up, listen, absorb, and give back what he wants. I was given an opportunity to offer my take on the subject: Who is Sam? As I rambled on, though, I noticed Peter nodding, and it became apparent that he was constructing something in his head, quietly multitasking, as it were, and I took that as a cue to wrap up my biographical synopsis. But he was doing his best not to let me know that he was starting to drift away.
Later I would learn that Peter is an unusually adept and versatile leader: he has a quiet, intellectual mode, but he can turn up the volume when the situation calls for it. He is most assuredly not a screamer or tyrant; in fact, he is a perfect example of how a director can accomplish great things and motivate a veritable army of foot soldiers without resorting to hysterical, petulant behavior. Neither is he naturally a showman, except to the extent that he has to be one to accomplish whatever task it is that needs to be accomplished. For example, one of the untold stories, one of the great achievements of The Lord of the Rings, is that Peter actually directed six or seven other directors. Because we were all over the place, with different units in different locales, he was compelled to cede control to others. He’d essentially have to say to John Mahaffey, the second unit director, “You need to film the sequence; I trust you.” Then Peter would watch the dailies and make comments. The hard part for those directors was to try to capture Peter’s vision. One of the most memorable sequences in the trilogy, the battle of Helm’s Deep in The Two Towers, involved ten or eleven weeks of night shooting. (I don’t mean evening; I mean night, as in, “Show up when it gets dark; go home when the sun comes up.”) Peter wasn’t there for most of the Helm’s Deep shooting. He was with us, the hobbits, during the day, doing myriad other things. That was the nature of his job, to serve as general manager of the project. He directed, to be sure, day in and day out, scene after scene. But he also directed, in a macro sense, taking complete charge of a project that required him to be all things to all people, and to never show the strain of the effort. Not often, anyway.
Peter’s capability as a director, as someone who can inspire actors as well as martial every technological device at his disposal, is easily illustrated. Take, for example a sleepy Saturday morning in New Zealand, when we all showed up to rehearse what would become one of the most memorable scenes in the trilogy: the nine members of the Fellowship battling against a giant cave troll. On film, the scene is a wonder, a visceral thrill ride that demonstrates the power of computer-generated imagery and world-class sound design—when applied by the right hands. In rehearsal, though, it was a tour de force for Peter Jackson, who endeavored to ensure that everyone in attendance—actors, stunt doubles, cinematographers, assistant directors, and the second unit directors—understood what he wanted to see on the screen. Peter had an idea of how the scene would be played out, and the best way to convey that idea was to perform the scene himself. Every word, every movement, every role. Every thrust of a sword, every grunt and growl and howl. The way he assumed the visage of each character—in front of an awestruck crowd of roughly sixty people—was nothing short of remarkable. Aragorn, the hobbits, the cave troll—he played them all. Flawlessly. He choreographed the fight sequence, and by watching him, we all got it. Then, for the next week, we filmed the scene, each of us giving Peter what he wanted; interpreting it in our own way, too, of course, but essentially following his lead.
If we had merely looked at the storyboards or discussed the choreography over dinner, it wouldn’t have been the same. By acting it out, by throwing himself completely into the process, Peter got us to understand what he needed, and the tone that he had in his performance was exactly what was captured in the final film: that feeling of adventure reminiscent of Raiders of the Lost Ark, a feeling and scene that were central to the movie, capturing as it does the bonding of the Fellowship. It is one of the most thrilling sequences in the movies, and it wouldn’t have happened if Peter hadn’t been willing to risk embarrassment and let his imagination run wild.
Not that I knew any of this when I auditioned. I had no context at the time, only a proper degree of reverence based on my limited personal experience and the tales my father had shared. For some reason, though, I wasn’t terribly anxious. Just as Victoria had done, Peter and Fran created an atmosphere practically devoid of tension. They seemed to me almost like long-lost relatives, and I was filled with a sense of wanting to please them, a sense of excitement and anticipation, rather than the feeling of dread that is generally common during an audition. Not that I wasn’t nervous; I was. But once again, I thought I performed well—really well. Afterward, Peter and Fran paid me nice compliments and said they’d be in touch. We shook hands and I left. Then Christine and I drove right around the corner to a coffee shop, where my father and my stepmother, Val, were waiting for us.
Dad
took one look at me and smiled.
“You did it, didn’t you? You got the job.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I mean, I think I nailed it, and they were really nice to me. But…”
“What?”
“I’m just not sure. Peter is so hard to read.”
That was the truth. I would come to discover through my long months in New Zealand that being hard to read is a trademark of Peter Jackson’s, a signature of his unflappable managerial style. It’s not that he’s joyless. He just never gets too high or too low. Or at least that is the image he projects and cultivates, never letting anyone see him as anything other than a rather rumpled, bearded, unkempt fellow in baggy shorts and sandals (or bare feet) seemingly floating through life—despite carrying an enormous weight on his shoulders. I remember being exhilarated as I walked out of the audition, but not quite sure what to think. I knew that an answer would not come right away, so I had to keep busy with the business of life: spending time with my family, trying to be a good husband and father, and working.
Among the job opportunities I explored was a relationship with Four Square Productions, a San Diego communications and production company. Four Square had been responsible for, among other things, the 1978 sci-fi/horror parody, kitsch classic, and cult hit Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, as well as its 1990s-era sequels (Return of the Killer Tomatoes, Killer Tomatoes Strike Back, and Killer Tomatoes Eat France). My father played the mad scientist Dr. Gangreen in the sequels, and for some time he’d been promoting the company to me. It was, he said, populated by good, smart people who knew how to get movies made and distributed, and make money in the process. That summer, with time to kill and nothing heavy on my plate, I decided to take Dad’s advice and drive down to San Diego with my family. A tour of the production facility revealed a company that seemed to be every bit as viable as my father had indicated, and I wondered if there might be some way to form a strategic alliance that would benefit Lava Entertainment. But I wasn’t really as focused as I might have been, for even as I engaged in meetings with the company’s executives, I kept thinking about The Lord of the Rings.