There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  Oh, that is so cool! I’m going to get to charge with a sword!

  I was giddy, despite the fact that while Sam was deeply involved in the plot and received a fair amount of screen time, it was also apparent that there were huge chunks of story where he wasn’t involved at all. At least in the first script. Then I flipped through the second script and the third. Hundreds of pages in roughly ten minutes. I couldn’t really engage the scripts at first, so distracting was the appearance of my name, the image of Sam brandishing swords, the secrecy surrounding the whole project, and the thought of what the movie might be. On that first day I could manage no more than a cursory glance, a sizing up, perhaps, of my own character and the decision I had made. And it didn’t seem half bad.

  * * *

  Although I lacked a deep understanding of the story, it came as no surprise to learn that inhabiting the role of Sam would require more than mere emotional immersion. The Lord of the Rings was a fantasy, Middle-earth was a place that existed only in the mind of J. R. R. Tolkien, and hobbits were tiny, noble creatures with pointy ears and bulbous, hairy feet. Bringing these characters to life would involve not only computer-generated wizardry, but also extensive use of makeup and prosthetics. The transformation, for me, began in Beverly Hills, at the Ma Maison Sofitel hotel.

  I had been racing around for days, trying to tie up loose ends and prepare for the trip to New Zealand, when I received a phone call from the studio informing me that I had an appointment with Peter Owen to discuss my wig.

  My wig?

  This was a surprise only because I hadn’t given it much thought. I had seen pictures of hobbits, but hadn’t really concentrated on what I was supposed to look like. I was trusting, figuring I’d look like me and get absorbed into it. My body would be there, on location, and I’d give myself over to the process. I wanted to read the scripts when I could really read them (which turned out to be on the plane during the long flight to Wellington). There was so much else going on that I found it hard to absorb the scripts or to worry about how I’d become the character. Six weeks of rehearsal time had been built into the production schedule, so I wasn’t terribly concerned. By the time principal photography began, I’d be sharp. Unlike so many movies I’d done in the past, this was a major production in every sense of the word. I understood the importance of having my body and mind prepared, my family cared for, and my personal and professional lives in order. Everything else would be, well, handled. And for the most part, that’s the way it worked.

  Step one on the agenda was my hair.

  My own hair, by the way, is substantial. I may be short and I may have a little trouble with my weight, but hair is not a problem. In that area at least, I’m blessed. Follicly gifted, as it were. But I didn’t have hobbit hair, which in the movie would be long and matted, carefully crafted to give the appearance of being weathered. Rather than attempt to tame my own hair (or the hair of anyone on the production), it was far easier and more sensible to rely on a set of wigs. Upon hearing this, I reacted like a newcomer to the craft: Oh, I’ve heard about these guys. This is going to be cool! And so it was.

  Peter Owen is a wonderfully stylish British gentleman, with baby-fine blond hair and long slender fingers, each adorned with a perfectly manicured nail. He welcomed me into his hotel suite with a flourish, and instantly I sensed something special about him and his place in the food chain. There was something about the way he carried himself, the fact that he was working out of this luxury hotel. He wasn’t just a hairstylist. He was an artist, and meeting him was tangible proof that on this production I’d be working with and be inspired by the most talented and successful people in their fields. It was exciting, but also daunting. Every step down the hallway and into the room provoked a feeling of nervousness. My agent had given me a snapshot of Peter’s career, including the names of several prominent clients for whom he had designed hairpieces. Not just movie stars either, but towering figures in business and media culture. If these people were willing to give themselves over to Peter, he had to be good. No, check that. He had to be great.

  “Why, just yesterday I had a nice little session with Johnny Depp,” Peter said. That got my attention. Johnny Depp is not just a terrific actor; he’s a treasure. I told Johnny when we met at the premiere of Blow that, for an actor, meeting him was like going to Mecca. A bit too fawning? Maybe, but I didn’t care. It meant that much to me, in part because his story reminded me of my story. Okay, he’s an edgier, funkier guy (who else would show up at a premiere with Marilyn Manson at his side?), but there were similarities. Johnny had first made an impact doing mindless television piffle like 21 Jump Street. He had earned a lot of money but not much in the way of respect. Then he veered off on a different path, choosing projects based on their artistic merit, and somehow it all worked out. He went from teen idol to respected actor. That kind of stuff strikes a chord with me. You can do one type of job for money and another type of job for art, but whether the business views you as reaching critical mass before you view it yourself … well, that’s dangerous, that’s a gamble. But you really can continue to find yourself and challenge yourself. If you’re righteous and believe in yourself, you can come back. You can rise from the ashes.

  “Why was Johnny here?” I asked Peter.

  He laughed, fanned at the air with a hand. “Oh, we were just having a little play.”

  That made me envious, the notion that some actors have so much money, and so much time, and so much passion for their craft that they will invest several hours just to see what types of characters they can come up with. Whether Peter was telling the truth or not—whether Johnny was really there, and whether they were “just having a little play,” I don’t know. I think he was simply trying to earn my trust by sharing stories of his A-list environment. Not that it was necessary, since he had me at “Hello.”

  Peter was gracious, even eager, as I peppered him with questions. “No offense, but why do I even need a wig?” I asked, running a hand proudly through my own mop. “Can’t we just turn this into hobbit hair?”

  “Well, maybe if your hair grows out nicely we’ll be pulling little bits through the wig lace,” he said softly. “But probably not.” Then he began talking about “scale doubles,” smaller men and women who more closely approximate the size of hobbits, and who would lend an air of authenticity by standing in for the actors in certain scenes. It was the first time I’d heard of this, or at least given it any serious consideration. Peter pulled out a piece of paper and sketched an image depicting Sam’s hair, and explained how the wig would make it easier for the actor and the double to mirror each other. That made sense, although upon hearing this news, my first reaction was, But I don’t want a double. I want it to be all me! Very quickly, however, that sentiment was replaced by an immense appreciation for how much thought and effort had already been invested in the process.

  In the interest of full disclosure, I should acknowledge that I did experience a moment or two of anxiety over the issue of size, specifically, as it pertained to my own career and self-interests. I remember whining, half jokingly, to Nikki Mirisch, “Oh, great. I played the ball turret gunner, the smallest guy on the B-17, in Memphis Belle; I played Rudy, the smallest guy on the Notre Dame football team; and now I’m gonna play a three-foot-six hobbit. This will be the final nail in my coffin. I’m never going to be a big movie star because everyone will think I’m a miniature guy.” To which Nikki replied with a snort, “Get over it.”

  Impressed as I was with Peter Owen, there wasn’t a whole lot to our session. He wrapped my head in some type of cellophane, fastened it with rubber bands to create a skullcap, and then yanked it off. Just like that, he had a model of my head—all that he needed to begin the process of creating Sam’s wig.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “What about the hair?”

  Peter explained that most of it would likely come from female “donors” in Russia, which is, for some reason, apparently
the nexus of the hair trade. I didn’t get to see or touch the hair that I’d be wearing for the next year and a half, but Peter did present a bunch of ponytail swatches for me to examine. He held them up to the light—as if we were choosing wallpaper patterns or fabric for a new sofa—and we both agreed that matching my natural hair color wouldn’t be a problem. And that was about it. We shook hands and I left Peter’s suite, emboldened by the feeling that Sam was in good hands.

  Fascinating as this meeting was, it wasn’t the only meaningful interaction of the day, for while walking through the hotel lobby, who did I meet in person for the very first time? Elijah Wood. I would be Sam to his Frodo.

  Elijah’s eyes opened wide as I came into view, and we literally ran to each other and embraced. I hugged him like a brother or a long-lost friend. That we had never spoken to each other seemed hard to comprehend in this setting, standing near the front door of the hotel, where each of us had gone specifically for the purpose of preparing for what would be the role of a lifetime (Elijah, too, had an appointment with Peter Owen). I knew enough about the story of The Lord of the Rings to know that the friendship between Frodo and Sam was considered not only central to the plot, but one of the most enduring relationships in literature. For the film to succeed, Elijah and I would have to make audiences believe in our friendship. He knew it and I knew it. So we fell against each other and hugged, then pulled back, and I remember just smiling at him nervously, excitedly, the two of us kind of studying each other quietly, as if we both were thinking, This is a little overwhelming, but we’re equal to it.

  Elijah was exactly what I thought he’d be: small, not quite waifish, and friendly. He’s a little shorter than I am, and substantially thinner. My agents had assured Peter that I’d expand to the proper bulk before the start of principal photography, and I’d already taken the first sluggish steps down the road to sloth. Prior to getting the offer I was in the best shape of my life. At 160 pounds I was a lean, mean fighting machine, fit enough that I’d actually completed the Los Angeles Marathon. That’s the way I thought I looked, almost like a movie star, when I auditioned for Fran and Peter. Interestingly, I got the distinct impression that while Fran thought I was appealing, Peter was less convinced simply because, in his eyes, I didn’t look like Sam. That’s not how he saw the character. One of the things I discovered about Peter is that he is uniquely qualified to work outside the mainstream. While he loves American films and is a true student of American and world popular culture (this, after all, is a man who got his start in splatter films and who turned to a remake of King Kong as his follow-up to The Lord of the Rings), he is no slave to Hollywood convention. I was proud of the way I looked. I enjoyed having cheekbones and a flat stomach. It made me feel like I could be a leading man. To Peter, however, such things were distractions, obstacles to overcome in developing a character. To secure the role, I vowed to do less running and more eating. By the time I met Elijah, I’d already begun to morph into Sam.

  Elijah had no such concerns. Wide-eyed and almost elfin in appearance, with an earnestness few actors can project, he was perfect for the role of Frodo. I had known for some time (well before I got the part of Sam) that New Line was involved in negotiations with Elijah, and I was looking forward to having a chance to work with him. I had followed Elijah’s career and admired the way he had managed it. He always seemed to be working on interesting stuff alongside major stars, in roles where he was really acting. I’m ten years older than Elijah, but I consider him a colleague, and I was at that time old enough to appreciate what he was doing as a young actor rising through the ranks. I looked up to him as an actor at least in part because of his ability to avoid being characterized as a child star insofar as that term is sometimes less than flattering. He had made better decisions than I had in traversing that path. He’d been more adept at choosing projects and negotiating with studio executives. I can recall seeing him in those old Lays potato chip commercials alongside Dan Quayle (“Want a potato chip, Mr. Vice President?”), and thinking, Wow, that kid is in the zone. He’s so smooth. Elijah conducted himself in a way that was almost unnaturally professional for one so young.

  As he matured, it became clear that his youthful precociousness was not just a fluke, not something that would erode with time. Shortly before we met, Elijah had appeared in The Ice Storm, Ang Lee’s quietly haunting story of domestic upheaval in a suburban Connecticut neighborhood. His career was soaring. Critics and fans alike viewed him as a serious, nearly grown-up actor. But I had appreciated his abilities for some time. Elijah had appeared in Forever Young with Mel Gibson and North with Bruce Willis. He’d played Huck Finn and the Artful Dodger. He was still a teenager, but already he had a substantial body of work, and he was keenly aware of it.

  I suppose I was a little bit envious, or maybe I just wished I had known what he seemed to know. When I was fifteen years old, I started my own business. I wanted to write, direct, act, and produce. I wanted to be all things to all people—and I still do, as a matter of fact. When Elijah was fifteen, he wanted to work with great filmmakers. That’s it. I think he understood the importance of those connections, and thus set out to obtain the best roles he could possibly find.

  At that age, I just didn’t get it. I thought I was the guy who could be the great filmmaker, the person who could choose the scripts, maybe even write the scripts, and create the great movies. I understood the power of the medium, but when I was Elijah’s age, I wanted too much at once, and the thing that got sublimated was the research into other people’s film careers. I should have been finding out who was making what movies and figuring out how to get in them. I didn’t realize that I could learn about the environment and navigate it in a more sensible way by working with artists who appreciated the value of working with other artists. The smart way to approach a career is to realize how talented other people are and figure out a way to work with them.

  That’s the way I viewed Peter Jackson and Elijah Wood. In fact, Elijah had become a significant component of my motivation for working on this project. There were six really interesting buzzwords or phrases attached to the film: Peter Jackson, Lord of the Rings, New Line, trilogy, New Zealand, and Elijah Wood. The importance you attach to something can often be distilled into something as simple as the way you answer a query. When people would ask me what I was working on, I revealed something with the way I responded. Sometimes I’d say something about working on an adaptation of The Lord of the Rings, but more often I’d say, “I’m going to New Zealand for a year and a half to be Elijah Wood’s sidekick.” Why? I guess because it sounded cool, exotic. Who wouldn’t want to visit New Zealand? And who didn’t know Elijah Wood?

  “Are you ready for this?” I asked him at the Ma Maison Sofitel.

  He looked right at me, almost through me, with those impossibly blue, almost alien eyes, and smiled.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  It was clear that he wasn’t just saying what he thought I wanted to hear. There was an intensity to him, an honesty, that I found thoroughly inspiring, because what I was trying to project to him was an air of responsibility, of confidence, of nurturing: I know on some level what we’re about to undergo. And I’m prepared. But I was also feeling a small degree of anxiety stemming from not knowing whether Elijah was equally prepared. It turned out, of course, that neither one of us could possibly have known what we were in for, but I took comfort in hearing him say that he was ready and excited. It gave me strength and confidence.

  That initial interaction lasted only a few minutes. Elijah was running late for his meeting with Peter, and my ride was waiting by the curb. We hugged again, said good-bye, and went our separate ways. The next time I would see him would be in New Zealand under very different circumstances.

  * * *

  Getting fitted for a wig was one thing; getting fitted for all of the other prosthetic devices that might be needed to create a hobbit was quite another. Central to this process was the construction of a face mold, which the make
up artists could then use to complete the character of Sam. This is a normal part of the preproduction stage of any movie involving characters who will be required to wear a significant amount of special-effects makeup, and to most actors it isn’t a big deal. However, if like me you happen to suffer from the occasional bout of claustrophobia, it is a very big deal indeed.

  It had happened to me twice in England during the filming of Memphis Belle. The first incident occurred during a ten-day, premovie boot camp designed to foster camaraderie among the cast and, no doubt, give us a sort of war-weary look of authenticity. On the last day of boot camp we were taken to the entrance of a dirt tunnel that was nearly filled with water. The object of the exercise, the drill instructor said, was to crawl through the tunnel and exit the other side, several hundred yards away, without drowning.

  “If it collapses,” he said flatly, twirling a pickax smoothly in his hands, “just try to hang on, mate. We’ll come get ya.”

  This guy was a career hard-ass. His nickname was Bungee, and his skin was stretched so tight over his skull that he looked like a living, breathing cadaver. He’d served in the Falklands, where allegedly his specialty was interrogating prisoners as they dangled from the open door of a helicopter. As often as not, according to set lore, when Bungee extracted the necessary information, he or someone close by would pull out a knife, cut the prisoner’s lifeline, and watch him plummet earthward like a stone. Laughing, no doubt. Whether any of this was true, I don’t know, but it had the desired effect, which was to shrivel the sacks of a bunch of Hollywood dudes preparing to film a war movie.

  We all knew that Bungee was trying to mess with us psychologically, but looking at the tunnel, the potential for a cave-in did seem real. I was the most overtly enthusiastic member of the Memphis Belle cast, so I was assigned the task of crawling through the tunnel first. Unfortunately, claustrophobia seized me, and I ended up going fourth. I made it, but not without enduring a healthy dose of anxiety, embarrassment, and humility.