There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  Much of the conversation centered on the animatic. I found it hard to concentrate on the actual story because I was so intrigued and inspired by the thought and technology behind it. To help shape the movie experience for his actors, the studio, and the crew, Peter had gone to the trouble of spotting the soundtrack or choosing musical accompaniment from Braveheart and other movies. I know what it takes to put together coherent storyboards, and the animatic was essentially storyboards set in motion. So much energy had been expended, so much time. The way it was photographed, the way the camera panned across the images—I was as intrigued as much by that as by the story.

  Not that the animatic wasn’t a valuable tool. It was, for it helped illuminate and clarify certain things in terms of rhythm and pacing, and pivotal moments. I had finished The Fellowship of the Ring by this point, and I had read the beginning four or five times. And yet I remained confused. That whole bit about Three rings and the Elvin kings under the sky. I didn’t really get. I got it on a poetic level, that it set the tone in terms of language and style, but as far as the story, I just couldn’t comprehend it. Why were there this many rings or that many rings? The animatic, however, contained the prologue that was more or less used in the movie, and seeing that helped me understand the books. To his credit, Peter had allowed for the fact that some people hadn’t read the books, and for that I was grateful. As a serious, interested, and invested party who had engaged the books and failed to grasp their meaning, I felt frustrated. Peter’s sense of composition and story, combined with the work of the artists, helped me see the story. That, in turn, made me more excited about reading the books. I was determined to have finished the full trilogy before we started principal photography. I missed my deadline by a couple of weeks, but I did finally complete the books, which is a good thing, because I’m sure my performance would have suffered if I hadn’t. Moreover, I would have felt like an idiot and a slacker.

  There was one thing about the animatic that I found frankly terrifying: the realization that in assembling the presentation, Peter and Fran had clearly allowed other actors to read the screenplay. After all, someone had to read the lines, right? So there was someone playing Frodo, someone else playing Aragorn, someone playing Bilbo and Merry and Pippin and Legolas—and someone playing Sam. My role! More than anything else, this stirred within me a feeling of competitiveness, as if I were getting ready to play a baseball game. Granted, I already had the part, and it was perfectly reasonable and even kind of cool that Peter had such a community of friends in drama that he could just pull them together and do the equivalent of a table reading. But there was something else. The way the actor read the lines for Sam in the animatic, the way the character was portrayed in the Ralph Bakshi cartoon and the BBC audio version—all three were similarly deficient in portraying Sam as the heroic character I wanted him to be. Not one of them lived up to my expectations. The feeling that maybe the book lent itself to a particular type of reading concerned me because I had committed a year and a half to the project. If it turned out to be just a show for kids or for fans of the genre, and not something that I would want to see, then that just wouldn’t be acceptable to me. I had faith in Peter and the process, but something happened in my skin when I was sitting there watching the animatic. Afterward, I tried to demonstrate for my boss that I was respectful and had the requisite amount of inspiration. At the same time, I didn’t want to fake it.

  Ian, as far as I could tell, experienced no such inner turmoil. On the drive back to the hotel afterward, he said, “Isn’t it great to be working for a couple of hippies who have the business so wired?” That was it! He’d put his finger right on it. There is such a quality of whimsy and ease and confidence surrounding Peter and Fran. This movie, this trilogy, was going to consume their lives—it already had consumed their lives—and yet on some level they didn’t take it too seriously. It was, after all, just a movie.

  Yeah, the biggest movie in history …

  Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, Peter would display a preternatural grace. I became exasperated at times, just as almost everyone did. But I never saw Peter panic. I never even saw him get angry. Not really. I’ve since come to the conclusion that his is a rare type of confidence, the kind that can only be possessed by someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, and how it’s going to turn out.

  I think Ian figured that out before anyone else. He knew how to exploit Peter’s generally laid-back nature, and how to communicate with him on an intellectual and creative level. He’d done his homework. He knew who Peter was as an artist and a filmmaker, and he used that knowledge, in conjunction with his own status as a beloved icon of the British stage, to get deep inside Peter’s head. Ian’s portrayal of Gandalf was enhanced as a result.

  Not that Peter was blind to the machinations. There is no chance of that. I think Peter genuinely respected Ian’s intelligence and dramatic sense, but I was awash in awe and envy and frustration that Ian was so clever at understanding the issues, and idea, not just within the movie and the story, but behind the scenes as well. He brought to the project and to the role a breadth of experience and a depth of knowledge unmatched by any other actor. He was a decorated Shakespearean stage actor; he’d costarred in the Hollywood blockbuster X-Men; he’d compiled an impressive and eclectic body of work in contemporary cinema. In short, he had gravitas. He had power, and he leveraged that power in negotiating with the studio, and in communicating with Peter and Fran and Philippa, so that their rewrites affected how his character appeared on the page, and subsequently on the screen. I was smart enough to recognize all of this, but not smart enough to figure out how to mimic Ian’s style in the best interest of my career or in the development of Samwise Gamgee.

  More to the point, I wasn’t sure I wanted to follow his lead. My relationship with Ian was then, and remains to this day, somewhat of a disappointment. That’s my responsibility as much as his.

  Ian is a brilliant man and obviously a serious actor, but he has a great sense of humor, too, which he’ll act on once in a while. There’s some great footage tucked away somewhere of Ian doing wardrobe tests, where he’s dressed as the venerable Gandalf the Grey in his long gray cloak, and suddenly he snaps out of character and launches into this little raunchy catwalk, with a glimpse of underwear, a flash of thigh—just a flamboyant gay guy having fun. And he did it fully aware that what made the performance amusing was that the star was Sir Ian McKellen, one of the greatest actors of our time.

  Ian is complicated, though. He was perpetually annoyed at having to share a makeup bus with the boys. Elijah is the most passionate music lover you’ll ever want to meet, and our long days on the set usually began in the makeup trailer at 4:30 in the morning, with the ritual of Elijah taking out his CD binder and deciding what everyone would hear. Sometimes he’d take the temperature of the room and entertain suggestions from the other hobbits, and sometimes he wouldn’t. Many mornings I just wanted to read—I brought thirty-seven books with me to New Zealand, and used my three hours in the makeup chair to digest each and every one of them—but there were times when the choice of music made it difficult to concentrate. I just endured it quietly, because I knew it was important to Elijah and the other guys to get in the right frame of mind.

  But Ian was less tolerant. He actually had himself removed to a different makeup station because he couldn’t take it anymore. The music, he said, was giving him a terrific headache. Ian had no problem registering his dissatisfaction with what he considered to be absolute rudeness on the part of the other actors. How did he do this? Well, when you entered the truck from the back, you’d see four makeup stations, then a door (almost a partition, really), and then a fifth station. Ian took this last station, and whenever he needed privacy, he would simply close the door.

  I love and respect Ian. I think he’s an incredibly brave and articulate advocate for gay rights. I recognize his talent and his success for what it is. That said, I also know he can be selfish and self-centered. F
or example, I could write an entire chapter in this book called “Sir Ian McKellen Stole My Makeup Artist!” Because he’s Sir Ian McKellen, and because he’s smarter and funnier than I am, and because he’s farther ahead of the curve on most decisions than I am, Ian figured out how to work the politics of the corporation so that he could poach at will someone with whom I had developed a long working relationship. He didn’t ask for my opinion or permission; he just made sure that he was taken care of. Frankly, of course, he was entitled to this sort of treatment, and I got over it, but it was painful for a while. Now, changing makeup artists may not sound like a big deal, but when you’re spending three hours a day in a chair, you do develop a certain rapport with the person assisting in your transformation. One of my three makeup artists was a gifted, world-class craftsman named Jeremy Woodhead. We became good friends, hung out a lot, played tennis. But when Ian’s makeup artist quit to take another job, Jeremy greeted me one morning with the news that he was being reassigned. “I’m going to be working with Ian,” he said matter-of-factly. There was no debate, no negotiation.

  When the Academy Award nominations came out in the spring of 2002, after the first movie, my publicist asked me to call a Los Angeles radio television station. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring had received thirteen nominations, including a best supporting actor nod for Ian McKellen, and I was asked to provide a few sound bites. So I called in and they put me on hold, and while I was listening to the show, guess who called in live from London? Ian McKellen! They congratulated Ian and chatted for a few minutes about his nomination and the film’s success, and then, to my great surprise, the host said, “So, Ian, what do you think of Sean Astin’s performance in the movie?”

  Ian paused for a moment. Then he said cooly, “Oh, well, to be fair, he didn’t really have much to do now, did he?” The way he said it … well, it seemed they hadn’t told him I was on the phone, and they hadn’t told him that he was going to be answering that question, so it was an honest reaction. And yet it allowed for the possibility that he might have been kidding. So afterward the host said, “That’s funny, Ian, because guess who’s on the phone? Sean Astin! Sean did you hear what Ian just said?”

  What could I do? I laughed. “Oh, Ian and I know exactly how we feel about one another. I just wanted to call and congratulate him. Congratulations, Ian, on an extremely well-deserved nomination.”

  “Why, thank you so much, Sean. Good to hear from you.”

  As I said, he’s complicated. While I was working on a television show in Vancouver in the summer of 2002, Ian was filming the X-Men sequel nearby, and I called him one day just to say hello. He invited me over to his place and we talked and had tea; then he drove me to the theater and introduced me to Dame Edna Everage, who I had never seen before, and we had a wonderful, interesting evening. We parted with an embrace and a kiss and a fare-thee-well. Unfortunately, it’s not always like that with Ian. He’s a towering presence, and when we see each other I always feel a bit disappointed that he’s not nearly as interested in me as I am in him.

  Then again, I’m sure he has a lot of incredibly interesting people to choose from.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Peter broke the news toward the end of the six-week prep period, in a quiet, private conversation at his house, probably because he sensed my anxiety.

  “You know, Sean, Sam is not going to be that big a character in the beginning. He’s going to grow with each film.”

  Sadly, he wasn’t referring to my girth. No, Peter was trying to let me know that I would have to be patient, that Samwise Gamgee would have his moments, but most of them would come late in the game. Very late. This was not an easy message for Peter to deliver, and it wasn’t easy for me to hear. In fact, it nearly broke my heart. I felt that in order to have earned the emotional impact of the third film, it was critical that the character, in all of its sweetness, sincerity, and earnestness—in all of its integrity—needed to be clearly established early in the first film. Also, on a much more selfish level, I couldn’t imagine that if we were going to be shooting for eighteen months, that I’d spend six or seven of them inhabiting a weak and underdeveloped character. And then I’d have to endure two years of press cycles following the release of The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers, knowing the impact it would have on my career if my character was little more than a shadow.

  Of course, as the director and cowriter of the screenplay, it was Peter’s prerogative to shape the story and its characters in whatever manner he deemed appropriate. And, after all, I had begged him to be in the movie. I had written him a very specific letter, wishing him well and offering my services at any level. When I reflect on the sentiment expressed in that correspondence, and the fact that I used it to get a seat at the table, it seems unfair and selfish of me to second guess how much or how little Peter wanted to include me. But there were times in New Zealand when reflection wasn’t my greatest strength.

  Peter earned my respect by being honest with me, by revealing his vision for the film and the character, and asking me to trust in him. But I disagreed with him in my heart, and I was devastated by his decision. I remember hearing him explain the rationale behind his decision, and I remember feeling my eyes dilating, and a tightness in my chest. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, but I very nearly did. I just couldn’t understand his logic, and his words went in through my ears and straight to my heart, provoking that flood of adrenaline, or whatever it is, that occurs when you hear bad news, that hot rush of blood that you can feel in your fingertips. Knowing full well that if I responded badly, it would send the wrong message to my boss—it was, after all, my job to weather such decisions with calm professionalism—I swallowed hard and blinked back the tears.

  “I understand, Peter,” I responded, even though I didn’t want to.

  There was a sense on the project that rampant egotism would not be tolerated, that no one was bigger than the film itself. This was an ensemble piece in the truest sense of the term, and each of us was expected to accept and perfect his role as a cog in the machine. If you couldn’t meet that standard, for whatever reason, you could and would be replaced. The most glaring example of this dynamic occurred on Day One of principal photography, when the hobbits were sequestered and informed that Stuart Townsend had been dismissed from the production.

  Stuart is a talented Irish actor who had been cast in the role of Aragorn, even though at twenty-seven years of age he was surely too young for the part, at least as it was written. Aragorn is a mature man, closer to middle age than adolescence, scarred by loss and weary from years of battle. It was obvious why Peter and the producers had fought for Stuart—he was charming and handsome and was no doubt going to be a big movie star—but it was also apparent that he was wrestling with the notion that he was perhaps too young and lacking the physical stature for the role.

  We were all getting to know each other in those first couple of months, and on a fairly intense level, since we understood that the right thing for us to do was to become real friends, and to do so quickly. To that end, we opened up to each other almost instantaneously. The family element for me made it different, but not really difficult. The other actors were open to the idea that I’d show up with my wife and daughter, and Ali would sit on everybody’s lap, and they’d be the uncles and the big brothers and we’d all have a good time. Inevitably, though, they’d pull away and go off to the pubs or the clubs, and I’d go home. But I’ll say this: the natural half-life of the interaction with a youngster ended sooner for a lot of other people than it did for Stuart. He was young and single; he’d never been a parent and had no intention of becoming one in the near future. And yet he was great with my daughter. He was just really cool. If Elijah had that thing that I was studying—what to do if you’re an A-list movie-star type—then Stuart had something else. Stuart reminded me of Bono, the lead singer for U2. He fairly dripped cool.

  Maybe it’s because I have Irish blood in my veins that I’m drawn to the I
rish sensibility, that lust for life, that honesty you see in an Irishman’s eyes. I know he drives a lot of people nuts, but I think you get the same thing from Colin Farrell. It’s unique, it’s real, and he has it. Stuart Townsend has it. But there is a difference. I think Colin might have more of a sense of humor about himself, a more playful attitude toward his work and life. Stuart isn’t going to sell out on any level, whereas Colin is willing to sell out a little bit because it’s fun and will give him a more extraordinary ride around the planet. Stuart isn’t like that. He seems to torture himself and submit to his own demons more readily than is good for him, I think. That’s the feeling I got in New Zealand. So when Peter and the producers broke the news that Stuart was gone, no one was shocked. Mortified? Yes. Saddened? Deeply. But shocked? No.

  My wife and daughter had a lot of affection for Stuart, as did I. My heart ached for him. But insomuch as it was possible to consider anyone being dismissed from the project, it wasn’t a surprise. My wardrobe fitting occurred at approximately the same time as Stuart’s, so I saw firsthand some of the trauma he endured while trying to inhabit his role. The guy was absolutely beside himself with discomfort, both mental and physical. He just didn’t look right, didn’t feel right, and he couldn’t explain what needed to be done to correct the problem. Even Ngila Dickson, who is a genius at costume design, couldn’t figure out what to do. Neither could Peter. They were all trying to work toward a solution, but Stuart wasn’t helping matters. He was a black hole of negative creative energy.

  I kept wondering why he couldn’t just relax and enjoy the process. This was supposed to be the fun part of acting, the dressing-up and playing. When I tried on my costume, a couple of things were not quite perfect, but by and large it felt right. I liked being Sam, and I felt a sense of ownership with the character and the clothes. It felt good. There were similar problems with Orlando Bloom’s costume, but Orlando was so keen and so obviously right for his part that no one was overly concerned. They just kept working at it until they got it right. But a combination of factors for Stuart—primarily his own fear—proved insurmountable. There was one time in particular when I could see how hard it was for him, and how heavily the job weighed on him. We were eating at a great little bayside restaurant called the Chocolate Fish—my family and I, Stuart and Orlando and the other hobbits—all of us having fun, praising the production, sort of toasting the adventure of a lifetime. At some point during the evening I found myself alone with Stuart, and I could sense his anxiety.