There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  That’s not how I played the character, and it’s not how I see the character, but it’s okay. To me, The Lord of the Rings depicts a powerful bond of love between two male hobbits, with the complete absence of sexuality. In that sense, it’s remarkably innocent and pure. Not everyone sees it that way, of course. A New York journalist once told me how angry he had become when he first saw the movie because a small portion of the audience was giggling during some of the tender moments. I want to be careful not to intrude upon anyone’s interaction or personal experience with the material. That’s their privilege, their right. But this guy was annoyed, and he asked me if I thought there was a lot of cynicism about the relationship between Frodo and Sam. I told him I didn’t think so. Some people might not be accustomed to experiencing that level of emotional honesty in their own lives, and they might want to cover up the fact that they felt something by being cynical or irreverent. The giggling, especially among adolescent males—who make up a significant percentage of the audience—is an involuntary response to something that makes them feel awkward. Thus, you could argue that the movie is accomplishing something simply by facilitating that nervous giggle; it’s cracked the armor in which some people wrap their emotional lives. Personally, I think that’s a great achievement.

  Elijah and I never had a serious discussion about this subject. Not one. I must admit, however, that we did engage in a broad range of homosexual humor with each other, and with Billy and Dom. It was just another way of relating that wasn’t meant as an affront to anyone. Look, I was raised in Hollywood. I’ve had, and continue to have, more gay friends than I can count. But we did enjoy the jokes. It was a way to release tension, and to acknowledge what was on everyone’s mind in a way that seemed harmless and funny.

  Most of the time, while acting, it didn’t cross my mind. The scene on Mount Doom, for example, was uncolored by sexuality. Sam is cradling Frodo in his arms, crying over the possible loss of his friend. They are fellow travelers, warriors, brothers. To me, that plays less like a love scene than a battlefield death scene. But there were other times—in scenes when the envelope was pushed in a way that invited not just speculation, but an arched eyebrow as well—when as a male actor working with another male, you couldn’t help but think, Oh, God, that is so gay!

  Near the end of The Return of the King, for example, the reunited hobbits gather around a healing Frodo and hug him and hold his hand, and eventually they begin jumping on the bed together, and it’s like, Okay, do you guys want to be alone for a little while? I think our standard of awkwardness was significantly higher than an adolescent boy’s, but there was a standard, and when it was met, either because of a longing look that you could see magnified tenfold on a monitor, or because someone inadvertently touched the backside of a fellow hobbit—well, it provoked laughter.

  There was one rather memorable day during the looping phase of the production when Elijah and I were working on a scene in which Sam reaches around Frodo to lift him off the ground. The technicians kept rewinding and playing the scene as we tried to match dialogue to the film—back and forth, back and forth—the result being a slightly pornographic image of what appeared to be Sam having his way with Frodo from behind. Elijah and I fell victim to our most sophomoric tendencies in this setting, as we looped dialogue appropriate for the moment.

  What can I say? These were the kinds of jokes that sometimes bubbled to the surface over the course of an eighteen-month shoot. Sometimes they helped us get through the day. I’m sure it would be off-putting to some people, but to us it was funny, and it seemed harmless.

  To me, though, the emotional scenes involving Sam and Frodo stand on their own merit. Whatever is at stake is what it’s about. If you prefer to think of Sam and Frodo as two gay males, that’s fine. You could take that reading of the relationship and extend it as long as you want to, and it would sustain that reading. When Frodo says good-bye and kisses Sam on the forehead, it’s whatever it is. It’s sweet and tender and honest. And that’s all that really matters. But don’t forget something. Sam did go on to marry Rosie Cotton. And he was, as it turned out, a rather prolific little hobbit.

  As far I’m concerned, it comes down to this: Sam is the best friend anyone could ever hope for. His relationship with Frodo is a perfect study in dedication, devotion, and heartfelt companionship. Despite the hundreds of interactions I’ve had with folks who prefer to see the bond between Frodo and Sam through a prism of homoeroticism, I remain convinced that the power of their friendship derives primarily from the purity and innocence of their love for one another. As the member of a beautiful if untraditional hodgepodge of a family, and someone who has had connections with and lost touch with more people I consider friends than many folks ever meet in a lifetime, I gain strength from my understanding of the character I got to play.

  Sam probably knows that time and experience reveal the true nature of our loyalty, and that even after extraordinary circumstances real friends emerge from the scars they have caused one another with a deeper understanding of just how important they are to each other. Making movies brings you into extremely close contact with tens of thousands of people over the course of a career (a fact that can be simultaneously thrilling and exhausting). It occurs to me that stardom is won oftentimes by the formation and retention of close alliances with those practiced in the art of success through a series of critical decisions. To the extent that cynicism plays a mitigating part in that selection process, I am saddened. Conversely, I love it when strategic interpersonal alliances are formed in organic ways. I usually can’t quite help myself when I feel the impulse to “make a new friend,” and I’m not above trying to capitalize on the formation of a new friendship with someone who can help me. You see, because I played Sam, a lot of people ask me questions about myself and just what kind of friend I really am. I’ve gotten the impression from folks that they are looking to me, Sean, as an authority on the nature of friendship. I’ve worried, frankly, that I’m not worthy.

  My personality is such that I try to meet or exceed the positive expectations that many have of me and for me. When I’m traveling, I think sometimes that people are saddened because they realize or sense that I may not be as good a friend as Sam. I am always quick to point out that in fact I am not as good a friend as Sam; I couldn’t be, because fundamentally I’m too selfish. My wife and others have a hard time understanding what I mean when I tell them that I like to be “used.” I’m not going to bore you too much with my half-baked philosophy, but I do think there can be real value to heartfelt, sensitive, respectful engagement in discovering where mutual self-interests can collide when you meet people. But friendship? That is something else. I’ve come to learn that friendship is more about making an effort to act on your thoughtfulness toward others than trying to get stuff out of them, even when you honestly believe that you give as good as you get.

  I guess I’ll have a lifetime to consider how playing Sam has affected my life, but at the very least, I’d like to believe that he taught me that it’s worth trying to be a better friend than I was before I played him. In that regard, my journey of self-discovery and individual improvement continues.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  To this day, Elijah insists it was his idea. Given half a chance, though, Orlando will also take credit. Or responsibility. Or blame. And while Viggo has never sought any recognition for his role in the episode, I’m pretty sure he was a major player. Regardless of its origin, I do know that the seed was planted shortly after we arrived in New Zealand and took root in the months that followed. Every so often, someone (usually Elijah) would bring it up, and someone else would second the motion. Then we’d all forget about it. In the final week of principal photography, however, as it finally began to dawn on us that the adventure was really going to come to an end and we’d all be going home, the discussion began anew, this time with an almost religious fervor.

  “Let’s all get tattoos!”

  My initial reaction back in the summer of 1
999 was one of self-righteous dismissal: Ah, that’s stupid. I’m not doing that. To me, the concept lacked an air of authenticity. It felt like Elijah trying a little bit too hard to form a bond among the actors that mirrored the bond between the members of the Fellowship. Not that I doubted his sincerity. Far from it, in fact. I knew Elijah would leave Wellington sporting a fresh tattoo. Not me, though. I would be nearly thirty years old by the time we left, and in all those years I’d never once succumbed to the urge to brand my body. For a kid who had been raised in the bubble of celebrity, who had been hanging out with artists and writers and actors since he was a toddler, I was an unusually conservative fellow. Not politically, perhaps, but certainly in my personal life. Let’s put it this way: I was more Ozzie Nelson than Ozzy Osbourne.

  The idea of me getting a tattoo seemed patently ridiculous and a little bit pathetic, like a middle-aged man who goes out and buys a flashy sports car, leaves his wife, and begins dating a fitness instructor barely out of her teens. I wasn’t that guy. I didn’t want to be that guy. Getting a tattoo seemed a tentative step down that slippery slope.

  As I said, though, that was in the beginning.

  My attitude toward the production improved in its last few months. As Sam’s character was presented with exactly the type of heroic moments that Peter had promised, I was filled with pride about the work I had done and more than a little regret over not having handled the setbacks and frustrations with more elegance. Moreover, a closeness had developed between the cast members—the hobbits in particular—that could not be denied. We had spent nearly a year and a half together, living like brothers, working, playing, arguing, and supporting each other through the hard times and celebrating as one in the good times. Regardless of the outcome, we had shared and endured something extraordinary, and the likelihood that any one of us would ever be involved in a similar cinematic experience was remote, to say the least. (Remember, we really didn’t know then how the films would be received, and I don’t think anyone assumed they would become the worldwide phenomenon that they have.) As the countdown to our day of departure reached single digits, an inevitable and inescapable sadness permeated the air. It was almost as though we couldn’t believe that it was really coming to an end. But it was, and that truth prompted another, more serious round of discussions about commemorating our experience with a trip to a local tattoo parlor.

  A few days before our scheduled exodus it came to my attention that Viggo had already begun negotiations with the proprietor of a little place on Cuba Street called Roger’s Tattoo Art. The idea was to open the shop for a couple hours on a Saturday or Sunday morning, at a time when it would normally be closed and the streets would not yet be flocked with shoppers and tourists. I remember smiling to myself when I heard about this. Somehow, after so much time in New Zealand, working so closely with this group of people, it no longer seemed like such a silly or self-destructive thing to do. It seemed appropriate. It seemed honorable.

  “You know what?” I told Christine that night. “If everybody else agrees, I think I’m going to do it.”

  She gave me a hard look, the kind that only a wife can give a husband, and while she didn’t exactly shake her head or roll her eyes, I could tell she wasn’t crazy about the idea. Whether her disapproval stemmed from a simple dislike of body art (on her husband, anyway), or from concern that my decision was due to simple, sophomoric peer pressure, I can’t be sure. Nevertheless, Christine gave me her blessing.

  “If you really want to do this, I’ll support you.”

  My primary concern revolved around my daughter. What if by getting a tattoo I was sending the wrong message to Ali? What would I say, ten or twelve years hence, when she strolled into the house with her navel pierced?

  “Ali, you really shouldn’t disfigure your body that way. It shows a lack of self-respect.”

  “Uh, Dad?

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Don’t be such a hypocrite.”

  In the end, the thought of that exchange, however unpleasant, wasn’t enough to dissuade me. Nor was the fact that my own standard for crumbling to the will of the group—“I’ll do it if everyone else does”—had failed to hold up. First of all, Sean Bean, who played Boromir, had already departed, so he was out (in fairness, it should be pointed out that Sean eventually joined the off-screen Fellowship by getting a tattoo during a long night in New York or London—I forget which—with Orlando Bloom). Second, John Rhys-Davies steadfastly refused to participate in such shenanigans, in part, he explained (not entirely without irony), because of an epidemic of mad cow disease that was ravaging Europe: “Why, I wouldn’t follow an Englishman behind a needle for all the money in the world!” No matter. In John’s stead, an invitation was extended to his scale double, Brett Beattie, who jumped at the opportunity.6

  In retrospect, I think my primary motivation was fear. I couldn’t imagine at that point that the movie (or movies) would ever actually come out. I couldn’t imagine the movies being completed or anyone ever seeing them or enjoying them, or me being in them. None of my time in New Zealand seemed real. I was getting on a plane to go home, and soon it would all be a memory. At times, I’d wonder, Did any of it really happen? It all seems like an illusion, a jumble of images and sound bites that don’t quite add up to something whole. Was I really here for eighteen months? Is that possible? In some ways I felt so disconnected from the whole experience that I legitimately worried about whether the movies would ever be presented to a mass audience. Maybe they’d go straight to video. Maybe they’d sit in a can in Peter’s basement. That sounds crazy, I know, but it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. After all, nothing like this had ever been done—nothing like this had ever been attempted. What if the movies disappeared and nobody ever had a chance to see what we did? Or what if the movies were released and still no one got it, because even if each of the movies was ten hours long, there still would be a thousand brilliant little moments left on the cutting-room floor?

  I knew that when I boarded a plane and looked down at New Zealand fading into the blue Pacific, I wanted to be able to say, “It happened, and here’s my own little memorial to it.” So it wasn’t like I was coerced into getting a tattoo; no one twisted my arm. I went along willingly because I came to believe it was a worthy thing to do, and I don’t regret it in the least.

  Once we committed to the idea of getting tattoos, the next step was to come up with an interesting design, something cool and interesting and emblematic of our collective experience. It had to be small, too, something that wouldn’t call unnecessary attention to itself. We were actors, after all, not bikers, and this act was merely a brief walk on the wild side. Furthermore, we had agreed ahead of time that a small tattoo would work best because it could be hidden. This wasn’t supposed to be a publicity stunt, and we didn’t want it to devolve into that. This was about honoring each other and the work we had done, as well as solidifying, in some way, our commitment to remain friends and brothers for life. To that end, we settled on a tattoo that depicts the elvish symbol for the number nine, the number of members of the Fellowship. Deepening the impact of the tattoo is that it was based on a drawing created by Alan Lee specifically for this occasion. In other words, it’s an Alan Lee original, and it was a very nice thing for him to do. Alan is a gracious man who was always doing things like that. Before we left New Zealand, Elijah and I wanted to present something to the crew, so we asked Alan to sketch an image of Frodo and Sam turning and waving good-bye. He kindly agreed, of course, and even added Gollum—peering out between our legs. We transferred the image to a card and made hundreds of copies that we signed and distributed as parting gifts.

  We arrived at Roger’s Tattoo Art on the morning of December 17, 2000. I’d walked by the shop a hundred times before but had never given any thought to opening the door, had in fact barely noticed the place even existed. But now, here I was, surrounded by the Fellowship (as well as Christine and Alexandra), waiting for my turn at the needle. It was almos
t hard to believe. For Viggo and Orlando, who already had tattoos, I’m sure this was nothing more than a joyous event, a noble salute to friendship and camaraderie. To me it was all of that, as well as a frightening leap into the great unknown. I think the other neophytes—the tattoo virgins—probably felt as I did, although we all did our best to put up a sturdy facade, including the one person I was most shocked to see: Ian McKellen.

  I could only imagine what they would think back in England, if they could see Ian now, this giant of the British stage, hanging out at a tattoo parlor. Not that Ian was opposed to getting in touch with his funky side. Ian is an exceptionally hip guy who exists on the cutting edge of culture. He’s always finding interesting places to go, and hanging out with the most fascinating people. He’s just a very cool guy, the kind of guy I wanted to be when I lived in New York for three months when I was twenty years old and didn’t have kids. Ian was sixty, but vigorously protective of his attachment to youth and youth culture. And I’m sure he experienced less trepidation than I did about patronizing Roger’s Tattoo Art.