There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  Two major decisions had to be made before the fun could begin: which part of the body to decorate, and who would go first. Each of us made his own decision about where to have the tattoo applied. Billy suggested the ankle, which I thought was perfect, since we hobbits had spent thousands of hours having our feet attended to. Hobbit feet, of course, have long been the subject of conjecture and speculation and armchair psychoanalysis. They’re big and hairy and goofy, and Tolkien devotes considerable effort to their description. One of the reasons Tolkien really connected with the people who dominated the counterculture of the 1960s was his apparent agreement with hippie philosophy: not just the environmental treatise and not just his messages of peace and brotherhood, but also the smoking of the pipe weed, and the elves and the barefoot hobbits. There’s something about the sacredness of feet that people in the hippie world would understand and appreciate. Tolkien couldn’t have known that, of course, since he wrote The Lord of the Rings many years earlier. Nevertheless, he knew that by making the feet bigger, he was drawing attention to them. Whether he was making a sexual joke (big feet, big dick), I don’t know, although there was certainly no shortage of those during filming, for anyone who chose to reach for that interpretation. Anyway, Billy liked the idea of honoring the hobbit feet by having his ankle tattooed, and I agreed with him, so we became the two members of the Fellowship to have tattoos etched on our ankles.

  Billy went first, and while it was obviously not a pleasant experience for him, he had a sense of humor about it. I held his leg down, as Roger Ingerton, the proprietor and tattoo artist, pulled up a chair and went to work. For the next seven or eight minutes, with the needle whining and whirring, Billy grimaced and moaned. Every so often, he shouted, “Oh, man, it hurts!” while the rest of us laughed nervously. Then he jumped off the table, winced dramatically, and gave me a pat on the back.

  “Your turn, Sean.”

  And so it was. I was scared, but also emboldened by adrenaline. As hard as the previous year and a half had been, at that moment, in that setting, all I could think was, Look how much fun we’re having. So I lay down on the table and presented my ankle to Roger, who wasted no time in getting started. I’d always wondered how it would feel to get a tattoo, and now I knew.

  Aaaaaarrrrggghh!

  I was shocked by how much it hurt, how quickly the pain shot through my skin and into my anklebone. You see people getting tattoos in the movies, and it never seems to be a big deal. They kind of sit there and laugh or chat casually as the artist dabs ink onto a meaty biceps. Well, maybe that’s the way it works when they have some flesh with which to work, but on the ankle? Uh-uh. In a way, this was even worse than when I’d gored my foot. That had been an accident, and the initial pain had subsided quickly. This was self-induced agony, and it wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

  “Oh, God!” I whined, although I tried to smile as I said it. When Alexandra, clearly frightened, crawled under the table, I realized it might have been a slight miscalculation on my part to bring her along. Just what she needed: a lingering image of her father being tortured like Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man.

  I want you to think very carefully, Sean, and tell me, is it safe?

  “Do you want to come under here with me, Daddy?”

  “No, Ali, I’m okay.” I smiled at her, then turned away and clenched my teeth. The other guys were supportive, although they did laugh even as they offered encouragement. Such was the gallows atmosphere that surrounded the event. Toward the end of the procedure, Roger began scraping with the needle, in an effort to spread the ink evenly and deeply. That was the worst part, like having periodontal work without the novocaine. The fact that some people, like Roger, who looked like Ray Bradbury’s Illustrated Man, regularly and willingly give themselves over to this kind of pain seemed patently absurd to me. When the needle finally stopped and Roger said, “Done,” I breathed a sigh of relief and rolled off the table, as weak in the knees as a seasick tourist returning from a whale watch. Within seconds, though, the pain was gone, replaced by a flush of pride and excitement.

  I’d done it! I’d gotten my first tattoo!

  Next up was Ian, who chose to have his shoulder tattooed. I held his right arm while Roger snapped on a fresh latex glove and went to work. As we tried to ritualize the experience by simultaneously teasing and comforting each other, the tattoo shop took on the feel of a pirate ship—Arrh, maties!—and at the center of it all was Roger, a massively tattooed fifty-something Kiwi with a voice like sandpaper and a fiercely individualistic outlook on the world. Or so he wanted us to believe.

  “You know what I am?” Roger growled at one point. “I’m a bloody anarchist!”

  “Really?” I said. “How long did you say this shop has been here?”

  “About thirty-five years, give or take.”

  “Oh, no offense, Roger, but after thirty-five years, you’re pretty much part of the establishment, aren’t you?”

  Roger pulled the needle away from Ian’s shoulder, cocked his head in my direction, and smiled.

  “Well, I’m sort of on the fringe. Know what I mean?”

  That was the highlight of the day: the self-proclaimed anarchist tattooing the gay, knighted legend of stage and screen. I just loved that moment. But it was all fun. We stayed for the better part of two hours, until each of us had been stamped. Orlando was tattooed on the right forearm, Viggo and Dom on the shoulder, Elijah on the lower part of his belly, near the hipbone, and Brett on the small of his back.

  Afterward, when I proudly showed my tattoo to Peter Jackson, I was surprised and moved by his reaction.

  “Wow, that’s great,” he said, and I could tell by the look in his eyes that he meant it. I would think it pleased Peter to know that our experience had been so profound, and that he had been the man chiefly responsible for that experience. He had inspired us and instilled within us a commitment that was unprecedented and permanent. Not until a year later, however, after the release of the first film, did I realize just how much Peter liked the idea of the Fellowship tattoo. That’s when he and producer Mark Ordesky got tattoos of their own: the number 10.

  * * *

  We took a vow to keep the bond private and spiritual in nature. Granted, there was no way to prevent the media from revealing that we had gotten tattoos—I think the news had leaked by the time we left Roger’s studio—but at least we could maintain a purity of purpose, and prevent hundreds of thousands of The Lord of the Rings fans from tattooing themselves with the elvish symbol for 9, by declining to reveal the image in public. We all agreed to that. No going on Leno or Letterman and flashing the tattoo for a national audience. That would cheapen the experience, tarnish the memory.

  Ah, the best laid plans … The Fellowship tattoo became big news in the entertainment world; everywhere we went, people asked to see it. At first we refused, but we’ve all cracked at some point. My moment of shame—admittedly, the most egregious and knuckleheaded offense committed by any of us—came with Steve Kmetko of the E! network, during a broadcast of E! News Live.

  “Hey, you know Ian McKellen showed us his tattoo the other day,” Steve said. “We want to see yours, too.”

  “Really? Ian?”

  “He sure did.”

  “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, we made a pact.”

  “Well, I guess someone forgot to tell Ian, because we saw his tattoo.”

  Hell, if Ian is going to show his tattoo, I guess I can, too.

  With that I rolled up my pants leg and the camera zoomed in and got a nice close-up of my tattoo, which immediately made its way to the Internet, effectively killing the secret we had promised to take to our graves. But at least I wasn’t the only person—or even the first person—to have broken the vow.

  Or so I thought.

  As I walked off the set, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I’d been duped, that Steve had tricked me in order to be the first person to broadcast an image of the Fellowship tattoo. So I pulled out my cell phone and pl
aced a call to Ian. I asked him if he had also succumbed to the urges of the wily journalist Steve Kmetko and displayed his tattoo on television.

  “No, Sean, I did not,” Ian said. In his voice was a hint of condescension, as if this was precisely the sort of gaffe he expected of me. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t shown it to anyone, just as we agreed.”

  I hung up the phone and stood there, shaking.

  Kmetko, you son of a bitch!

  The next time I saw Steve, I playfully accused him of lying to me, which he denied. And then I got to thinking about it: Wait a minute. Maybe Ian was lying! Or they were both playing with me. Anyway, I called Elijah and told him I’d screwed up. He was terribly disappointed in me for being stupid and for giving such a lame excuse. But you know what? He forgave me. And, of course, he later revealed his tattoo as well.

  * * *

  The wrap party is a Hollywood tradition, an opportunity for the studio to thank everyone for all their hard work, a chance for cast and crew to say farewell, and to celebrate the end of the journey. At one point, I went through a phase during which I didn’t like wrap parties and often opted to skip town before they were held. Why? Sometimes, I suppose, it was because I didn’t feel particularly proud of the work I’d done and thus wasn’t interested in paying tribute to it. I simply wanted it in the rearview mirror. Other times, on the better films, I couldn’t bring myself to say good-bye. So I’d just leave.

  At the end of filming The Lord of the Rings, though, I was okay with it. I was happy to be leaving, happy to be saying good-bye to people, happy the movie was over. It felt right, as though we’d all been there long enough and done all that we could to make The Lord of the Rings the best it could be. I was proud of what we’d accomplished, but I was also tired and homesick and ready to move on to the next phase of my life, whatever that might mean. (I certainly didn’t comprehend just how completely the movies would come to dominate my career, or that the roller-coaster ride was, in fact, just beginning.)

  So Christine and I got a babysitter, I pulled on a red Dr. Seuss sweater bearing the words “I am Sam,” and we went to the wrap party, which had to be one of the biggest in the history of cinema. By “big,” I don’t mean lavish. I mean just plain big, as in huge. The party was held at a warehouse in downtown Wellington, near the waterfront. There were searchlights outside and mountains of food within. Generally speaking, it was a casual and comfortable affair, but sprawling, as well; intimacy is difficult when there are more than a thousand guests.

  As always happens at these affairs, great gobs of time were devoted to the exchanging of gifts. The actors, collectively, presented Peter with a mockette, courtesy of the makeup wizards at Weta Workshop. Mockettes are little sculptures used as models for all the different fictional characters in the films. The models would be scanned into a computer and the digital gurus would build off those, so the images that appeared on screen were not just based on drawings, but three-dimensional characters. Anyway, we had a mockette created for Peter, and of course it looked not only like Peter, but also like a hobbit: big feet, wild, unruly hair, and a bemused expression on its face. Peter seemed genuinely touched by the gift, and I remember feeling somewhat disappointed in myself for not putting more effort into the process. Elijah and I had gotten the cards done, and we had written notes to people, but here in the swirl of celebration our efforts seemed insufficient.

  Bliss Macgillicuddy, my makeup artist, gave me a rather extraordinary gift, an enormous collage of pictures and images encased in Plexiglas. There was a head shot illustrated by Alan Lee; photos of me with Elijah; me with Peter, Dom, Billy; my scale double and chess partner, Kiran “B. K.” Shah; everyone. What struck me about the gift was not just the time and thought that went into it, but that I seemed to be smiling in virtually every photo. Clearly, Bliss was trying to send me a message.

  “See, you don’t have to be such a sourpuss. You really did have a good time, and you connected with a lot of people in a lot of meaningful ways.”

  Leave it to the makeup artist to deliver a gentle kick in the ass. Bliss routinely allowed me to go through some of my interior monologue of anguish and insecurity with her; she would let me be grumpy and not hold it against me. She was wonderful, and I appreciated her thoughtfulness as much as her professionalism and attention to detail.

  The party went on for hours. There was lots of eating and drinking and dancing, as well as the customary viewing of a gag reel, wherein some of the funniest outtakes of the production were compiled in a single, gut-busting collection. I remember laughing pretty hard at the gag reel, but also feeling sad that I wasn’t in more of it; I knew that my absence could be attributed to the fact that I had internalized the process too much and hadn’t allowed myself to become part of everyone’s fun.

  Most of my colleagues, however, were forgiving of my tendency to take things too seriously, and that included Peter and Fran. Although we had several different “good-bye” moments, the official farewell occurred at their house during a dinner for the acting ensemble. Each of us was presented with a green bound yearbook with The Lord of the Rings etched into the spine. Between the covers was a collection of beautiful photographs that eloquently told the story of the making of the trilogy. And each book was inscribed with a personalized note. Mine included a few words of thanks for the work I had done, and reassurance that the performance had been meaningful and would one day resonate with audiences. Then came the kicker, the part about my wife and daughter, a reminder of why I had admired Peter and Fran in the first place: they were the coolest couple and the hippest parents on the planet.

  “Thank you for giving us Christine and Alexandra,” they wrote, “and for bringing them into our lives.”

  I closed the yearbook and ran my hand over the spine. I looked at Fran and Peter. And then I started to cry.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The veil of secrecy was officially removed on May 10, 2001, at the Cannes Film Festival. Cannes, of course, is the world’s biggest movie-related party, a sprawling hedonistic seaside celebration of fame and stardom and wealth, as well as an occasional forum for serious filmmaking. Thanks in no small part to the swelling influence of the Internet, there had been significant buzz about The Lord of the Rings, most of it positive. But aside from the occasional screening of an isolated scene or two at Peter Jackson’s home in Wellington, nothing had been released for public consumption. That all changed at Cannes, when a montage of scenes—essentially a very long trailer for The Fellowship of the Ring—was displayed for the first time.

  There had been moments in the past when I had some vague notion that the movie might accomplish precisely what Peter had set out to accomplish. Whenever we’d come back from a short hiatus, for example, Peter would try to get everyone back in the proper frame of mind by showing us some rough footage accompanied by temp music. On those occasions I’d be reminded of Peter’s awesome talent and the potential for the trilogy to be everything fans hoped it would be. Unfortunately, for me the impact of those brief glimpses quickly faded. I’m embarrassed now to think about how easily I slipped back into the drudgery of moviemaking, of putting on the makeup and the ears and soldiering on day after day, while failing to recognize the scope of the achievement. The excitement would wear off, and I’d forget about the big picture—or maybe I just couldn’t see the big picture. At Cannes, however, it began to come into focus. This was the first time I realized that The Lord of the Rings was going to be something truly extraordinary; it was also the beginning of the “rock star” phase of our lives.

  The special screening, a brilliantly conceived marketing gambit by New Line, gave journalists from around the world their first big taste of The Fellowship of the Ring, and the resulting publicity nearly overshadowed the movies ostensibly at the center of the festival. Running for twenty-six minutes, the footage opened with the elegant wizard Gandalf arriving in Hobbiton at the home of Bilbo Baggins, whose dramatic birthday disappearance (through the use of the ring) preceded a
swift and efficient introduction of the members of the Fellowship. Then came the centerpiece of the footage: a fourteen-minute sequence depicting the Fellowship’s harrowing trek through the Mines of Moria that climaxed, as the movie does, with a thrilling battle against an army of orcs and a harrowing encounter with a giant cave troll. The footage concluded with the appearance of a flying dragon (a Balrog), and Gandalf bravely standing between the Fellowship and the fiery beast.

  When the screen went dark and the lights came up, the theater erupted with applause. Like everyone else, I was awestruck. Digital characters had blended seamlessly with human actors to create a cinematic experience like nothing that had come before it. The media gushed over the quasi-premiere, noting that it bore Peter’s unmistakable stamp and suggesting strongly that the film promised to deliver on New Line’s huge investment. I knew then that The Lord of the Rings, or at least the first installment of the trilogy, was going to be huge, and that life was about to change for all of us. This was the beginning of the endless ride of parties and premieres and public relations.

  It was also the start of me losing my mind, fretting constantly about what The Lord of the Rings would mean to me, worrying about whether I was in a horse race with other actors, trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted, instead of just relaxing and enjoying the experience.

  That same week, for example, I had a regrettable interaction with one of my costars, Orlando Bloom, who had already been plucked out of the ensemble and targeted for stardom. Not that there was anything remotely surprising about that. Orlando was so talented and appealing, so ridiculously good-looking, that there was never any doubt about what lay ahead for him. He had “movie star” written all over him.

  From the very beginning, I found Orlando likable. He wasn’t a hobbit, but he was part of the hobbit group, and we all connected right away. More than most of us, Orlando was excited about the physical work involved in the films, and his attitude was terrific. He was fresh out of drama school and incredibly happy to be in New Zealand, working on a big-budget movie. There were times when Orlando would get selfish and try to take advantage of the production assistants—“Hey, baby, could you go get me something to eat, please?”—but it wasn’t the sort of behavior emblematic of movie star entitlement; it was just lazy guy stuff, and it was harmless and even kind of endearing. We ridiculed him mercilessly whenever he did it, and he weathered that ridicule pretty well, which only added to his appeal.