There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  Like Legolas and like some of the characters he has played since, Orlando is legitimately dashing and swashbuckling. He’s an extreme sort of guy who doesn’t mind breaking an occasional bone in the pursuit of adventure and thrills. We rented motorcycles one day and did some off-road biking in the hills of Queenstown. I was relatively cautious, but Orlando was utterly fearless, at one point opening the throttle and charging to the top of a steep incline against the advice of our guide.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” he yelled as Orlando leaned into the handlebars and gunned the engine. A few minutes later there was Orlando, sitting proudly atop his bike at the summit. Then he turned the bike around and prepared to descend. There was just one problem: it was too steep. Facing the very real possibility of flying over the handlebars and getting seriously injured, Orlando removed his helmet and yelled to us at the bottom.

  “How do I get down?”

  The guide laughed. “Hey, mate, you found your way up there, you’re gonna have to figure out how to get down.”

  Which he did. After all, this is a guy who broke his back and somehow escaped any long-term disability or pain. He’s got nine lives, and he’s living each of them to the fullest.

  Orlando and I talked a few times about the business of movies and the stardom that was destined to come his way. We talked about money, and I remember being somewhat amused by the realization that I was probably making a lot more than he was, because that certainly wouldn’t be the case in the very near future. Orlando didn’t much care about any of that. He was just so happy and easygoing, and it was screamingly obvious what the industry had in store for him.

  “You have a chance to be a major star,” I said at one point. Orlando just shrugged and smiled, like someone who either didn’t care or had just heard something he already knew. I gave him advice about agents and managers, and he went off and made a lot of decisions that I wouldn’t have made—decisions that have since proved to be a hell of a lot smarter than decisions I would have made. But there were times when I ran into Orlando, or read some story about him, and thought, Oh, my God, it’s gone to his head, and he’s become a cataclysmic jerk!

  That’s what happened in Cannes, when I approached Orlando while he was chatting with Barry Diller, one of the more powerful and influential men in Hollywood. I got the feeling that Orlando was blowing me off, that he wasn’t about to waste time embracing a friend when there was an opportunity to cultivate a business relationship. And I got mad at him. After Barry left, I gave Orlando a little shove in the chest and said, “Who the hell do you think you are? We’re supposed to be friends.” He was shocked and sort of apologized, but he also made it clear that he had intended no disrespect at all. When I thought about it afterward, when I really analyzed what had happened, I came to the conclusion that I was the one who had behaved badly. I had misread the situation and overreacted. Envy and insecurity had gotten the better of me, and I’d briefly lost it. Orlando, to his great credit, was instantly forgiving, and we got through it with no discernible fallout.

  Since then Orlando has risen to the top of the food chain, and it’s hard not to be impressed by the way he’s weathering his stardom. He’s a good guy and he has talent. I don’t know if he’ll earn the respect of his fellow actors in the British theater, at least for a while, simply because it’s difficult to be taken seriously in those circles when you’re making great gobs of money in mainstream movies, while also enjoying the status of international sex symbol. It’s astounding to travel with Orlando, to see how many women—from teenagers to grandmothers—fall at his feet. Everywhere I go, fans of The Lord of the Rings give me things. Before I can even say, “Thank you,” they ask me to please make sure the gift is presented to Orlando.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It’s a tough job to be adored by millions of women, but I somehow think Orlando is equal to the task.

  * * *

  The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring debuted in December 2001 to overwhelming critical praise and commercial success. After twenty years of hard and sometimes brilliant work on small movies, Peter Jackson was an overnight sensation. The bosses at New Line, considered by many to be foolish for having gambled so heavily on a project that had been rejected by every other studio in town, were suddenly geniuses. Such are the vagaries of the movie business.

  For me, the success of the first film was less palpable. Sam was a peripheral character, and so my role in the promotion of the movie was to be a sturdy member of the ensemble, available for interviews and parties, and preferably armed with an assortment of cogent observations and pleasant anecdotes. This was a role I was generally happy to play, for I really was proud of the movie and my work in it, and I was legitimately happy for Peter and Fran. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that there were some awkward moments, such as the time I ran into Ian Holm at the London premiere of The Fellowship of the Ring.

  First, though, a few words about Ian. When this guy showed up in New Zealand to play Bilbo Baggins, he carried himself with a kind of seriousness and elegance that commanded attention, maybe even more so than did the other Ian in the cast. Ian McKellen was playing Gandalf, and thus had to wear a beard and a nose and a hat. Something about the makeup and costume—the hat in particular—took the edge off his presence as an authoritative man of the stage, a grand Shakespearean actor. Ian Holm, conversely, only worked on the films for a short period of time, and you always got the feeling when you saw him that he was, well, Ian Holm. That’s not to say he didn’t inhabit the character. He did, of course, and he played Bilbo beautifully. But I was intimidated by him.

  There’s a feeling you get before you meet an actor of note, an excitement and nervousness and a resolve to work through that transition, and I certainly experienced that with Ian. I had admired his work in so many films, from the duplicitous android in Alien to the tough but sensitive coach in Chariots of Fire, to the damaged, ambulance-chasing attorney in The Sweet Hereafter. That last performance was especially fresh in my mind when Ian arrived in New Zealand, and it fueled my desire to get to know him better. But the opportunity never presented itself. We worked together in only a few scenes and never had any substantive conversations. On the day Ian left, I asked him to sign my single-volume edition of The Lord of the Rings (we all did this, much as high school seniors autograph each other’s yearbook). Ian smiled, took the book, and wrote, “Sean: Finally, my boy, we meet.”

  It was kind of tongue-in-cheek, but also a little removed, as if to say, Why are you having me sign this thing? We barely know each other. I remember feeling a bit disappointed that we hadn’t connected in some other way. Really, though, that wasn’t possible. The only extended time we shared—and calling it “shared” is a stretch—occurred when Ian was having his makeup applied and I was sitting there watching him endure the transformation into a hundred-year-old hobbit. Face work is infinitely more difficult and uncomfortable than having prosthetic ears and feet applied. In fact, after watching Ian and John and some of the other actors on The Lord of the Rings, I’d have to think long and hard before I’d accept a role that required that kind of daily torture. Anyway, Ian and I shared a small amount of time while he was a prisoner, and I don’t think my attempts to converse were unwelcome. I’m aware of those dynamics, too. I used to glad-hand with everybody, but I’ve developed some restraint over time. You can’t necessarily get in someone’s face just because you admire his or her work. So I tried to be respectful of Ian’s space.

  At the London premiere, however, Ian and I had a chance to chat. Typically, there’s no real communication at these events, just a lot of awkward, superficial small talk. But I wanted to take a moment to congratulate Ian on his performance, which I thought was just superb. The transformation that suddenly takes place when Bilbo tries to take the ring one last time from Frodo is among the highlights of the movie. And I wanted to share that sentiment with Ian. So I paid him a compliment, after which there was a pregnant pause. Now, actor protocol dictates tha
t a compliment be repaid in kind. But that didn’t happen. Instead, Ian said, “Thank you,” and we sort of stood there, enveloped in an awkward silence. Honestly, I admired the fact that Ian wasn’t going to say something nice just for the sake of saying it, but eventually he relented.

  Sort of.

  “You don’t really do anything, do you?” he said.

  “Nope. Not really.”

  “But it’s just fucking brilliant the way you do it. Isn’t it?”

  Oh, you have no idea.

  Ian obviously hadn’t really thought about it and wasn’t particularly moved by my performance. Admittedly, though, there hadn’t been much to elicit a reaction. There is an attractive shot at the end of the film, with Sam and Frodo looking off into the distance, where the viewer is left with the sense that these two characters are destined for greatness, so at least I didn’t feel like an interloper at the party. It had been my job to be small and subtle in the first film, and I think I did that reasonably well.

  I once did a movie called Boy Meets Girl, where I walked with a swagger, smoked a cigar, drank too much, and spewed a lot of self-important nonsense: “I’m gonna travel, Jack! Gonna see the world!” It was almost like an homage to my dad’s character in The Addams Family: everything about it facilitated a big performance. The Lord of the Rings was just the opposite of that. Sam is so subtle. He doesn’t have the showstopper lines, except at the end of the third movie. For much of the trilogy he’s quiet and stoic. Earnest. So, in a sense, Ian’s observation was astute, not just something born of panic or desperation or even politeness. It was honest, and you can’t help but admire that.

  * * *

  Because The Lord of the Rings was designed and marketed as three separate films, yet shot as one very long film, the studio had great chunks of time with which to work following the completion of principal photography. We finished shooting in December 2000; then they (I’m talking primarily about Peter and Fran) had a full year to deliver The Fellowship of the Ring, followed by another year to deliver the second installment, The Two Towers, and a third year to deliver The Return of the King. Each year they would assemble the film and look at it and think about it and be afforded the opportunity to entertain new ideas, to see things in a different light. A year is a long time. Three years is a really long time, especially in the entertainment business. A lot can change. To their credit, they allowed themselves to be responsive to some of the things that fans would say or write. The scene with Orlando sliding down the trunk of the oliphant at the end of the third film, for instance, reflects everybody’s understanding of what a matinee idol he’d become. That would not likely have been in the third film initially. It’s an amazing thing, actually, that a movie with that kind of an outrageous “wink” in it can also be perceived as serious filmmaking; it’s a testament to how broad an experience it is, and how flexible the filmmakers were.

  As we all know, the world changed on September 11, 2001, and I think The Fellowship of the Ring became even more resonant with people in the wake of the attacks on the United States. As Gandalf says to Frodo in the Mines of Moria, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil.” I think that sentiment was poignant to a lot of people. I also think that when The Fellowship of the Ring was released, it was welcomed almost as a gift by people who had been worn out by the endless media coverage of the sadness and violence of September 11, by the harsh reality of life and death. To be able to disappear into the fantasy world of hobbits and elves and wizards, a world in which courage matters and good triumphs over evil, was a sweet and wonderful respite. In an interview with USA Today, I was asked whether I thought The Fellowship of the Ring represented a healthy opportunity for people to escape for three hours. Here’s the truth: my livelihood depended on the success of these movies, and like anyone else, after the shock of September 11 began to wear off, my mind slowly turned to the pragmatics of life. I remember thinking how great it was that we’d be able to bring The Lord of the Rings out in the aftermath of September 11, and how people might be inspired by it.

  People all over the world, but especially in the United States, were reeling from the tragedy, and it wasn’t as easy to be cynical anymore. Something about being able to play with your kids and enjoy the things in life that are at once simple and fantastic. The Lord of the Rings is all about that, really—about being able to give yourself over to those fantastical elements. It’s easy to satirize, as South Park, Saturday Night Live, National Lampoon, the Onion, and Mad, just to name a few, have demonstrated. But the trilogy is still revered. For some reason, people don’t get sick of The Lord of the Rings, and I think it has a lot to do with the nobility of the characters and their quest for a better world.

  The impact of September 11 is most evident in The Two Towers. As far as I know, no one blinked at the title (it was Tolkien’s, after all), and no real consideration was ever given to changing it out of deference to the victims of the World Trade Center disaster. That would have been a meaningless gesture, I think, and one that betrayed the purity of Tolkien’s vision. Better to have handled it the way it was ultimately handled: with a thoughtful and eloquent speech delivered at the climax of the movie.

  After the success of the first film I think everyone involved was looking for a way to say something meaningful with The Two Towers. Peter repeatedly voiced his concern that the movie “didn’t have enough heart yet,” that perhaps action overwhelmed human emotion, and I know that after the way audiences responded to Sam wading into the water in pursuit of Frodo at the conclusion of The Fellowship of the Ring, Peter began looking at me as a guy he could turn to if he wanted to tug on a heartstring. But it was more than just that. Who wasn’t questioning the meaning of life in those days? Imagine what it must have been like for Peter, who went from being a relatively obscure director (outside New Zealand, anyway) entrusted with the future of an entire studio to a bona fide man of wealth. What an awesome, complex series of emotions.

  I found out that the ending to the second film had been dramatically altered in May 2002, when the fax machine in my house began to ring. I’d had a couple of good conversations with Peter about what he hoped to do in the coming months, when he got us back down to New Zealand for reshoots. The Two Towers, he explained, would end with a stirring speech delivered by Sam, one that summed up the mood of the entire trilogy.

  “We’ll be sending the pages soon,” he said. “Let me know what you think.”

  When the fax came through, I was stunned by the power of the words. Certain moments, certain scenes, are so good that you can almost do them on the spot, without any rehearsal whatsoever. You don’t even have to memorize them. That’s the way this felt. I was standing in my bathrobe, reading the scene aloud, practically weeping at the clarity and power of it.

  “It’s like the great tales, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really matter. Folk in those stories had lots of chances to turn back, only they didn’t. They kept going, because they were holding onto something.”

  “What are we holding onto, Sam?”

  “That there’s some good left in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.”

  I got right back on the phone with Peter, thanked him (and Fran and Philippa) profusely for writing such a beautiful scene, and for giving me a chance to act in it. I couldn’t wait to get back to New Zealand, for this was yet another chance to do something important. I just felt so excited about it. It seemed as though the writers had somehow assimilated the mood of the planet and reflected it in this particular scene; it was almost like an homage to the value of the source material in modern society: Why is it worth watching this fantasy at a time when we’re fighting in Afghanistan and you never know when the next terrorist attack will come? Why even go to the movies? Why not stay home with your family and try to learn from history and hold your political leaders accountable for their ability to keep you safe? What’s the point of stories anymore?


  By using Sam, the simplest and one of the noblest of Tolkien’s characters, as a vessel, the filmmakers tried to answer those questions. They said, in effect, Thank you for loving and supporting the first film, and this is why the second film is worthy of your attention; this is why you ought to let yourself enjoy the story without a shred of guilt.

  It felt important to me, as if the movie was more than just a movie now. If there was a point to The Two Towers, it was summed up in this speech, and I was the one who would get to do it. That recognition, which was instantaneous, brought a sense of pressure, but mainly it brought excitement and enthusiasm. After I got off the phone with Peter, I showed the scene to Christine, who loved it. Then I called my father and read it to him over the phone. Dad can be a harsh critic, but he was blown away by this scene.

  “Wow!” he said, almost breathlessly. “That’s great, Sean. And you can do it.”

  That much I already knew: I could do it. But then again, anyone could do it, because it was that good a scene.

  Less than three weeks later I found myself back in Wellington, this time without Christine or Alexandra. I stayed for about a month, and during that time I encountered just about every significant member of the cast. That’s the way the movies were made: we were constantly fixing and changing and adapting, right up until the release date. Interestingly, each time we saw each other, it was as if no time had passed. There were countless occasions for reunions: premieres, publicity tours, awards shows. For more than three years it was a cycle that would not end. Funny thing, too. People change over the course of two or three years. They look different. But when you put on a wig and makeup and costume, somehow the time dissolves and you melt into the character all over again, to the point where even the camera can’t distinguish between scenes shot in 1999 and those shot in 2002. There are some logistical problems, however, such as the issue of my weight. I’d lost most of the fat I’d gained to play Sam shortly after the end of principal photography. By the summer of 2002, however, I’d started to balloon all over again, which made the physical work during reshoots more difficult than it might have been. And more humiliating. Consider the moment when we shot a scene in which Frodo, straining against the power of the ring, pulls his sword on Sam.