There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  Oh, by the way. That hockey equipment? It’s still in the bag. Never been used.

  CHAPTER TWO

  While I was working on Where the Day Takes You, a friend of mine named T.E. Russell stopped by the set to pay a visit. T. E. and I had gotten to know each other a few years earlier when we worked together on a movie called Toy Soldiers. T.E. is an African American with a sturdy presence and a beautiful voice. When Christine and I were married, the ceremony was held in Idaho, and T.E. helped make the event complete by graciously agreeing to sing an a capella version of “You Send Me.” His voice poured out majestically through the pine trees, and I like to think that it drifted right up to the front doors of some of our neighbors, most notably an avowed leader of a white supremacist organization.

  But I digress.

  Shortly before T.E. visited the set, I had received a script for a movie called Encino Man. I respect T.E.’s opinion, so I asked him if he’d mind looking at the script with me. It was an almost surreal experience. Here I was, enjoying another day of important work on a thoughtful, considered movie about homeless kids having remarkable, real-world experiences on the streets of Los Angeles, and I was reading a script about a caveman who becomes a high school student! I’d studied with Stella Adler. I’d worked with David Putnam. In my mind, at least, I was finally getting a chance to flex my acting muscles and do the work I’d always been capable of doing. If I hadn’t exactly “arrived,” at least I was on the right track.

  That’s how I felt, anyway. But perception is one thing and reality is another, for the script I held in my hand was not really the sort of script that gets sent to an important actor. The biggest, most important issue in Encino Man was how a couple of high school students could exploit the caveman to make themselves more popular. Deep stuff. And so T. E., Christine, and I read the script out loud while standing just off Hollywood Boulevard, snorting and laughing and dismissing it as we went along. When we finished it, I can vividly remember looking at T.E. and saying, “This is the biggest piece of shit script I have ever read in my entire life.” T.E. just laughed and nodded. That, I thought, would be the end of my association with Encino Man. But I was wrong.

  I had recently moved from a small, boutique agency to CAA, which at the time was seeming to gobble up all of Hollywood. In one respect, it wasn’t a move I enjoyed making. The agent I left was heartbroken, and Marion Dougherty, who had cast me in Memphis Belle, was so outraged that she called CAA and chastised them for poaching clients. But I was far from an innocent bystander. I no longer believed that my small agency had the power and influence to take me where I wanted to go. We had made a lot of money together, and I liked them as people, but as I became more knowledgeable, I asked more questions, and they didn’t always have answers. It seemed to me that they weren’t prosecuting my career interests in the way I knew the people at CAA would. My parents did not really respect my decision, but they didn’t attempt to dissuade me.

  I sensed that while my new agents were good at representing talent, when I walked into their agency, I didn’t feel like it was a power center where information is currency, decisions are made with lightning speed, and careers are built and broken from moment to moment. I don’t know if that speaks to the quality of the agency or Mike Ovitz’s genius at designing an architectural space (at CAA). My instincts told me that if I wanted a shot at a “big” career, I should try to mix it up with the sharks. I was willing to terminate my professional relationship with people who had genuinely cared about me to go to a place where I thought the agents could capitalize on my success and plug me into the action at the highest levels. I’m not proud of my decision to the extent that I was not necessarily a loyal client, but I understand the mandate of ambition that was burning within me. I would enjoy the fruits of this choice and suffer its consequences. After years of reflection, I can honestly say that the most important characteristic for an actor to look for in an agent is genuine passion. In this regard, my first agents were successful.

  One day my new agent, Mike Menchel, asked me to take a call from Jeffrey Katzenberg, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. This was while Katzenberg was head of production at Disney, before he split with Michael Eisner and founded Dreamworks. The reason for the call, as it turned out, was to secure a commitment from me to appear in Disney’s newest project, Encino Man. It was being made under the aegis of Hollywood Pictures, a subsidiary of Disney.

  “Just take the call, Sean,” Mike said. “It’s important. See what happens.”

  He had a point. My father had told me many stories about the way studios worked, the personalities and egos involved, and warned me specifically not to ignore the gift of a personal call from a studio head.

  A few minutes later my cell phone rang. It was Jeffrey Katzenberg. I was so nervous that I had to pull over onto Sunset Boulevard, because I knew how important a call it was, that this conversation represented a defining moment in my career. How I handled it—not merely whether I said yes or no—would go a long way toward determining my future in the business.

  “Listen, Sean, we really want you to do this movie,” he said. The tone in his voice was one of authority, and I admired that. He was selling the project but it didn’t seem like he was selling. It felt more like he was trying to make it clear that he had something to offer, and I would be a fool to turn it down. I tried to formulate the proper response, one that would display a proper degree of respect, while allowing for the possibility of walking away.

  “I’d love to work with you, Mr. Katzenberg,” I began, “but with all due respect”—I swallowed hard—“does it have to be this movie?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, Sean, it has to be this movie.”

  He went on to describe the way they intended to market the picture and said that they knew it would be a successful venture. I’d already been briefed on the specifics of the deal. Disney had offered me roughly $150,000 to play one of the film’s three leads, slightly more than I’d earned for Toy Soldiers, and infinitely more than I’d been paid on Where the Day Takes You. They’d also offered me the potential for an additional $400,000 on the back end, which, of course, I believed I’d never see, because hardly any actor ever sees back-end money. Jeffrey, however, said this movie would be different: there would be a unique definition of “net profit” that would ensure a bonus for everyone involved. Assuming, of course, that the movie performed well at the box office, which, frankly, I thought was a long shot. As Jeffrey talked, I could barely hear his words over the clatter of my own thoughts: This movie is a piece of crap, and it’s never going to make a nickel.

  Since I had some fairly serious career aspirations, I didn’t voice that opinion. Rather, I tried to play the few chips I had, in diplomatic fashion.

  “Mr. Katzenberg, it seems to me, based on the way you’re structuring this deal, that you want me to take a leap of faith with you on this movie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, if you’re willing to sit down and listen to some ideas that I have as a filmmaker, I’d consider making this movie with you.”

  Again, there was a pause on the other end of the line, this one even longer than the first.

  “Sean, please … don’t blow the deal over twenty grand.”

  Then I realized what was happening. My agents had been lobbying for more money, when what I really wanted was a chance to express myself as an artist. They had intimated to Disney that if the salary was bumped up twenty thousand dollars, I’d do the movie. Katzenberg naturally thought I was trying to squeeze him in some sort of clever, indirect way, which wasn’t the case at all. I didn’t want to do Encino Man, but if it was possible to leverage my participation into some other type of opportunity, then perhaps it would be worthwhile. But Jeffrey had no interest in me as a filmmaker; he just had a movie to make, and I fit the role.

  I called Mench back and told him the conversation hadn’t gone well. “Jeffrey thinks it’s all about the money,” I explained. “He do
esn’t understand who I am as an artist. I don’t think he cares.”

  “So what do you want to do?” he asked.

  Menchel was clearly amused by my chutzpah. He may have realized that I was upset that CAA was managing my reputation, and that I was uncomfortable about trying to tap dance out of the situation in a way that didn’t hurt my credibility. I’m sure many an actor would have killed for that offer from Jeffrey Katzenberg, and in subsequent years, I would have, too. But all I could do at the time was follow my gut, believe in myself, and try not to sell out. Funny, huh? Coming from a guy who compromised his sense of egalitarian righteousness to accept a gift while screwing a fellow thesp out of the part he thought was his. But we’ve been through that.… What did I do about Encino Man and the extra twenty thousand CAA was gunning for?

  “Tell them we’ll pass.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  The next time I gave any serious thought to Encino Man was while I was exploring Europe with Christine. I got a call in Barcelona and was told that Ricardo Mesterez wanted to see my short film. Ricardo was the president of Hollywood Pictures. As such, he reported directly to Jeffrey Katzenberg.

  The short film to which he referred was On My Honor.

  Yep, I had finished it, in 35-millimeter. It was sixteen minutes long, and despite its roughness, it conveyed my sense of morality and had a genuine emotionality to it. And now, Ricardo, another honcho in the biz, wanted to see it. I was apoplectic. Operating behind the scenes during this time, or at least out of my purview, was another person I consider to be one of the giants in Hollywood. Daniel Petrie Jr., who needed a lot of convincing before he agreed to hire me in Toy Soldiers, has probably been my most important mentor. Dan spent countless hours on the phone counseling me, guiding me, sharing his wisdom and experience, and trying to protect me from myself. Furthermore, he knew what I wanted to accomplish and offered a considerable amount of his genius to help me achieve it. Why? That’s just the kind of human being he is, and my name is one of many on a long list of folks he’s helped along the way. Jeffrey and Ricardo knew how close Dan and I were, and they enlisted his help to try to “land” me for Encino Man. Dan told them that the way to my heart was through my desire to become a filmmaker.

  I want to stop here for a beat.…

  Picture the scene: It’s pouring rain, and Christine and I are standing at a phone booth in Barcelona. All of our worldly possessions are in a storage shed in Van Nuys, California. I have close to eighty thousand dollars in the bank, and Christine and I are madly in love, traveling the world and learning about ourselves. I think at that point we’re in escrow on a lovely little two-bedroom house in Sherman Oaks, and we’re talking about going to college together. This phone call from Ricardo was like a bolt of lightning from the Hollywood gods. Never mind that I’d been praying to those gods for years, and now in what felt like an unlikely way, my prayers were being answered. But before I tell you what happened during that call, I want to explain a little about my life, my upbringing, and my particular worldview.

  * * *

  The actor Dan Aykroyd once employed an interesting phrase to describe Steven Spielberg: “artist-industrialist.” I love that. It acknowledges that some of the most accomplished and visionary men (and women) in cinema are also astute financiers, technicians, and leaders. Spielberg, and others at or near his level, understand the wanton waste that comes with being too self-indulgent an artiste. When Spielberg directs a movie, he understands and accepts the extraordinary responsibility that comes with the hiring of a cast and crew, the careful handling of a budget that exceeds the GNP of some Third World nations, and of course, the crushing weight of expectation. Critics, studio executives, and movie fans all expect him to hit a home run on every trip to the plate, to create movies that win awards, earn stellar reviews, and make hundreds of millions of dollars at the box office. It’s quite a thing, I believe, for a filmmaker (and Peter Jackson now falls into this category as well) to open his arms to all of this, and to succeed more often than he fails.

  I don’t mind saying that I’ve long aspired to join the ranks of the artist-industrialists, and I think that at least partially explains the way I’ve managed my fiscal life and my career as a business. There are times when I make decisions that I know are going to move toward the pure artist track, and there are times when I make a business-track decision. Sometimes it’s just a matter of paying the bills, of being a professional actor—hitting your mark, saying lines, and doing the best work you can, regardless of the circumstances, because you have a responsibility to other people. And then there are times when I make a business decision with the hope that it will in some way facilitate the artist track. The Lord of the Rings, rather obviously, is one of those rare and beautiful projects that is symbiotic. You see, the goal is to keep closing the gap: Mel Gibson stars in Lethal Weapon, and then he leverages the success of that franchise as a way to direct and star in Braveheart (and Hamlet, it should be added, not to mention directing The Passion of the Christ). That’s an extreme example, but I think it illustrates what I’m talking about, and what I’ve been chasing all these years. It’s about power, but it’s also about opportunity—using power in pursuit of something more noble. Believe me, I’m not an elitist when it comes to movies. I appreciate a good art-house film—Where the Day Takes You or Cinema Paradiso, for example—but I don’t think there’s anything more impressive from a filmmaking standard than creating brilliant technical work that also succeeds on a visceral, emotional level. That’s why, as a fan, I love E.T. so much, and Lawrence of Arabia. And even Back to the Future, one of the most thrilling experiences I’ve ever had in a theater. It’s why, as an actor, I’m so proud of The Lord of the Rings, and why I understood it was a gamble worth taking.

  I grew up wanting to make movies, not just perform in them. Even when I was a kid, it seemed as though I always had a camera in my hand. I remember doing chores around the house so that I’d have enough money to buy film at Bel-Air Camera. Then I’d shoot it and need to get it developed, so I’d say to my parents, “Can I take out the trash? Can I get a paper route?” Anything to get enough money to feed my hobby, which was quickly becoming a habit. My parents were not rich, by the way. (When I refer to my parents, I’m talking about Patty Duke and John Astin. John is actually my adoptive legal father. My biological father is a lovely man named Michael Tell, who was briefly married to my mom in the early 1970s. John adopted me when I was very young and raised me as his own, and I love him dearly; he is, and always has been, my dad.)

  My parents’ finances are their business, but suffice it to say there was never any huge money laying around, no Hollywood playground. I put myself through private high school with money I made as a child actor. My mother, don’t forget, was a classic example of why the famous Jackie Coogan Law protecting child actors became necessary: unscrupulous managers absconded with much of her childhood earnings. To this day she’s still not the best with finances. While my parents didn’t give my siblings or me a big trust fund, they did something even more important. They raised me with a core set of values. My mom wanted us to be strong, proud individuals. My dad hammered home the importance of a traditional education.

  When it came to my aspirations as a filmmaker, my parents were nothing but supportive and they offered practical advice. After I moved out of the house, twice I ran out of cash. My mom loaned me some money, and I promptly paid her back. And of course, it was nice to have an Academy Award–winning actress—my mother—to put in my films. In fact, both of my parents allowed me on one occasion to dress them up in rather eccentric costumes for my film The Enchanted Dreamer, which I shot on Super 8. I must have been twelve or thirteen years old, and my father balked a little, saying something like, “You know, Sean, I am a professional actor.” But without too much fuss they consented, and their performances were, shall we say, more than adequate.

  When I applied to the graduate school of t
heater, film, and television at UCLA (I was rejected, a fact that left me nearly brokenhearted), I wrote a passionate essay about my love for film. I talked about what it was like when my father would project 16-millimeter footage for us. Images of his work as an actor and director. As a kid I saw almost no difference between what he was doing and what I was attempting to do. Yes, he was John Astin—Gomez Addams!—a classically trained Shakespearean actor and a pop culture icon, but we were both trying to make movies. I was an heir apparent to a tradition. My father was a famous actor. My mother won an Oscar and four Emmys. People used to ask me why I wanted to follow in their footsteps. They worried that it was too much of a burden. No way. I thought an incredible gift had been placed in front of me.

  I don’t think I ever felt like I couldn’t escape from my parents’ shadows. They always seemed more like a beacon of light to me than anything approaching darkness. Plus, with my dad’s emphasis on education, I’ve always felt that other careers, livelihoods, and paths are available to me. The only limitations I’ve ever known are time and space, and perhaps certain physical limits: I don’t think I ever felt I could compete at the higher levels of most sports. Most of my life has felt like finding a balance between taking advantage of the opportunities in front of me and trying to play out some sense of personal destiny or mission that must have been ingrained in my DNA. In that regard, I’ve suffered in trying to overcome the obstacles that have been placed in front of me, but I really do identify with the character of Rudy.

  Anyway, as far as my pedigree is concerned, the only time I felt frustrated was when I couldn’t figure out how to effectively leverage my lineage and experience. My parents didn’t make a habit of introducing me to famous people. In other words, they didn’t sit down with us before the big New Year’s party, and say, “Here’s who’s coming to dinner, kids. He’s an important director, producer, writer, star…” They didn’t do any of that. They just had a party. We’d go down and help direct the parking, and people we engaged in conversation were just the people who were the friendliest. Generally speaking, I had no idea who they were. I knew only that I thought my mother and father had pretty cool jobs, that they were creative, interesting people, and that I wanted to be like them.