There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  The same could be said about my bond with Elijah Wood. The friendship between Frodo and Sam resonates with audiences because it appears to be genuine. There is chemistry, and chemistry rarely happens between actors who do not care for each other. I can honestly say that I love Elijah like a brother. And like any sibling relationship, ours is at times a complicated one. When we met in New Zealand (which was the first time I’d seen him since our brief introduction at the Ma Maison Sofitel), I had the weird feeling that Elijah was something of a chameleon. It happened at a restaurant called Castro’s, where the cast and the “upper echelon” of the production team (including Peter, Fran, cowriter Philippa Boyens, Barrie Osborne, and then producer Tim Sanders) gathered for a preproduction party. Elijah and I shared a big hug, but I sensed something a little bit different abut him, something I hadn’t noticed when we met in L.A.

  He was happy to be there and happy to see me, but he had a more cosmopolitan air about him. He was smoking his ubiquitous clove cigarettes, and he was dressed very sharply—it was apparent he had a clear sense of his own personal style. In sum, he looked like a movie star, and I remember marveling at him. Here I was, just a guy trying to put a jacket on so I wouldn’t be cold or look out of place, trying to figure out what the hell to wear to dinner, while Elijah seemed unburdened by such trivialities, even though it was obvious that in fact he gave such things considerable thought. It just seemed to come naturally to him. He was ten years younger than I, but already he had figured out how to move elegantly in virtually any crowd.

  Much has been made of the bond between the hobbits, of the camaraderie that extended from the set to the pubs of Wellington and back again. To some extent, that’s an accurate portrayal, for indeed we all got along well and indeed there were nights of debauchery and drunken revelry. For the most part, however, I was on the fringe of this scene. My circumstances were different. Billy, Dom, and Elijah (as well as Orlando Bloom, who played Legolas) are all young, single men, and to varying degrees they enjoyed the status and benefits of being movie stars in an exotic location. On the night of the first party, while others mingled comfortably, I fretted about whether I was stepping on toes by bringing my wife and daughter with me. I worried about things like that. Christine would always just roll with it. She seemed respectful of my concern, but also thought I was a fairly bad judge of propriety.

  As much as I wanted to be respectful of other people and the dynamic of the set, I knew I had to carve out a place for myself and my family. I didn’t think it was a big deal, since my father had often talked about Peter and Fran and how cool they were when it came to familial matters. He described their hotel room during the promotion swing for The Frighteners as being laden with baby paraphernalia; surely they would understand my trying to find the same balance with my family. As a young father I was a little out of my element. As someone who craves a sense of control, I found that the universe was playing a little trick on me. While everyone was getting comfortable with each other, I was eager to fit in. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be a good husband and father, while simultaneously thriving among this auspicious group of artists.

  To that end, I tried to make sure that my dressing room on the set was like another room at the house: anytime Christine and Ali wanted to be there, they were welcome. I wanted that and needed that, and I wanted the production to understand. I could work eighteen, nineteen hours a day, but I also knew that I’d be better on the set, better at my job, if my family was there when I got back to my dressing room. Everyone had their own thing. Viggo Mortensen had his artwork, his photography. The “boys”—Elijah, Billy, Dom, Orlando—had their video games and their music and their movies. Such things were considered sacred, for they provided a much needed respite from the endless slogging that the production became. I didn’t smoke cigarettes or play as many video games. My diversion was my family—having my wife and daughter there if they wanted to be there.

  When we first landed in New Zealand, we felt a little like a military family in a new community, but eventually we got into a pretty comfortable rhythm. Ali went to school with Peter and Fran’s children, and everyone found their own routine. Christine took a philosophy class and nurtured a coterie of friendships. She was even allowed to apprentice in the editing room. This was an interesting dynamic. During the filming, the actors weren’t generally privy to things relating to postproduction. We all knew that the films were being assembled concurrently, but I think it’s fair to say that we didn’t have too much access to that realm. Peter or Fran would show us clips if we really wanted to see something, or send us moments to help reconnect us to our character if it felt like we were drifting over time. Also, the cast and crew were treated to edited sequences after the return from a holiday or a given two-week break in order to reenergize and refocus everyone on what we were doing. These screenings were an adrenaline shot to the soul during production and helped keep everyone sane. But beyond that, I don’t think many of us in front of the camera spent too much time seeing the stuff we were shooting. I was respectful of the boundaries when Christine started volunteering in the editing room, but I couldn’t help feeling a little sneaky every time I would pick her up at the editing facility. I could see the elves working to put the movie together in their workshop, and it was exciting.

  That first dinner party went well, but at a certain point Alexandra became tired and started nodding off, so we arranged a chair for her to sleep in. Meanwhile, the boys broke off and were having an intense conversation, the subject of which was, Which pub should we hit first? I was torn. I wanted to go out with the guys, but I also wanted to make sure that my wife and daughter were taken care of. Tim Sanders sensed my inner conflict and approached to offer his sympathy. Sort of.

  “Oh, it’s gonna be hard for you, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled. “You’re the married one.”

  My first thought was, Screw you, dude! But you know what? He was absolutely right. It was hard for me, because I wanted to be able to hang out with the guys and enjoy my time with them, and Christine wanted that for me. And yet my fundamental priority was (and is) my family. For the most part I went home to Christine and Ali, and I found strength in seeing them and holding them every night. There were times when Christine and I would get a babysitter and go out with the gang, and there were times when Christine would stay home and I’d join the guys on my own. But my stamina was nowhere near theirs in terms of drinking or carousing, which I considered a reminder that I was indeed older and at a different place in life than they were.

  We were fairly deep into the process of making the first movie before I finally had a night out with the boys, a chance to really bond with the other hobbits. We met in the lobby of the Plaza International in Wellington, in a lounge area where you could get appetizers before going into the restaurant for dinner, and we all sat around with our drinks, talking and laughing and having a good time. In some way, I think I had begun to internalize the Frodo-Sam relationship in the Elijah-Sean relationship. I wouldn’t exactly call it method acting, but I liked the idea of playing those roles—at least once in a while—away from the set. I’m older than Elijah, I’m the married father of (now) two children, and I’ve been in the movie business most of my life. It would be a gross simplification to suggest that I could be Elijah’s mentor, because he’s quite an experienced and worldly young man himself—and was even then, at only eighteen years of age. Ours is a wonderful and complicated relationship. By the time we met, Elijah had already worked opposite some of the biggest stars in the business. By a creative standard, his career was arguably much more successful than mine, and yet according to some people (Dom, for example), I was more well-known than he was. It’s not important, just a little something that provides a fuller understanding of our friendship and professional rapport.

  Anyway, we were all having fun that night. I was particularly happy to be experiencing a taste of grown-up, child-free time, and I liked hanging out with
my costars. I discovered that Elijah had inadvertently locked his keys in his apartment, and instantly I took it upon myself to say, “Don’t worry. Enjoy yourself; I’ve got it covered.” With the help of the hotel concierge, I found a locksmith who went over to Elijah’s apartment, got his key out, and delivered it to me. Elijah never had to lift a finger, never had to worry about anything. I did this because I wanted to be Sam, so Elijah could just keep being eighteen and in Wellington. I wanted to serve Elijah, just as Sam might have done for Frodo.

  But there were other times when I tried to look after Elijah in a much more serious manner, more like the big brother that I sometimes felt I was. Elijah could be courageous and even inattentive when it came to some of the more elaborate action sequences in the film. If a scene called for a stunt, the crew would wrap something around Elijah’s leg and use a cherry picker to haul him up into the sky, and Elijah didn’t mind at all. He’d do it in a heartbeat! He just didn’t care. He was so trusting. But I did care. I’d grown up on movie sets. I’d seen people get injured. The guy who was my teacher on The Goonies also had the misfortune of working on the set of The Twilight Zone many years earlier. That film, of course, is infamous for a stunt that went tragically awry, resulting in the deaths of three people, including two children. I believe that on a movie set you have to share the responsibility for your own safety, but Elijah was not concerned about that. He knows that I think he was too trusting of the production. I was perhaps more cautious than I needed to be, and sometimes I’d annoy people. But I didn’t want to be the guy on the set who wasn’t paying attention when Elijah’s leg was ripped out of its socket.

  On this particular social night out, however, I didn’t think it was important for Elijah to learn a lesson about being careless with his keys. I thought it was more important that he have a good time, courtesy of “Sam.” So while I ran around and rescued his keys, he continued drinking, smoking clove cigarettes, connecting with cast and crew, perhaps eyeing the ladies. Not that Elijah was a rake, mind you. He was much more elegant than that with the fairer sex. For an eighteen-year-old, I thought, he was remarkably graceful and sensitive and thoughtful.

  CHAPTER NINE

  All right, I admit it. I took a shortcut. Tried to, anyway.

  Before we moved into the rented house in New Zealand that would serve as our home for the better part of a year and a half, Christine and Ali and I stayed at the Plaza International Hotel, in a nice suite with a lovely view of Wellington harbor. One evening, just a few days into our trip, I filled the bathtub and settled in for a long night of reading.

  Listening, actually.

  While Alan Lee’s three-volume tome sat unopened on a nightstand nearby, I tried to absorb an audio version of The Lord of the Rings that had been recorded for the BBC. It featured, among others, Ian Holm, the esteemed British actor who, of course, played Bilbo Baggins in the film trilogy. I settled at first for listening to the story because I was afraid people would ask me questions that I’d be unable to answer, and this would allow me to complete it more quickly.

  Even after reading the scripts, I still didn’t have a firm grasp of the story. I understood my dialogue and what the story was supposed to represent, but I wasn’t emotionally invested in the nuts and bolts of the screenplay, partly because I felt guilty about not having read the books. Quite a conundrum, huh?

  Granted, the solution was obvious: sit down and read the damn books! As had often been the case when I was a child, though, I found the task intimidating. More than a thousand pages, hours of time, when I didn’t really have the time to spare. And I must admit that in those early days and weeks I found it difficult to toggle back and forth between what I wanted to do and what I had to do—between my responsibility as a professional actor, someone who wanted to be thoroughly prepared, and my desire to have fun with my family in an exotic locale. No one was telling me what to do. I don’t think I had to read the Tolkien tales in order to do my job (in fact I know that some people, most notably my partner in crime, Elijah, never read the books in their entirety), but there were expectations. Peter knew from the way I presented myself in our meetings that I would be totally committed to the project, which meant studying hard and being prepared. I had if not a professional obligation, at least a moral mandate to take up residence in Tolkien’s universe.

  Eventually, within the first few weeks of principal photography, I would complete the entire trilogy, as well as The Hobbit, which served as a neat introduction and made the task of reading The Lord of the Rings not only easier, but more worthwhile. This wasn’t exactly a unique experience, since several million people had come before me, but once I picked up The Hobbit, I found the books to be enthralling, enrapturing, like nothing else I’d ever experienced. I finally enjoyed them as a reader; as an actor assigned the task of interpreting one of the story’s key characters, I felt enlightened, emboldened.

  Before that moment of illumination, though, came the shortcut—and the doubt and anxiety and, yes, the abject fear. Not so much from the audio version, which was enjoyable and elegantly performed and permitted a degree of effortless absorption that mirrored those early “reading” sessions with my mother. No, the panic set in when I made the mistake of watching a videotape of Ralph Bakshi’s 1978 animated version of The Lord of the Rings. Seeing how Bakshi portrayed the hobbits—as predominantly fat, bumbling, stupid characters—I nearly had a heart attack.

  Please, God, don’t let Peter Jackson approach it this way.

  I should have had more faith, but it was too early in the process. I wasn’t sure what Peter had in mind, and I knew that Bakshi was far from a hack. He had his devotees, and I’m sure he knew the story and felt that his was an entirely appropriate interpretation. Moreover, the animated version had its moments. The ringwraiths, for example, were spectacularly depicted. I could appreciate what Bakshi was trying to do as a director and an animator and a storyteller, but I was concerned mainly with Sam and how he would be portrayed. Not having read much of the books, I couldn’t help but feel that I might have made a critical mistake in agreeing to play the part; I had no respect for the bumbling idiot that Samwise Gamgee appeared to be—at least in the eyes of Ralph Bakshi. At that point I didn’t understand the importance of the hobbits and what they meant to the story. I didn’t have a grasp on their sense of nobility. They just seemed like frightened nitwits: “Oh, Mr. Frodo, help me! I don’t know what to do!” Pleeeeeease! I wanted Sam to be heroic and strong, to have integrity. He was a gardener, a working-class man. That’s the Sam I wanted to portray. Admittedly, there are a lot of interpretations that can be gleaned when you read the books, so bringing it to the screen is not an easy thing. There are probably thirty valid ways to depict the hobbits. But I had my own idea of how I wanted Sam to be perceived, and it was set in concrete. What I had in mind wasn’t that … that thing, that animated oaf on the videotape.

  At times during the production I felt isolated and rigid in my beliefs about how the hobbits should be depicted. Even the other actors were more willing to embrace the silly or whimsical side of their characters. Dom, for example, enjoyed being a bit more hokey, playing up the notion of hobbits as little people, almost like leprechauns, or at the least, childlike. I resisted. By putting on oversized feet it would be easy for clumsiness to rule the day, but I wanted the character’s gait to be comfortable. I wanted it to be honest and real. I was pleased the first time I stepped into the complete hobbit ensemble, replete with backpack, and Sam’s walk emerged naturally.

  That I wasn’t alone in striving for authenticity was something I found immensely reassuring. In fact, that goal, while perhaps open to interpretation, was paramount in the minds of everyone on the production. The nature of our six-week “boot camp” prior to the start of principal photography was such that it left us all with a feeling of excitement and preparedness. We’d receive marching orders each evening, detailing how every moment of the following day would be filled. From seven in the morning until six at night our bodi
es were required to be in specific places, for specific tasks.

  Dialect training was particularly intense, at least for me. I’d meet in the Portacom with Andrew Jack and Roisin Carty, the dialect coaches, and we’d make small talk just to loosen up, and then I’d get a lesson about how sounds are made. You don’t think about it much in everyday conversation, but there are specific ways to use the tongue and the teeth in order to achieve certain sounds. They’d give me booklets to read, audiotapes to review, and my job was to practice speech patterns. There was a laundry list of things that needed to be done in order to get the dialect just right. The cockney accent I had employed during the audition was deemed inappropriate for Sam; they wanted me to do a “Hobbiton,” which they saw as a Gloucestershire-inspired accent.

  It was hard for me to get it right. I could do the thing that Elijah was doing as Frodo, a standard British accent: “No problem for me what-so-evah.” I’d done that a hundred times. But to push it into West Country … well, that was harder. It’s very hard to do “thaaaaat.” Andy and Ro kept trying to get me to elongate the sounds, and I struggled mightily to do so. It felt like emotional warfare, even though I was completely inspired by and respectful of their expertise. I didn’t really know who Sam was, so I wanted to give myself totally to them. At the same time, I wanted to feel good about what I was doing.

  “Come on, Sean, extend the word that,” the dialect coach would instruct. Say ‘Thaaaaat.”’

  “Thaaaaat.”

  “No … Stretch it out. Thaaaaaaaaat.”

  “Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.”

  “Again! Thaaaaaaaaaaat.”

  “Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.”

  “Good!”