by Sean Astin
I thought about the Taylors as I watched the rebellion among the crew, most of whom had been working an endless string of twenty-hour days. I saw drivers taking catnaps behind the wheel moments before trying to guide massive trucks along rugged mountain precipices, with death on either side of them, and I kept thinking to myself, Somebody is going to die here! My concern (some called it paranoia) became the butt of jokes, but I honestly believe that it was legitimate. As someone who would like to be a director, as a social activist—as someone who would like to be thought of as a leader—I was worried about the conditions people worked under, and what they did without question or complaint. So I was happy when the crew got together to take a vote on whether to shut down the movie. The producers knew what was happening, and they responded with a small increase in overtime compensation—not much, really—and I was expecting the crew to close down the movie for a while because what everyone really needed was about three days of sleep. But that’s not what happened. To my amazement, they voted to keep working at the same pace for nothing more than a nominal bump in their pay. Perhaps they realized that once the movie was over, that was it; the giant teat that everyone had been suckling would go dry, and they’d go back to their ordinary lives. This was their chance to be part of something special, and nothing was going to get in the way.
But then that’s typical of the Kiwi mentality. I was in New Zealand during the American election debacle of 2000. I remember having my prosthetic feet applied as I filled out my absentee ballot in the makeup bus, and then calling my father on a cell phone and asking him to deliver my ballot to a polling place when it arrived. And I remember the New Zealanders having a ball at the expense of the stupid Americans who seemingly couldn’t figure out how to hold a free and fair election, despite spending an immense amount of time going all around the world, telling everyone else how they should embrace democracy and capitalism.
As a self-appointed ambassador for the United States, I was in a difficult position, trying to advocate for the process in my country while grappling with its obvious and oh-so-public shortcomings. One night in the aftermath of the election, I came home late, bleary-eyed after another eighteen-hour day on the set, and instead of going to bed, I got on the Internet, downloaded the sixty-four-page Supreme Court ruling that ultimately led to George W. Bush becoming president, and read the entire document before going to bed. I thought it was important to have an opinion when I showed up on the set, so that when the grips and the gaffers and whoever else started asking me questions and giving me shit, I’d have a response. I didn’t want to be dismissed as yet another uninformed American. It was really interesting: I was getting an American civics lesson while visiting a foreign country.
What I like most about New Zealanders is their universally high standards. While they undoubtedly suffer from a bit of “little brother syndrome” (with Australia the big brother), and thus took some snide satisfaction in seeing a superpower such as the United States wallow around in ineptitude, they’re equally demanding of their own icons. When politicians or athletes or other public figures fail in New Zealand, it’s a serious matter.
If I could make one generalization about New Zealanders, it would be this: they work much harder than most people in order to achieve something. In Hollywood, frankly, the working-class mentality is a little bit softer. It’s harder to get the unions, or some members of the unions, to work for less or to work harder. At least, that would be the producer’s perspective. Even for an actor, it’s frustrating to see that the mentality is to go a little bit slower, all the time, and to have a chip on the shoulder about the corporation that is employing you. I wouldn’t say American movie crews are lazy, but let’s put it this way: American crews are more experienced, and probably have more talent bred historically into them, but New Zealand crews work harder. And it won’t take Peter Jackson and his squadron of willing, able-bodied filmmakers long to compete with anyone on the planet. I just hope a global balance of opportunity can be struck, whereby filmmakers the world over are inspired, work hard, and share in the fruits of their labor.
They’re extraordinary people, Kiwis. They’re frontier people who’ve learned how to survive away from much of the Western world, and they’ve managed to create a First World country with all the bells and whistles of contemporary civilization, despite existing a vast distance away from most of it. It’s an amazing accomplishment. And while they are ruthless on their homegrown heroes when they fail, they take the appropriate pride in the accomplishment of their native children. Consider that the New Zealand five-dollar bill bears the image of Sir Edmund Hillary, the famous Kiwi mountaineer. On May 29, 1953, Hillary and his climbing partner, the Nepalese Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, became the first men to set foot on the peak of Mount Everest. Think about that. You know, only a handful of people can look up at the night sky and see the moon and say, “Been there, done that.” Guys like Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin. Same thing with Sir Edmund Hillary. He was the first to be able to look up at Everest, the unreachable summit, and say, “Been there, done that.”
Peter Jackson is now a huge favorite son of New Zealand, and I just love the fact that Hillary came to visit Peter on the set. Nobody made a big deal out of it, at least not far in advance. We just showed up one morning, and one of the assistant directors said, “Hey, Sir Edmund Hillary is coming to the set today.” He might as well have said, “Oh, by the way, God is going to come over and have a bite of lunch.” I mean, Hillary is one of the most remarkable men on the planet. He’ll have a seat in the hereafter at a table marked Greatest Accomplishments of All Time.
And he’s coming to the set? Today?
I remembered that Hillary had recently written a book, so I started asking around to see if anyone had a copy. Or, at least, a New Zealand five-dollar bill. I wanted something meaningful for him to autograph. That’s how excited I was. Regardless of how many famous people I meet, I’m always impressed with the accomplishments of others—from the mundane, though undeniably heroic accomplishments of, say, a single mother to the greatest accomplishments known to man, like walking on your own power to the top of the tallest mountain. I’m totally inspired by people like Hillary, and when I find myself around them, all my self-flagellation just goes out the window and I act like an excited little kid meeting one of his heroes. So I was giddy as a schoolboy when I found out that Hillary was coming. And when I told Peter that I was bummed out because I didn’t have Sir Edmund’s book, Peter got one of his assistants to go to the bookstore for me. I don’t know who paid for the book, but an hour later I was holding a copy of A View from the Summit by Sir Edmund Hillary (as well as a five-dollar bill).
That may seem like a small thing, but it really wasn’t. Peter Jackson gave me that book, and I felt like it was his way of saying, “Come down to my land for a while.” And I was humbled that I’d been invited. Whatever disappointment I might have felt from time to time, the truth is that Peter Jackson invited me down to New Zealand to play in his paddock, and extraordinary things happened in that paddock. You know, it’s like in the United States when jazz started, or in any great place on the planet that enjoys a renaissance. Peter is drawn to greatness, and he draws greatness to him. He’s comfortable communicating with great people, and once in a while he opened the door to that sacred chamber of greatness to me. This was one of those days, the day a hulking giant of a man named Sir Edmund Hillary came to the set.
I had lunch with him, and while it was fun, it was also kind of awkward because I just didn’t know what to say. Eventually, the title of his book popped into my head, and I used that as a way to start a conversation: “Well, how was it?”
“How was what?”
“The view.”
“Oh,” he smiled, “pretty good, actually.”
After lunch he autographed my book and my five-dollar bill. Then he stayed for a little while and watched us film one of the many “walking” shots in the trilogy, a scene of the hobbits trekking through the forest. That was cool. W
hen you’re going in front of the camera after doing eight trillion walking shots, there is a tendency to take it for granted. Not always, of course. When you’ve been helicoptered to the top of a mountain, you feel like, Oh, this is beautiful! This shot is being preserved for all time, and it’s showing New Zealand in all its splendor. But when you do a walking shot that’s closer to the city and to civilization, and you know there will be twenty takes, it takes a bit more work to get excited.
But not on this day. Not with Sir Edmund Hillary sitting behind a monitor. I wanted the scene and my work in it to be worthy. Somehow, with Hillary looking on, that simple walking shot became more important than all the other walking shots.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Few men are more impressive upon introduction than Christopher Lee. Tall and elegant, with a sturdy baritone and the history of cinema fairly etched into the creases of his face, he is a formidable presence on a movie set.
This was especially true on The Lord of the Rings, not simply because Christopher came to the project with more than two hundred films on his résumé, but also because he was regarded among cast and crew as perhaps the most learned student of Tolkien. Just about everyone involved in the production had read the books, or at least claimed to have read them; some had read them multiple times. Christopher, however, was in a league of his own, having read the entire trilogy each year for more than twenty-five years. It was, for him, a tradition, a way to connect with great literature and great storytelling. I know he had always dreamed of participating in a project such as this, of having a chance to portray one of Tolkien’s characters. That he was now too old for the role he had once relished—Gandalf—seemed only a minor disappointment. Saruman, the evil handmaiden of Sauron, suited him just fine.
Though separated by nearly five decades, Christopher and I developed an extraordinary rapport; he allowed me to enjoy a friendship with him that became almost as close as my friendship with Elijah. It happened pretty early on, in part because of my admiration not only for Christopher’s acting, but his familiarity with Tolkien’s writing. He knew the books cold, and in fact had a far deeper understanding than I did of Sam and his importance to the story. Not only that, but he made it clear that he appreciated and agreed with the choices Peter and I had made in my portrayal: namely, that Sam is a heroic character. Christopher understood this more than the other actors, or at least more than Ian McKellen or Ian Holm (who played Bilbo Baggins) did. These gentlemen—Christopher and the two Ians—were legends. You couldn’t help but look to them and wonder if they grasped what you were doing, because if they did, that was validation.
Christopher and I would occasionally sit together in the dressing room, smoking cigars and talking about acting, art, politics—almost anything. Because of being raised by two actors, I’ve long felt a particular kinship with mature actors. I’m part of an acting tradition, and so I look at other actors and think, We’re fellow travelers along a common road. I look to the generations that have come before me with a kind of respect that I think they’ve earned, and I feel like I’m ready to assume the mantle of that tradition with younger performers. I say this despite the gnawing feeling in my gut that, all else being equal, I’d rather be behind the camera directing than in front of it. It’s weird, but that said, acting does give me a sense of belonging, and it’s because of my parents, of course. I wasn’t necessarily comfortable staying in the living room at their parties, conversing with the adult actors, but knowing they were there was comforting; it made me feel like I had a place in the world.
Christopher Lee tapped right into that. His reputation preceded him on the set. I’d never met Christopher, but I knew that Peter Jackson absolutely revered him for his work as Dracula, Rasputin, Fu Manchu, and other dastardly villains in the classic Hammer horror films of the 1960s. I had seen some images of him and had heard about him, so I had an idea of what he would be like. And he was pretty much as advertised, a rangy, almost regal man in his late seventies, with long thin fingers and a slow, steady, purposeful gait. This is a man who moves with stature, who moves, come to think of it, not unlike Treebeard. When Christopher Lee enters a room and turns around, it’s a choice. He’s a very dramatic, almost theatrical man.
We met for the first time in the wardrobe area. I introduced myself after watching him for a few moments, sizing him up and waiting for the appropriate time. And I remember thinking while shaking his hand, Here’s somebody who wants you to know that he’s capable of determining that you’re not worthy of extended interaction. He had a commanding presence, which I found simultaneously appealing and intimidating. I knew he had read The Lord of the Rings trilogy every year, and that was the context of our first conversation. The subtext was, I know you’re a substantial performer deserving of respect.
Once I’d earned his trust and our friendship had begun to blossom, Christopher would occasionally indulge in a bit of griping in my presence. Actually, that may not be the best word. He wasn’t griping so much as fretting. A healthy amount of commiserating went on among the actors, as happens on almost any production, although perhaps more so on The Lord of the Rings because of the sheer scope of the project and the demands it placed on cast and crew. For Christopher, a primary concern was the number of takes Peter routinely required to film a scene. Christopher was a “working” actor in the purest sense of the word. He’d made a career out of stacking one role on top of another, and always delivering exactly what was asked of him. The bulk of his filmography consisted of genre fare produced on tight budgets and squeezed through the smallest of windows. He was accustomed to filming scenes in a single, flawless take (and if it was flawed, so be it). On a couple of occasions he’d been asked to do three or four takes, but I got the impression that probably happened in the late 1940s on a lucky day when the cinematographer had an extra roll of film. Now, though, a different set of demands was being heaped upon Christopher, and he didn’t like it. On the one hand, he was angry at Peter; on the other hand, he was experiencing self-doubt.
“Why, I’ve never had a director ask me to do it this many times in my life!” he exclaimed one day, after filming a scene that required some fifteen attempts. “This is ridiculous! I’ve done fewer takes in an entire movie!”
He was almost posturing, trying to project a sense of righteous indignation, but I could tell he was also looking for reassurance that everything would be all right, and that there was nothing inherently wrong with his performance.
“That’s Peter’s style,” I said. “It’s not about you. It’s just the way he works.”
While I was trying to comfort Christopher, I also meant exactly what I said. Peter had so much on his mind, and he was juggling so many different things at once—the story, the technology, the finances. Whatever frustrations I may have experienced, they are mitigated by the realization, crystallized in hindsight, that simply by completing this project, Peter accomplished one of the great miracles in the history of cinema. That his creation is artful and entertaining and accessible is a wonder almost beyond comprehension. (Think about it: in The Return of the King there is a swashbuckling scene in which Orlando Bloom’s Legolas surfs gallantly down the trunk of an oliphant, a smile on his face, bow at the ready, as Howard Shore’s musical score reaches a crescendo. How many movies could get away with a scene like that and still be deemed serious enough to merit eleven Academy Award nominations?) Although I know he tried, Peter hadn’t the time to dwell on the myriad insecurities of actors. I think Christopher sometimes felt that the production was not making enough accommodations for the fact that he was elderly, resulting in a game of tug-of-war. Peter expected Christopher to be able to do more than he wanted to do, but not more than he actually could do. Maybe it came down to this: Peter didn’t want Christopher to pull a star trip on him. I know firsthand from my mother that actors can and do use their infirmities to get attention. (Sorry, Mom. Please don’t kill me!) Perhaps Christopher hadn’t had the benefit of watching Meet the Feebles; he was used to being the gra
nd pooh-bah on pictures. He enjoyed that status, he had fun with it, and you know what? To a certain extent, he had earned it. On The Lord of the Rings, however, the story was the star; there wasn’t time or space for coddling.
* * *
Another aspect of the process troubled Christopher (and almost everyone else at one time or another), and that was the constant changing and rewriting of lines. It wasn’t at all unusual to be presented with a ream of new dialogue just minutes before a take, with the understanding that instant memorization and clarity of purpose weren’t possible, and so it was okay to work through the bad stuff for a while, over the course of maybe a dozen or more takes, on the path to capturing something worthwhile on film. Most of the actors, especially those of us who’d been on location for a while, understood that. But each time a new actor arrived, he or she was subjected to baptism by fire. Many of the more familiar names in the films, such as Liv Tyler, Ian McKellen, Ian Holm, and Cate Blanchett, spent much smaller blocks of time in New Zealand than did the Fellowship. Some handled the demands better than others. Christopher’s work in The Lord of the Rings is stellar, but it was not achieved without some pain. This was a production that required nimbleness, elasticity. Most of us accepted that we’d look dreadful while churning through the disposable takes, but Christopher didn’t like looking bad. He wasn’t used to it. And I felt for him during those moments.
I also felt for Peter, who loved Christopher’s work and wanted him—needed him—to shine in the role of Saruman, and who also wanted to be respectful of Christopher’s age and experience and stature. And yet, Peter had to contend with the much more practical, pressing matter of filming a $270 million trilogy. He had been weaned on the Hammer films and had been mesmerized by the repeatedly and consistently creepy work of Christopher Lee; but now he was dealing with a sometimes cantankerous old bastard who didn’t want to do more than three takes, but Peter wasn’t going to leave until they got it right.
