There and Back Again

by Sean Astin

  David shuffled over to where I was standing and quietly tried to encourage me. He didn’t want to make a big fuss about it, but the truth is, there was a lot riding on this scene. He knew—and I knew—that if I didn’t nail that moment emotionally, it was a failure, in a big way, on a big stage. I was the title character in a major studio picture. I was expected to come through. Anything less than an honest, heartfelt rendering of the scene would be viewed as a failure on my part. But I was determined to keep trying. I would rather have failed big than to have faked the tears—a truly ignominious defeat.

  “You okay?” David asked calmly. I was at once impressed and amused by the utter lack of urgency in his voice. He had the attitude of a great coach or manager who’s dying on the inside, but knows he has to project confidence to his players. And you could tell he was thinking that way. He actually looked like he was playing the part of a coach trying to think of the right thing to say to his athlete.

  “I’m fine,” I responded, although I really wasn’t.

  David clapped his hands together. “Good, let’s try it again.”

  So we did a third take, but that one stunk as well.

  Now things were getting complicated. The Notre Dame officials and trustees who had been invited to the set were starting to shift uncomfortably in their seats. The crew members were looking at their watches. Most important of all, the sun was falling in the sky, resulting in the real possibility that David’s gorgeous shot, so dependent on a sun-drenched Golden Dome, would lose some of its luster—or worse, it would have to be postponed to another day.

  Once again David stepped out from behind the monitor and walked over to where I was standing, but now his appearance and demeanor had changed. This time he seemed less like a confident major-league baseball manager than a harried office manager who has to get the completed project to his boss by five o’clock if he wants to save his ass—and his job.

  “Sean,” he said, with something like panic in his voice, “what’s the problem?”

  I didn’t know what to say, how to explain what I was feeling, when what I was feeling was essentially emptiness. I didn’t want to pull a star trip, didn’t want to thrash about and make excuses. I didn’t want to make a big fuss about my shortcomings as an actor to engender sympathy from the director. Instead I just looked at David and said, “I don’t know.”

  This was not what he wanted to hear. I’m sure he would have preferred that I communicate to him the root of my anxiety, but I had nothing to offer. So we stood there for a moment, the blocked actor and the panic-stricken director, with what seemed to be a giant clock ticking in the sky above us. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, David held up his hands, palms to the sky, and said out of pure exasperation, “What are you afraid of?”

  And that was it, the key that opened the lock. I started sobbing hysterically.

  Shocked, David put a hand on my back, presumably to console me. But noooooo. Instead he leaned in and whispered into my ear, “Wait! Please … wait!” It was a crane shot, see, and they had to set it up, and it just wouldn’t have made sense for me to be crying before I even opened the letter.

  “Keep it together, Sean,” David urged. “Just hang in there for a minute or two.”

  I choked back the tears and wiped my eyes as David rushed off to the monitor. The rest of the crew jumped to attention, and within a minute or two we were filming the scene. And it was beautiful. One take. Pitch-perfect. The scene ends with Rudy running off in celebration, the acceptance letter in his hand. When David yelled, “Cut!” I fell to the ground, completely exhausted. Fifteen minutes passed before my heart stopped racing and I could catch my breath, so cathartic was the experience. Intentionally or not, David had released something within me, and that fear of crying, of being emotionally naked in front of other people, was gone. Looking back on it, I think the emotion was the result of a confluence of events, like a perfect storm. I’d recently gotten married; we were in Indiana, near Christine’s family; my personal life was in place; the ideas of the story were good and right, in line with who I aspired to be. It was just morally right for me to be in that role, trying to embody persistence and determination, and all those things that Rudy is and that I wanted to be. There was no excuse for not doing it right on that particular day, so when David said, “What are you afraid of?” the question was the answer. Simply put, I was afraid. David had struck a nerve, or to risk another metaphor, he pulled my finger out of the dike, allowing the dam to burst.

  That was college. Graduate school (in so many ways) was The Lord of the Rings, in particular the scene on the side of Mount Doom.

  I can’t recall for certain, but I think new pages for that scene were handed to us the morning of the shoot. I knew we were getting close to filming the scene, and I understood that it would be one of the most important and emotional moments in the film, but I wasn’t quite sure how it would turn out, or even how it was to be depicted. When I looked at the pages that morning and glanced at the dialogue, it seemed at once familiar and fresh. Somehow, it seemed new to me. I read it several times while sitting in the makeup truck, having my feet and ears and hair applied for roughly the three-hundredth time, and I was filled with admiration for the work that the writers had done. Not just because of the way it looked on a cold page, or the way it sounded when I spoke the words, but also because I knew how hard they had worked to get it right. It was impossible, even when I was busy wallowing in self-pity, not to respect Fran and Philippa, for theirs was a never-ending quest. I’ve written screenplays; to me, even under the best of conditions, it’s torture. I can’t imagine what this must have been like for them, or how they survived the experience.

  This scene was a perfect example of their talent and commitment. It wasn’t just good; it was great. As I read my lines aloud to Elijah and my makeup artist, Vivienne “Bliss” Macgillicuddy, I reveled in the poetry. By the time we left the makeup truck, I knew my lines cold and couldn’t wait to get started. We took four-wheel-drive vehicles to a base station on Mount Ruapehu, and then hiked twenty minutes to the side of an active volcano that served as a stand-in for Mount Doom. Along the way, Elijah and I rehearsed our lines over and over, not merely because we wanted to be prepared, but because it was fun. This was exactly the type of work I had hoped to do.

  Before we shot the scene, I had a flashback to the first day of principal photography, when the production was blessed by Maori elders in a formal ceremony in Wellington. I had no idea what I was getting into then, but there was something in the earnestness of these men, the way they not only offered their encouragement and support, but also reminded us of our obligation, that struck a chord.

  “We hope that the land takes care of you,” they had said, “and that you are good stewards of the land. It was here long before you, and it’ll be here long after you leave.”

  I understood what that meant. We were on an island in the South Pacific, filming an epic trilogy that would become a part of cinematic history, an indelible stamp on popular culture. Nevertheless, as with all things human, we were but a footnote. Eventually we would all be gone and the movies would be forgotten, but the mountains would still be there. The desert and the jungle, too. In one form or another that thought stayed with me throughout my time in New Zealand. It helped put things in perspective on the bad days and gave me strength in times of anxiety or crisis. On a purely selfish level, it was comforting when flying by helicopter to the top of a rocky, fog-enshrouded peak to know that the production had been blessed by the Maori elders; somehow their approval made it seem less likely that the chopper would slam into the side of the mountain. We tried to be good stewards, and we—at least, those of us who weren’t New Zealanders—tried to be mindful that we were merely visitors.

  The thought of that blessing came rushing back to me now as we hiked up Mount Ruapehu, which only a century ago belched ash as far as Wellington. I was in awe of the setting, with its stunning physical beauty, and I was grateful for the opportunity to b
e there. I felt like I had earned this moment, but I also realized that I was part of something much bigger than myself, and a part of me regretted having indulged the low moments of selfishness and egocentrism (even if they are considered inalienable rights by most members of the acting fraternity). I like to be a good guy, the kind of person who says the right thing and knows the right way to be and doesn’t command attention when it’s not necessary. I just seem to find lots of situations where I can be polite and still be the center of attention, which helps feed my ego without making me a jerk; I’ve generally figured out a way to not be unseemly in order to thrive. In New Zealand, however, I’d gotten myself into a situation where what was appropriate was to be patient and quiet. That was hard for me. I was accustomed to getting reams of positive reinforcement for my work, which simply did not and could not happen on The Lord of the Rings. Peter Jackson was at the controls of a magnificent, sprawling moviemaking machine, with thousands of workers, each performing at the height of his or her abilities. I wanted a pat on the back, reassurance that my contribution was real and valued, and I wanted it more often than it came. But you know what? The lucidity of hindsight is startling, for I know now that I was treated exactly as I should have been treated. Any more feedback than I received would have been fake, and I’d be horrified now to think I was the one actor on the production who required or received such coddling. Samwise Gamgee neither needed nor deserved that. He wasn’t the kind of character who was going to be the focus of the movie. He would have his moments, just like so many other characters—more of them than most, in fact—and a few that were undeniably powerful. Peter knew that and wasn’t going to go out of his way to make me feel better. Dealing with that realization, day in and day out, was a challenge; knowing I wasn’t the reason people would be flocking to the movie was hard. I had to be a utility player who could score when called upon, but wouldn’t be called upon too often.

  Now, however, I was getting a chance to score, and after waiting for such a long time, well, it was meaningful. It was important. Having kept a lid on my emotions—both personally and professionally—for so many months, I was eager to do some real acting, and when the opportunity finally presented itself, I was relieved to discover that I had a command of the material. There was no reason for it not to be that way, of course. I’d spent months working with dialect coaches. I’d read the books and understood the story. I’d done other crying scenes, so I understood the culture of the set: I knew there would be respect for the actors and the process. I knew Peter would be patient and encouraging. There was nothing precious about it. I simply understood on every level what needed to happen at that moment.

  There was something else I knew: the crying scene, the tender scene, would be immediately followed by the heroic scene, the scene in which Sam hoists a weakened Frodo onto his back and carries him up the side of the mountain (“I can’t carry the ring for you, but I can carry you!”). That was my moment to become the Sam I envisioned, the Sam who was strong and noble and not a bumbling buffoon. You can drive yourself crazy if you spend too much time thinking about the implications of a scene like that, but I knew subconsciously that four years hence, when The Return of the King was released, that scene would be everywhere. If any scene would get the audience to feel uplifted and satisfied, that was it.

  The filming was almost uneventful, which is strange because it was an inherently dangerous sequence. We didn’t use stunt doubles. I wore a harness in the event that I slipped and tumbled off a precipice, but Elijah employed no such safety measures. He simply and bravely, maybe even foolishly, climbed onto my back and allowed his body to go limp. As I trudged up the side of the mountain, with my prosthetic feet slipping and sliding through the gravel, I remember thinking, Holy shit! I’ve got the whole $270 million franchise on my shoulders right now. Maybe the crew had some sense that if I fell, they’d be able to catch Elijah, but in my estimation, he was in real danger.

  Through the fog of memory, however, that scene has faded, while the emotional moment that preceded it has gained even greater clarity. It was a nearly perfect acting experience. I felt like I had complete control over my instrument, that I could cry and quiver and emote, and tears would stream down, and it was real and authentic. When Peter came out from behind the monitors, both Elijah and I realized we had nailed the scene. Peter is so conservative and stoic; I mean, he carries himself lightly. He bounces around the set and gets down on one knee to feel closer to the action, but he’s not a guy who is overly dramatic. This is generally an admirable trait in a director. Peter won’t panic if he’s losing light, or not getting exactly what he wants from an actor, or otherwise suffering the frustrations of a typical movie production. He uses his language and his actual authority to ask people to do their jobs and to do them well. Simple as that.

  There is no hysteria in Peter Jackson, although there probably should be once in a while, if only to strike fear into the hearts of his cast. If you think you’re going to piss off the director, and he’s going to scream at you and humiliate you in front of everyone, you want to get it right. Intimidation can trigger a performance. Take Oliver Stone, for example. I’m sure crying in front of him is easy, because if you come up empty, he’ll make you suffer. Peter will just be disappointed, and then he’ll come up with something to take the place of what you didn’t deliver. In this case, though, we had delivered. That much was apparent from Peter’s reaction. It wasn’t so much what he said that was meaningful. (He offered a simple instruction: “Sean, could you move your hand this way a little bit?”) It was the fact that his glasses were all fogged up and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  Yes! We did it!

  Knowing that we’d reached Peter was galvanizing. I felt like a fighter who sees blood in an opponent: Time to go in for the kill! And that’s what we did. Elijah and I kept going at it, take after take, and each time it got better. I loved reading the speech and kept doing it over and over, with escalating emotion. It was amazing: I felt like I was crying from the bottom of my soul. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced on a movie set. It’s a rare thing where your expectations are met or exceeded and everything works out exactly as you hoped, and this was such a time. We had peaked at exactly the right moment.

  When Peter yelled, “Cut!” I felt a rush of adrenaline. I picked Elijah up and practically lifted him over my head. We hugged and exchanged high fives and pumped our fists. And we weren’t alone in exulting. The boom operator came over and told us how moving the scene had been. The camera operator said he was having a hard time looking through the eyepiece because he was crying so hard. Admittedly, movie sets are prone to groupthink, wherein the director or the cinematographer or someone else pays you a compliment, and suddenly everyone jumps on the bandwagon and it’s all kind of bullshit. In your heart, you know you’ve done nothing special. But this was different. This was real. We all recognized the importance of the scene, of getting it just right. This was the climax of the story; done properly, it would serve as a tribute to Tolkien and the fans of Tolkien, and it would honor the studio that had gambled $270 million. Everything pointed to this moment. Either we were going to succeed and thus validate the support of those who had believed in us, or we were going to fail.

  And if we failed, I would perceive it as my failure.

  So I think everyone on the set that day experienced the scene in much the same way that audiences would experience it later: as a genuinely cathartic moment.

  The next day Elijah and I got a fax from Fran and Philippa, saying, in effect, “You guys rock!” I have to say, I didn’t get a lot of faxes like that, which only served to make it more meaningful. And for the next three years, regardless of the ups and downs, the anxiety over being in the background at many of the premieres and media functions and awards show that accompanied the first two movies, because Sam wasn’t worth much attention, I had this to sustain me. Someday, I knew, audiences would see it. They’d see Sam cradling Frodo, expressing the purest form of love
and strength, and they’d hear him talking about springtime in the shire … and they would weep.

  Someday …

  * * *

  That the scenes between Frodo and Sam provoke such a visceral emotional response in audiences speaks volumes about the purity of Tolkien’s writing, and the characters he created. There is, after all, an abundance of tenderness and closeness between male characters in The Lord of the Rings, more than one might reasonably expect to find in a blockbuster Hollywood epic, a fact that moviegoers have generally accepted without reservation. And yet there exists an ongoing debate, in both critical and casual conversation, over whether there is an undercurrent of homosexuality in both Tolkien’s books and Peter Jackson’s movies.

  Simply and succinctly put: Are Frodo and Sam gay?

  I think it’s a legitimate question. A lot has been written about homoeroticism throughout the three-year cycle of the movies, and many people on the Internet have had a field day fantasizing about the hobbits or writing humor pieces. I’ve even been interviewed on this subject by both The Advocate and Out, two of the most visible and successful publications that cater to a gay audience. So I do think it’s a subject worth discussing; in fact, it would be a bit spineless not to.

  There was an inordinate amount of male bonding during the film-ing of The Lord of the Rings. When you put a bunch of men together in a relatively confined space, with little female influence to mitigate their bad behavior, things can and do get ugly. Raunch was often the order of the day, and as in any all-male environment (locker rooms, army barracks, prison cell blocks), there was a lot of juvenile behavior: ass grabbing, horrifyingly graphic insults regarding anatomy and sexual proclivities, and various permutations of gay jokes that have been around since the dawn of time. Or at least the dawn of Monty Python.

  I’m not talking about making jokes about homosexuals who weren’t in our presence, but rather making jokes that centered on the possibility that any one of us might be gay. I think that happens a lot with guys in such circumstances. When you change clothes together, eat meals together, travel together, and get your makeup and hair done together (okay, maybe that’s a bad example), you can’t help but grow close, and humor, perhaps defensive humor, arises out of that scenario. But when it comes to the actual sexuality of the characters, I don’t think there’s anything there. I don’t believe Sam and Frodo are homosexual. I really don’t. That said, I think it’s true that if two males live together for a long time, travel together, and share almost every aspect of their lives, it’s inevitable that they develop a rapport, and I can see why gay men might identify with their relationship. I’ve tried to be very careful in interviews not to disavow anyone else’s take on it. I’m not bothered in the least that some people—maybe even a lot of people—enjoy the notion of Frodo or Sam as gay.