by Sean Astin
It just felt truncated to me. It felt like something less than what it had been.
And yet …
The Return of the King was a three-hour-and-fifteen-minute movie, and a very good one at that. I’m sure every director would like to present to the public a five-hour version of his movie, a version that is true to his artistic vision. But that’s just not possible. And it wasn’t possible in the case of The Return of the King. I know that now, and I knew it then. Nevertheless, each time I noticed a scene had been the slightest bit altered from my expectations, it felt wrong to me, and I began to wonder if others noticed, if they were enjoying the film or suffering from the same doubts that I experienced.
Simply put, I lost touch.
Christine was also sitting near me at the screening in New Zealand, and she was obviously and visibly moved by it. Unfortunately, I ruined it for her. We went right from the screening over to a little gathering at Philippa’s house (which is adjacent to Peter and Fran’s), and as soon as I got Christine alone, I dumped all my doubt and anxiety on her. I was so upset and uncomfortable that I couldn’t think of anything positive to say. The idea of doing publicity, which would begin with a round of interviews that very night, was daunting. What would I say? “You should have seen the other version—now that was a movie!” Somehow I don’t think that would have gone over well.
“They’ve ruined it!” I whined to Christine. “How am I going to get through this?”
To which she replied, in not so many words, “What is wrong with you?”
Christine thought I was an idiot; she thought I was completely out of my mind, that The Return of the King represented the best work I had ever done, and that only someone with an egregiously distorted view of reality would recognize it as anything else. Her response was not without merit. You can see how the film turned out. Certainly I wasn’t going to get any sympathy from the other actors, all of whom felt the sting of the editor’s shears more acutely than I had. I’d have to be blind not to recognize that Sam’s is one of the best roles in the third movie, that he is in some sense the hero of the film, and that I am allowed to shine as an actor as much as anyone in the ensemble. I was going to be disappointed about that!? How ungrateful could I be? But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
“Am I crazy?” I whispered to Elijah at one point, hoping that he might sympathize, since he, too, had seen an earlier version of the film. “I feel heartbroken.”
“Heartbroken? That’s a little strong, don’t you think? It’s a great movie.”
“Is it?”
“Uhhhh, yeah. It is.”
“Because I didn’t care as much this time. I didn’t feel.”
As was often the case, Elijah’s grasp on objectivity was superior to mine. Eventually, after some relentless prodding on my part, he agreed that the emotional impact of our scenes on the side of Mount Doom was slightly diminished. But only slightly, and not to a degree that bothered him. Elijah was able to see the movie for what it was: a brilliant piece of filmmaking and a technological marvel. I saw it as a slap in the face. How warped is that? In retrospect, I can identify that day as a rite of passage: I’d finally gotten too close to have any perspective whatsoever.
Now, Christopher Lee? There’s a man who had reason to be disappointed. Saruman, the embodiment of evil and arguably the most compelling character in The Two Towers, was nowhere to be found in The Return of the King. Scenes depicting Saruman’s downfall were filmed, of course, but in the end, Peter explained, they didn’t work in the third film, and so Saruman’s departure occurred off-screen, as mere backstory. And Christopher was left on the cutting-room floor. Such is the business of making movies. Tough, sometimes brutal decisions must be made.
Nevertheless, I felt truly bad for Christopher, with whom I’d developed an extraordinarily strong friendship on the set, a friendship cemented during one particularly long flight from Auckland to Los Angeles. Christopher is a talker like I’m a talker. Maybe even more so, if that’s possible. He’s got unbelievable stories to tell, and I enjoyed quizzing him on his past and his experiences, and listening to him and learning from him. I think he was happy to have me feeling that way. At one point he even showed me a script because he thought I was perfect for the lead. The project ultimately wound up in limbo, as so many do, but I appreciated Christopher’s effort. That’s the way it’s supposed to work: the older actor reaches out to the younger actor. He recognized that I could do the role, the leading-man part, which was flattering and appreciated.
When Christopher discovered that he had been cut from The Return of the King, he called me in South Africa, where I was filming another movie. Listening to him, I realized that I had no reason to be upset about what had happened to Sam. Christopher was crestfallen and offended and pissed off, largely because the decision had been made so late and he’d already gone out publicly in support of the movie. Now he had egg on his face.
Me? I was a supporting character thrust into a starring role. I was one of the heroes of the third film. I was the actor who, as Peter often noted, was making audiences cry. Sam would have been ashamed of my thoughts and feelings.
The seemingly endless series of premieres helped knock a little sense into me. Appropriately enough, the world premiere was held in New Zealand on December 1, 2003, a day that remains one of the most memorable of my life. It included a parade through the streets of Wellington in front of more than a hundred thousand screaming fans. Granted, roughly ninety thousand of them were girls pleading with Orlando to remove some article of clothing or to autograph a portion of their suddenly bared anatomy, but still it was a great experience. I sat next to John Rhys-Davies during the parade, and at one point we spotted Orlando’s mother in the crowd and invited her to jump in with us. She sat almost on John’s lap as we passed countless throngs of adoring female fans, some of them lifting their skirts or lowering their blouses in the hope of attracting Orlando’s attention.
“Now, now!” John would shout. “Please, ladies, this is Orlando’s mum here. Have a bit of respect!”
The parade automatically put me in the proper frame of mind. Thankfully, I am not so self-involved as to be oblivious to the people who matter: the fans who buy tickets and make it possible for me to earn a living as an actor. It would have been a total disavowal of their feelings not to match their enthusiasm. I watched the movie that night and actually enjoyed it; mainly, I enjoyed their reaction to it. When I felt their positive response to the story, and to the character of Sam in particular, I was genuinely moved, and slowly I began to see things from Peter’s perspective.
Hmmmm, maybe that’s why he cut the scene, because it connects the story in a certain way.
The doubt wasn’t erased all at once, mind you. It happened over the course of several weeks and repeated viewings, and endless hours sitting in the dark, listening to the snivels and sobs of both casual fans and hardened Tolkien critics. In the end, it was the fans who won me over, who embraced the movie and Sam and helped me realize how silly and self-centered I’d been. The changes that Peter had made left me concerned that fans would be disappointed, but they weren’t. Far, far from it. When I saw the premiere in Wellington, I began to understand that the fans of the movie, and the feelings of the fans, were bigger than the movie itself. That understanding deepened with each viewing. The third time I saw the movie, at the Los Angeles premiere, I gave myself over to the experience. This was at the Mann Village Theater in Westwood Village, not far from the Bruin Theater, where I had worked as a kid. It was a friendly, hometown kind of crowd—they were applauding for my character, crying with the character—and I just sat back and went along for the ride. For the first time since London, I was happy with what I saw on the screen.
None of the reviews had come in at that point, so I wasn’t sure what critics would think (aside from the obvious—that they would express overwhelming appreciation for the directorial skill of Peter Jackson). But when we started doing interviews, there was a rhythm of positive energy
, especially as it applied to the character of Sam and my work in the film. After a while, I almost became skeptical, like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to rip me apart: “The Return of the King is a brilliant example of modern cinema, a sweeping epic that seamlessly blends live action and computer-generated effects like no film in history … a film so powerful that not even the melodramatic Sean Astin, as a weepy Samwise Gamgee, can ruin the experience.”
Something like that.
But it didn’t happen. Audiences adored the film. Critics were kind. Within a few weeks after the movie’s release, it was clear that there would be no backlash, that a broad cross section of people had voiced their approval, and most of the meaningful votes were in. I don’t know if I had any conception of how the ensemble would be acknowledged. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be recognized for my work. But I did not want that recognition at the expense of any of the other actors, so I found myself getting really uncomfortable if someone, especially a journalist, said, “Hey, you’re the guy!” I liked it and sort of wanted it to continue, but in a slightly different way, because it almost felt as if I were stealing the thunder of other performers. Maybe I’d earned that moment by standing patiently in the shadows for the better part of four years, but it still made me a bit queasy.
Bernard Hill (who played Theodin) and I have had some moments where I could tell he was no less affectionate or caring—he’s been extraordinarily complimentary—but I could read the disappointment on his face when the attention turned my way. English actors, in my experience, are great at handling that sort of thing. Their reaction is, Yeah, that hurts. Now let’s move on. I honestly believe that Bernard did some of the best work in The Lord of the Rings, and so it feels lousy to have contributed to his disappointment in some way.
I’ve been on both sides of the equation, so I know how uncomfortable it can be for everyone involved when a member of an ensemble is suddenly singled out. It happened in front of the French press corps, when Liv Tyler became the center of attention, with everyone taking pictures of her, screaming, “Liv, Liv, Liv!” She was surrounded by a dozen actors who had invested infinitely more blood, sweat, and tears, but because Liv is a superstar, a beautiful young woman, and a huge, bankable commodity in the European and Asian markets, she naturally outshines most mere mortals. On a night intended to honor the film as a collaborative venture, even Peter Jackson was eclipsed by her. None of this was Liv’s fault. She’s a delightful woman who has earned her stardom and success. But the response was disproportionate with people’s excitement, simply because of their preconceived notions of fame and celebrity.
Imagine Orlando at … well, imagine Orlando almost anywhere. Chances are, eighty percent of the crowd is there to see him. Everyone has developed a sense of humor about that, and we all have pride in his success, but there’s also a part of you that sometimes says, What the hell am I doing here? A lot of people have had moments to shine throughout the process, but there have been a few people who have been allowed to shine more than others. With the release of The Return of the King, the spotlight fell on me, and while I won’t deny enjoying its warmth, I can also say that there were times when it made me uncomfortable. The moments I enjoyed most were the public appearances that ended with a giant curtain call, with each member of the acting ensemble taking a turn onstage and basking in the applause of the audience.
Nowhere was this type of response more gratifying and enlightening than at New York’s Lincoln Center, where more than a thousand people paid one hundred dollars apiece for the chance to take part in a tribute to The Lord of the Rings. All three films were screened in a single day, each one introduced by members of the ensemble. Every time we took the stage, we received a standing ovation. I was absolutely blown away by this response. Because I’d been reading scripts and going to meetings and doing interviews—and because I had flown in just a few hours before the event—I hadn’t slept for the better part of two days, so my senses were slightly dulled. But somewhere between the hotel and the big SUV in which we were shuttled around, I wiped the sand from my eyes and prepared for what I suspected would be a meaningful event. It was much more than that. The crowd didn’t want us to leave. And what a crowd it was! Teenage boys, infatuated girls, fifty-something hippies—an incredibly broad spectrum. One of the first things we did was ask for a show of hands.
“How many of you have already seen the third movie?”
To my astonishment, virtually every person in the room raised his or her hand. These people were so enamored of The Lord of the Rings that they were willing to pay a hundred bucks to see the entire trilogy—even though they’d already seen it! That’s how much it meant to them. That’s how much we meant to them.
An actor should never take that sort of loyal support for granted. On some level, of course, it’s ludicrous. At least with athletes and dancers and musicians, there is a moment of expertise, something that happens right before the eyes of the audience in real time that merits a response—a slam dunk, a home run, a perfectly executed concerto. But with us, well, we had done the work so long ago. So to be given an ovation for it—well, sometimes you just feel unworthy of the adulation. And yet it happened. Over and over. People rose out of their seats and roared their approval. It was profoundly moving for me as a performer.
And more than a little overwhelming …
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“No more being overshadowed by glam-boy elves and hunksome warriors … Sean Astin’s moment to shine is here.”
—USA Today
“Sean Astin comes into his own with this brave, questing performance.”
—Rolling Stone
“Sam is played so well by Sean Astin that this affectingly loyal hobbit seems the most human figure on screen.”
—The New York Times
Maybe they just ran out of other things to write about. Maybe, after four years and three movies—during which hundreds, if not thousands, of stories were devoted to the vision and talent of Peter Jackson, the rugged good looks of Viggo Mortensen, the shimmering beauty of Liv Tyler, the haunting, luminescent eyes of Elijah Wood, the split personality of Andy Serkis, the musical genius of Howard Shore, the artistic brilliance of Richard Taylor, and so on—maybe it was simply my turn.
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King had been unleashed upon the world, and it was met with at least as much critical and commercial enthusiasm as either of the first two films. This was a movie that would become one of the biggest box-office hits in the history of cinema, and it would go on to receive eleven Academy Awards. There was no getting away from it. The entire trilogy had become a pop culture phenomenon, and it was now reaching a climax. The question was this: had the media well run dry? The answer was an emphatic “no!”
But where to train the eye? The media likes a hook, something that will quickly and easily capture the public’s fancy. In the winter of 2003, to my own amazement, I became that hook.
There are two distinct threads to discuss here. One is the story of Sean Astin, a Hollywood brat (and I mean that in the military sense, not the derogatory sense) and journeyman actor who finally gets a chance at stardom. The other is the work of Sean Astin in The Return of the King. The two threads inevitably became entangled, because that is the nature of celebrity, and it’s easy, if you’re not careful, to lose yourself in the vortex of hype, to start believing your own press clippings and equating fame with success. I’ve been around long enough to know the difference between art and commerce, and to maintain a sense of amused detachment when the machinery of publicity begins working in my favor.
I knew what was happening. I understood the angle. People identify with someone who’s been around awhile, who’s plugged away at his job, generally without complaint, year after year, and then finally gets some supposedly long overdue attention and respect. Fine. I don’t disagree with the notion that mine was a nice story, and I didn’t mind sharing it. Similarly, I’m proud of the work I did in The Lord o
f the Rings, and I think it’s worthy of scrutiny. Somehow, though, it didn’t feel like I’d earned the praise quite as much as some other actors.
Like Eugene Levy, for example, who won the New York Film Critics Circle Award for his performance in A Mighty Wind. Here’s a guy who is old enough to be my father, and whose body of work includes everything from slapstick humor to brilliantly subtle improvisation. Regardless of the film, his work is always interesting. The same is true of Philip Seymour Hoffman, whose name you might know, but whose face you would surely recognize. Philip is a character actor in the truest sense of the word, and his commitment to honest empathetic portrayals of offbeat downtrodden characters—from the late rock critic Lester Bangs in Almost Famous to the lovesick friend of porn star Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights—is admirable. He is justifiably and understandably a critic’s darling. I’m not, and to suddenly be placed in that category was at once flattering and disorienting. I’ve been prolific. My filmography includes a lot of “okay” work punctuated by the occasional outstanding film, but it’s not comparable to the work of Philip Seymour Hoffman or Eugene Levy. I get the difference between my career and those kinds of careers. I’d like to think that everything up to this point has been a prologue for me, and maybe with a bit more luck I can have a career like that. But I don’t have it yet, and I know it.
