There and Back Again (46 page)

Although advertisements were taken out promoting several members of the cast—including Ian McKellen, Viggo Mortensen, Elijah Wood, and me—it soon became apparent that the studio would throw its considerable muscle behind the character of Sam and the story of Sean Astin. Why? Well, probably because Ian, the most logical candidate given his impeccable credentials, had been previously nominated (for
The Fellowship of the Ring
). And also because critics were uniformly generous in their response to my portrayal of Sam. Whatever the reason, I became Oscar boy for New Line.

The way New Line managed the campaign was impressive and relentless, calling feature writers and critics and saying things like, “Have you
really
looked at the performance, because we think it's pretty special.” The respected critics from major publications set the tone. If they like the movie and make particular note of your performance, there's a spark of interest. A thumbs-up from Roger Ebert is worth countless millions of dollars. It sells tickets to the movie and provokes interest in the performers from other media outlets. So it's a very conscious, determined campaign that the studio attempts to cultivate. I knew all of this before
The Return of the King,
before I'd even signed onto
The Lord of the Rings
, but it's still a weird thing when it happens to you.

I know that Peter tried valiantly to be evenhanded, to balance all the different performances and not let anybody “steal” anything—the one obvious exception being Andy Serkis. People can't seem to get enough of Gollum/Smeagol (and who can blame them?), so there are moments in each film where Andy nearly does steal the movie. He's that good. Ultimately, though, the thing with which audiences identified most strongly was
the story
. For Peter it always came back to the spine of the narrative: Frodo's quest to destroy the ring and all it represents. The emotion of that quest, the purity of purpose, is at the heart of
The Lord of the Rings
, and Peter never lost sight of that fact. I'm sure he knew that audiences would be awed by the antics of Gollum and thrilled by the swashbuckling heroics of Aragorn and Legolas. In the end, though, they wanted to be with Sam as he reached out and grasped Frodo's bloody hand and pulled him back from the Crack of Doom. They wanted to cry, and they wanted to exult.

Although I wasn't surprised that fans reacted in this manner (I do remain humbled by the
intensity
of their reaction), I was surprised to learn that members of the media, including hardened, cynical critics, seemed similarly captivated. Because of that, there were times when I dropped my guard and became too playful with the media, too comfortable with the setting and my new role as ambassador for
The Lord of the Rings.

I like to talk, and sometimes words pass my lips without first being edited by my brain, which can lead to trouble and hurt feelings. And you never know when it will happen. Regis Philbin, a self-professed Notre Dame nut and a big fan of
Rudy,
introduced me as “Sean Austin.” Kind of funny, I thought, and endearing in that bumbling sort of way that has become a Regis trademark. I was comfortable on that show, so comfortable that when Regis started asking me questions about the actors' ongoing negotiations with New Line regarding bonus payments, I talked a little too freely. I've skimmed that issue in this book for only one reason: I promised my fellow actors that I would not talk about it in detail, and yet there I was, making jokes about buying a new house with my bonus money. I was stupid and insensitive, and I felt terrible about it afterward.

Then there was the brief but unfortunate interview with
People
, in which the reporter engaged me in a game of free association. It was supposed to be one of those benign little pieces, less than a hundred words in length, that showcase the celebrity's ability to be glib and irreverent. Not exactly heavy lifting. I enjoy this sort of sparring, and I'm usually pretty good at it. Take a look:

People:
“The Atkins diet.”

Astin:
“The body needs carbs.”

 

People:
“Groupies.”

Astin:
“Okay, but be cool.”

 

People:
“Wacky celebrity baby names.”

Astin:
“My daughters' names are Alexandra and Elizabeth. I wasn't confident enough to go for Banjo or Pizza.”

So far, so good. Right? Everything was basically fine, right up until—

People:
“Prenuptial agreements.”

Astin:
“Am I still eligible?”

What? Excuse me? Are you out of your mind?

Christine thought so, and I can't say I blame her. Here's my lame excuse: when the reporter asked the question, I thought,
I'm the old married guy. Why would you ask me that question?
But that's not the way it was received. Not by casual, barely interested readers, and certainly not by the people who mean the most to me, Christine being at the head of that list. She was deeply and understandably wounded by my response, so I did what any husband in the doghouse would do: I apologized in front of a national television audience.

The forum for this mea culpa, appropriately enough, was the ultimate morning coffee-klatsch,
The View.
The setup for my apology was perfect. We talked about finding joy in life, and in the simple pleasures of love and family and children. For me, personally, it was an illuminating experience, because I know that
The View
is an accurate reflection of the way my wife, my mother-in-law, and a lot of other women think and talk and communicate. I needed to hear it, and I understood it. So I espoused my love for Christine and acknowledged having been an idiot in
People
. I took the sword and fell right on it, and the hosts were instantly forgiving, as was the studio audience. And Christine was happy, which was the most important thing.

But I wasn't through wreaking havoc. Oh, no. Not by a long shot. In an ostensibly sweet-natured
Time
magazine story about previously little-known actors in breakthrough roles, I managed to take a big chunk out of the hand that fed me.

Sam's fiercest moment comes when he leans over his friend, ailing and bearing the deadly Ring, and declares, “Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you. But I can carry you.” The scene has evoked tears from strong men and yanked Astin into the awards limelight. Yet as much as he reveres Jackson, Astin believes the wrong take is in the film. “I know the way I delivered the line was so much more powerful than what the audience sees. That was one of the great acting achievements of my life, and I feel only 20% is on the screen.”

I regretted that comment almost as soon as it came out of my mouth. A few days after the story appeared, as I was getting ready to board a plane for Hawaii, I got an e-mail from Fran Walsh saying, in essence, “I think you should know how hurt Peter was by what you said in
Time
, and how unfair it was that you said that.”

Mortified that I had insulted Peter (and implied that he had failed in some way), I quickly composed a response to Fran. I told her the journalist got it wrong, that I was describing an esoteric dynamic about being able to hear the difference between the postproduction looping session and the emotion that was present on the day we filmed the actual scene. The bottom line, however, is that Fran was right. I'd appeared ungrateful in a national magazine, and I'd said something that had caused Peter (and her) pain. I should have discussed it with them first or, better yet, kept my mouth shut. It's one thing to express your joy and frustration in a book, where you have control over the way it turns out; it's quite another to speak carelessly to a reporter for
Time
. My fault. I should have known better. And, oh my God, I was heartsick about it.

Eventually, before I boarded the plane, I got in touch with Peter and Fran's assistant and said, “Please, please tell Fran and Peter how sorry I am. This is one of the greatest moments in cinema history, and it looks like I just took a giant crap on it. That's not what I meant; that's not how I feel.” I also said something about how my senses had been dimmed and dulled, and my wit numbed during the two months of publicity. “I'm sorry,” I said again. And once more for good measure: “I'm sorry.”

*   *   *

I hit the wall during the Christmas holiday. For nearly two months I'd been promoting the movie nonstop, with all the energy I could muster, all the enthusiasm it deserved. When we were given a few weeks to recharge the batteries, I crashed. I just sat around all day, sleeping and watching television and playing video games. I'd say I was depressed, except that's not a word I liked to throw around casually, not with my family history. Christine was worried about me, as was my mom, but really I was just exhausted. I could barely summon the strength for Christmas dinner at my father's house. I went, but it was an odd experience: everyone was so complimentary of my success, which was very nice, of course, but being the center of attention in my own family was something I had never experienced before. All I wanted to do was talk to them about their kids and their jobs and their lives, and all they wanted to do was talk about
The Lord of the Rings.
That's the way it was for a while: with every human interaction there was a moment where we had to talk about the movie, because it was so ubiquitous. It got so bad that I didn't want to leave the house or even answer the phone. It was all I could do to not be so catatonic that Christine would think I was unsafe around my own children.

And yet, she was really supportive, as she's always been. She gave me space for a week or two, and then started to nudge me toward the door, eventually kicking me in the butt, encouraging me to join the ranks of the living again. After a while the haze lifted. I started reading the paper for a couple of hours each morning, getting back in touch with the real world, the one that exists outside Middle-earth. I started running. I played with Alexandra and cuddled with the baby, and as I held them I was reminded of what's important in life.

I hadn't been fair to the kids and I hadn't been fair to Christine, but I didn't know what to do. It wasn't as if we could go on a hike or a drive. Any experience we had in public—any museum, amusement park, theater, or shopping mall—was going to be informed with
The Lord of the Rings.
It was number one at the box office all over the world, and everyone was going to recognize Samwise Gamgee. Stardom was now covering me like a blanket, and I was thoroughly ambivalent about it.

I know exactly how that sounds: pathetic and shallow. Who the hell wants to hear a movie star complain about the very things that provide him with such a wonderful life? Not me. And so I won't belabor the point. I recognize it as a character flaw, and so I don't surrender to it without a fight. For a brief time, though, it was a battle I nearly lost. For one thing, I realized that during November, when I had been traveling on my own, promoting the movie, Christine and I had grown apart. And in December, when my family joined me at the premieres in New Zealand and Europe, and then at home, I'd been a self-involved jerk. Christine and the kids had a great time sightseeing in Berlin, London, and Paris, and I was happy they had fun, but as she pointed out, “None of our great time was because of you—you were miserable.” And she was right. At moments when I was receiving adulation, I honored it by being up and happy and genuinely satisfied with it. At home, however, I withdrew.

Maybe it was just too much. You know what they say:
Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it
. The attention was overwhelming, and my response to it was not what I had anticipated. When I think of a movie star—a
real
movie star—I think of Joan Crawford shouting, “I need to be with my
public!
” as if there was something in her that craved the spotlight, that needed it. To me it was different; it was almost like the process forced me to be a star, and I was out there every day, answering questions, shaking hands, signing autographs, and smiling for the cameras, and all of a sudden I thought,
Oh, God! I'm Joan fucking Crawford!

A result of my brief taste of stardom has been a greater appreciation for the skill and style of those who live in the goldfish bowl—the people who run for the highest levels of public office, for example, who have to be smart and focused and tireless and gracious twenty-four hours a day.

There was one night in early January 2004, when Christine and I stayed up all night talking. I had put a bunch of logs in the fireplace and forgotten about it, and Christine smelled the smoke and came down to make sure everything was okay. And we just started talking. I suspect that every marriage must have a bunch of low moments, where something's got to give, or change. We had one of those moments, and we talked our way through it. Christine told me how horrible she was feeling because of my withdrawal and apparent unhappiness at a time when I should have been proud and happy and satisfied; I shared the same with her. We held hands and watched the sun rise, and then the kids woke up and the house filled with life, and we moved on.

*   *   *

By the time the nominations for the Academy Awards were announced, I simply wanted it to be over. I'd experienced an incredible spectrum of emotions: from wanting a nomination, to feeling guilty and shallow for wanting a nomination, to not caring about a nomination—and finally to just wanting to put the disappointment of not getting a nomination behind me. As for whether I had a legitimate shot at a nomination, I really didn't know what to think. My work had been noted and praised by many respected critics, and I'd been nominated by a handful of organizations. The “real” awards season, however, brought mostly disappointment and only served to cloud the issue.