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 grand 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.

The writing process made this challenging. Christopher is from the old school. If he had a speech to deliver in a scene, he wanted to see the pages well in advance—at the very least, the night before filming—so that he could commit the words to memory. He wasn’t as quick to embrace the notion that on this production the smart survival strategy for an actor was to learn it, be willing to totally forget it, and know that if they write you a new scene ten minutes before you’re scheduled to perform it, somehow it will all work out. If you screwed up on the first ten or fifteen takes, that was all right. Peter would give you thirty. And by the thirtieth take, you’d have learned the lines. This was not just a one-way street, incidentally. To his immense credit, Peter understood the demands he placed on his cast, and he was willing to reciprocate. If you wanted another take, Peter was, within reason, willing to give you another one. To a large degree, he trusted the actor to be the ambassador of his character, and he expected him to communicate what was working and what was not working—above and beyond what he could sense.

Everything was fluid, especially the writing. There is no such thing as hyperbole or overstatement when talking about the constant nature of the rewrite process on The Lord of the Rings. Let me be clear about this, because Peter and Fran would doubtless be hurt, or feel their reputation was being impugned, if I were to suggest that there wasn’t a sense of professionalism about delivering pages on time. There were very real-world, budgetary consequences to having pages rewritten beyond a certain point, and Peter was always aware of such things. In fact, another area of expertise he demonstrated was knowing what needed to be written (and shown to the studio) in order for certain budgets to be drafted, for sets to be constructed, illustrations of the sets to be commissioned, and so on. But he also knew how to time everything so the writers could apply the best part of their creativity to the reworking of language at the right moments. Peter was deeply respectful of the screenwriters and the screenwriting process (and not simply because he is a credited writer on the screenplay and a coauthor of the original draft). He respected their autonomy, and was deferential to what they had done—unless, of course, push came to shove and he had to change something. Generally speaking, it’s fair to say that the standard response to suggestions made by the actors regarding dialogue was, “Oh, we can’t change that—the script girls will come in.” Peter jokingly referred to Fran and Philippa as the “script Nazis.” They were fiercely protective of their work. Understandable, really, since they bled for each and every word.

I recall feeling for them as we were prepared to shoot the Council of Elrond sequence, which was arguably the hardest scene in the book for Peter to film, because it involved so many main characters in one place at one time. With the exception of the closing scene of the final film, such crowded scenes were avoided. Like the characters in the movie, in fact, we were all scattered about New Zealand and Middle-earth. Just as Sam and Frodo, while marching to Mordor, have no way of knowing what is happening to Pippin and Merry, Elijah and I spent great stretches of time isolated from the other actors. The Council of Elrond, however, is a break from that style of storytelling, a pivotal moment in the first film that presents to the viewer the formation of the Fellowship. It’s an enormously complicated scene, one requiring significant exposition in the face of monumental technical challenges. I’m not sure the writers ever got it quite right, although God knows they tried. Tolkien devotes some seventy pages to the Council of Elrond meeting and its implications, and yet the scene as filmed lasts only a few minutes.

That only magnifies the challenge, for this is a scene that sets the tone not just for the remainder of the movie, but for the entire franchise. The story repeatedly refers back to the idea that it’s Frodo’s mission to carry the ring. That is the fundamental quest at the core of the trilogy, and the reasons for Frodo being assigned and accepting this burden, as well as the motivation of the other members of the Fellowship, are all established at the Council of Elrond.

Talk about a plot point!

In addition to the formidable task of communicating the information necessary to understanding the story, Peter was also dealing with the expectations and skills and egos of a score of world-class actors, all sort of jostling for space and screen time; at the same time, he was wrestling with the scale issues endemic to a production in which some of the characters are three and a half feet tall, and others are twice that height. It’s challenging enough to put Gandalf and Bilbo in a room together, and make it believable when the actors who portray them are roughly the same size. But when you put everyone in one place at one time—elves, dwarves, men, hobbits, and wizards—and ask the camera to sweep across the screen, scale issues become a point of great concern.

Many of the artful ways Peter devised to introduce various characters—like Boromir arriving in slow motion at Rivendell—hadn’t been completely determined at that point. The script called for ways of introducing characters and handling exposition, but changes were often made at the last second. This, of course, was one of the ways they struck terror into the hearts of studio executives: that $270 million had been committed, and the director wasn’t going to shoot the script. Well, he was shooting the script. And he was shooting so much more than the script. The script was a very real, living and breathing document, but Peter wasn’t a slave to it. While he was respectful of the script, he knew intuitively that when we’d get to a particular sequence and shoot all day long, the process would evolve organically. Each page of a script typically results in one minute of footage. On average. Well, Peter would shoot so much footage that each page could have filled fifteen minutes on screen. But he did it without going over budget, and he did it largely without incurring the wrath of his cast and crew, which speaks volumes about his managerial style and wisdom, as well as everyone’s faith in him.

The Council of Elrond, however, tested everyone’s patience and creativity, most notably Fran’s and Philippa’s. In the weeks leading up to that sequence, they worked tirelessly, like orc slaves locked in the mines being whipped and beaten every day. And they weren’t mining coal or ore; in a sense, it was harder than that. The sweat and blood and tears of having to continually go back into their imagination and back into the text, while trying to keep a macro vision of the movie in mind—their mental slogging, day in and day out—is hard to fathom. The kinds of things they were asked to do are almost incomprehensible. Listen, this set is going to be built in three days. We’re going to have fifteen actors show up on the set, ready to go, and right now the scene isn’t good enough. Make it better. Such requests happened all the time. That had to be maddening. Not that Fran and Philippa were wandering blindly. The original scripts, 150 pages apiece, were always available; there was always a blueprint. But Fran and Philippa understood that the blueprint was flexible, and what shocked me was their level of commitment to this kind of attitude and process. They were unflappable.

As we rehearsed the original Council of Elrond scene, it seemed that most of the actors were struggling with it. We had the rough rhythm of the scene, the emotions and information it was intended to convey. But we all knew it wasn’t quite right. A lot of people pitched ideas: some floated; some plummeted. For me, it was a rare occasion when something I suggested ended up in the film, although not in exactly the way I had envisioned. The idea that Frodo would stand up and shout, “I’ll do it! I’ll carry the ring!” when everyone else is screaming and yelling at each other wasn’t initially written in the script, and I don’t recall exactly how it appears in the books. I know when we were talking through the scene one day at Peter’s house, I made a suggestion, and Fran responded with, “That’s a good idea.” A small contribution, I admit, but I was proud of it, and I especially liked the idea that they were open to it, which is not to say they wouldn’t have come up with it on their own. They probably would have. I just happened to be invited into the process for a while, and Peter and Fran were open enough to include things. That was the cauldron of creativity that boiled and bubbled throughout the production.

I don’t want to give the impression that we engaged in improvisational filmmaking. We didn’t. This wasn’t Waiting for Guffman. Fran and Philippa (and Peter) were quite open to suggestions, as long as their authority wasn’t questioned. Which is the way it should be, because if their authority is repeatedly questioned, then at other critical low moments, when people aren’t offering ideas, how are they going to do the triple lutz and nail the landing? It was their process, their baby, their screenplay. There was never any question about that. There were times when they solicited ideas and nothing came, so they went back to work. And there were times when suggestions came unsolicited. I know Viggo was relentless with them about his character. Absolutely relentless. He would go to them every day, it seemed, with thoughts and ideas and suggestions, things the script apparently missed; he constantly whittled and chipped away at what they were doing and tried valiantly to put his imprimatur on Aragorn.

Was this helpful? I don’t know. At times it seemed like they wanted to kill themselves, or Viggo, because it was so maddening that he was doing this, and then twenty minutes later they would turn around and honor his suggestions. There were times when it was unnecessary, and other times when it was unproductive, but overall he was a great ambassador for his character. Viggo helped them forge things and kept their feet to the fire. They hated him for it, and they resented it. They also loved him and appreciated it. If they had to do it over again, they probably wouldn’t change a thing, because that was the process they had invited.

On The Lord of the Rings, the door was always open, but I didn’t really take advantage of it. Why? That’s a complicated question, and I’ll offer one of my typically strangled explanations. At one point during the shoot Fran shared with me a story about the making of The Frighteners, and how the star, Michael J. Fox, who was away from his wife and children, spent enormous amounts of time at Fran and Peter’s home. The tone in Fran’s voice and the wistful look on her face revealed just how much she liked Michael and how much she enjoyed providing him a home away from home. But I also detected a bit of sadness, as if she felt sorry for him. There’s an openness about Peter and Fran, a family dynamic to them that is wonderfully appealing, but I always worried about pushing the boundaries. For some reason, after hearing her talk about Michael, I tried to be vigilant about not overstaying my welcome. I would have been there all the time, watching movies in their garage and borrowing videos even more than I did, but I found myself not wanting to overstep the bounds of propriety with them. This is what sometimes happens with relationships: you’ll pull back a little bit, just because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do, and then as a result the others pull back, too, until you reach emotional détente. The icebreaker for us was our kids. Our children created a common ground. I enjoyed the quiet confidence of knowing that Peter and Fran were such good parents and loving people that my daughter and their children were bonding in a way that would keep us communicating with each other. The movie was important, but our kids are our kids, and they’re more important. Being a parent allowed me to establish a connection with Peter and Fran that few other people on the film enjoyed.

That said, I wasn’t always sure how to approach Fran or Peter on professional or creative matters. The night before we filmed the Council of Elrond, I called Fran, fortified by the knowledge that Viggo had done this essentially every night, and said, “Look, the way it’s written, I don’t come in until the end of the scene. If you read the book, Sam is there throughout; if you look at Alan Lee’s illustrations, Sam is there. I think it’s critical that I’m visible as the scene plays out.”

Granted, the way the set was designed, with a dozen or more chairs up on the stage area, was very awkward. Where were they going to put me? With the visual aesthetic Peter was trying to capture, there was no way to accommodate my request, but I felt I had to say something. As I had with Warren Beatty, when he asked me to do some writing for Bulworth, I went out on a limb and built a case for myself. Sam belonged there. It was based on the text and my understanding of the narrative, and a legitimate desire to act as an audience surrogate. As the movie progresses, Sam demonstrates a clear understanding of everything that happens in that council meeting. Therefore, some explanation for this awareness must be proffered. He can’t stroll into the frame at the last moment.

Ultimately, we reached a compromise: to have Sam pop out of the bushes and shout, “Hey! Nobody’s going anywhere without me!” which lets the viewer know that Sam overheard everything. But it was where the rubber met the road for me, in terms of Peter wanting Sam to be comic relief and me wanting him to be serious. Peter, I think, would have been thrilled to have me say the line differently, to add a touch of comedy to it. Instead, I chose to frown a bit, to play it softly, proudly, which I think makes for a sweeter reading of the character and his motivation. Seconds later, of course, the other two hobbits, Merry and Pippin, come bouncing into the frame as well, smiling goofily, proclaiming their bravery and allegiance, and taking their place alongside Frodo.

Naked admission: I hate that part of the scene. When I see Billy and Dom come scurrying out, stumbling and bumbling like circus clowns, I just want to cringe. I’m being disrespectful, and I don’t mean to be. I love them both. I think Billy is a more talented actor than I am; I think Dom is braver than I am. And I was willing to appreciate Dom’s willingness, in service of the movie, to commit to the lightheartedness of hobbits more than I was. He and Billy both deserve a lot of credit for that. I was unwilling to pull on that thread, to embrace an undeniably legitimate reading of the characters of the hobbits as gentle, oafish, little creatures. That’s in there. No question about it. It’s not a mistake that Ralph Bakshi came up with the film he did and the characterizations he did. Nevertheless, I resented and rejected that particular characterization.

That’s why I called Fran and made an impassioned plea for Sam to be there from the beginning of the scene, even if my presence was merely alluded to with a quick, single shot of Sam listening off to the side. “You could do it with a B cam,” I suggested. “It won’t even change the way you set the shot.” Fran listened to me, said she understood, and promised to mention it to Peter. I wouldn’t say that my request fell on deaf ears; that would be unfair. I think it just fell on ears that were overwhelmed.

I remember almost wanting to cry at the outcome. Granted, there were a lot of actors in the Council of Elrond scene who wanted to cry, simply because there were so many people locked in a tight space for such a long time. There were too many performers, too many monologues, too much to do and explain. Several days were required to film that scene. We shot the same thing so many times that people were ready to scream because they were so sick of it. So I guess I was lucky in that sense. I placed out of the exam by being the guy who pops up out of the bushes at the end of the show. There I was, in my feet and ears and wig, just standing around for hours on end, day after day, like a pitcher in a bullpen, waiting to be called in for my shot, wondering if they were going to acknowledge my suggestion in any way, shape, or form. When I was finally called out onto the set, Peter was entrenched in his position, tucked behind the monitor, obviously battle-weary from hours of sparring with fifteen strong-willed actors—each trying to do the best job possible—but also trying to assert himself. For any director, that’s a daunting task, a process that wears you down, inch by inch. I could tell it was a low moment for Peter, and that filled me with sadness. I wanted Peter and Fran to respect me and appreciate me, and I’m sure they did. But not getting the feedback I wanted led me to indulge in self-pity, and I think traces of that existed for the rest of the project.

Not always, of course. There were numerous times when I was smart enough to take a good look around at the work being done and the almost unbearable pressure that Peter (and Fran) seemed to handle with uncommon grace and dignity, and to say to myself, “God, how stupid was I to have ever felt that way?” But other times, I’m almost ashamed to admit, it would bubble to the surface again.

I wanted two things professionally out of the experience: I wanted Peter Jackson to respect me as an actor and as a peer—as a filmmaker, a cinema artist. And I think I wanted him to do it in a way that allowed me to help shape the overall product. To an infinitesimal degree, I suppose I did that. To expect anything more would have been impractical, even unrealistic. For example, in the early days of rehearsal, when we discussed some of the scale issues, and presentations were made to us by digital-effects people, it was easy to see the genius behind the ideas, and to gauge the level of comfort and confidence that people felt with given strategies for achieving certain visual effects. One of the most spectacular things I’ve learned from Peter is his passion for achieving illusion. Remember, this is a man who tricked much of New Zealand into believing that they had the right to be proud of having flown before the Wright Brothers. And yet, he’s not merely a master illusionist; he’s also a storyteller. But he loves the early days of film, and he loves special effects—within context. He loves the original King Kong, so it’s not surprising that he’s doing a remake. I can picture him studying the early version of King Kong, trying to figure out how they achieved some of the miniature effects and perspective effects. Peter’s favorite movies, though, are older Hollywood comedies. What a clever guy! A lot of filmmakers love the early effects of Hollywood, so they devote their entire lives to raising the bar on those effects. And there are a lot of filmmakers who appreciate the power and sophistication of the comedy of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Peter falls into both categories. He’s assimilated many elements of special effects and comedy, and is leveraging that to help shape cinema culture.

One of the great things about The Lord of the Rings is that Peter built into the structure of the film a flexible process that would allow for true innovation. I’m sure there were scale effects that had been achieved in Hollywood movies that were superior to what was done on this production. Peter’s goal was not to set a new standard for scale effects, but rather to apply them to a different context: a sprawling, emotionally rich epic. Often it seemed that Peter was guided by a simple, almost childlike philosophy: How can I make it fun? Fun for himself, fun for the audience. Peter enjoyed getting down on his hands and knees, taking the little lipstick camera inside the miniatures, and moving it around. He liked talking to storyboard artists and presenting his ideas. He’d even get sketches of the props and then start making them himself. He was a grand puppet master, always moving, inciting, and inspiring.

It occurred to me on this particular day of rehearsal that you could simply have two characters of different size in the same shot and sell the scale. So I got down on the floor and said, “Peter let me show you this one thing.” I could tell he was a little impatient, and perhaps I was overstepping my bounds, since that wasn’t how he wanted to drive the rehearsal process. But I was eager to impress him and also to test my idea.

“Look,” I said. “You can put the camera right behind me, and if Strider stands there, and you don’t see his feet, and you film it, we can both be in the same shot, and the audience will believe it.” It was a decidedly low-tech solution to one of the seemingly endless string of scale issues, and a pretty effective solution at that. Peter was at first reluctant to believe it would work, but then he looked more carefully, smiled, and agreed that I was onto something. Now, that’s not to suggest that Peter and his effects staff hadn’t already discussed a similar approach, or that they wouldn’t have come to it on their own anyway, when it was organic and right. In fact, I’m sure they would have, because everything was tried a thousand times. But I was excited anyway, because I had figured it out in my way, at a time when it seemed as though the solution was unique, and I wanted some type of validation from Peter. I wanted him to say, “Well done, Sean,” and then invite me to a private dinner, at which he would ask me questions and want to know my thoughts and opinions and ideas. We would sit there together, two titans of the cinema, one recognized for his genius, the other on the cusp of such recognition.

As I’ve said, this was my problem, not Peter’s. It’s funny. I’m so emotional sometimes. My feelings get hurt so easily. Maybe I need to toughen up a bit.

The dull ache of frustration was often a result of letting my exuberance get out of hand. I’d throw myself out there to Peter and compel him to take a natural step back and sort of qualify me in his mind as someone who needed to be handled, which is just about the worst thing you want to do as an actor, especially if you’re an actor whose career has been built on a foundation of professionalism. I didn’t want to be handled. I wanted to be patient and quiet and trusting. It just sometimes didn’t work out that way.

Part of the problem, if you can call it that, is cultural. In general, the Kiwis are a reserved, almost stoic people. And Peter is a true Kiwi. He embodies a lot of the New Zealand mindset. If his feelings are hurt, he internalizes it, and if he wants to express himself, and it’s not met in the right way, he’s visibly but not hysterically disappointed. He’s had to find a way to guard and shepherd his own vision. I’ve watched Peter hundreds of times take a deep breath when things weren’t going quite right. There’s a particular look he gets: his chin drops, almost like he’s looking through his forehead, and he seems to be thinking, I don’t like the way this feels right now, so I’ll have to figure out how to make it stop. If you’re a person who wants to be near Peter or to work with him, you find a way not to provoke him. It’s not callous or mean. He’s a gentleman. He’s polite and thoughtful and generous. But he is formidable in a quiet sort of way.

I was raised differently. In our family, everybody talked about everything. We were a talky family. We’d have family meetings where we’d spent hours clearing the air until the air was so clear there wasn’t enough oxygen left to breathe. We were clumsy and dysfunctional in so many ways it’s almost comical, but one of the things that helped us survive was that we talked. Talk-talk-talk. Even now, when we get together for the holidays, there’s no shutting us up. The sun goes down and comes up three times, and the wives’ heads are splitting because the husbands are still in the living room, talking endlessly, torturing each other with laymen’s psychoanalysis. It’s sweet, it’s endearing, and it’s absolutely insane.