CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The veil of secrecy was officially removed on May 10, 2001, at the Cannes Film Festival. Cannes, of course, is the world’s biggest movie-related party, a sprawling hedonistic seaside celebration of fame and stardom and wealth, as well as an occasional forum for serious filmmaking. Thanks in no small part to the swelling influence of the Internet, there had been significant buzz about The Lord of the Rings, most of it positive. But aside from the occasional screening of an isolated scene or two at Peter Jackson’s home in Wellington, nothing had been released for public consumption. That all changed at Cannes, when a montage of scenes—essentially a very long trailer for The Fellowship of the Ring—was displayed for the first time.

There had been moments in the past when I had some vague notion that the movie might accomplish precisely what Peter had set out to accomplish. Whenever we’d come back from a short hiatus, for example, Peter would try to get everyone back in the proper frame of mind by showing us some rough footage accompanied by temp music. On those occasions I’d be reminded of Peter’s awesome talent and the potential for the trilogy to be everything fans hoped it would be. Unfortunately, for me the impact of those brief glimpses quickly faded. I’m embarrassed now to think about how easily I slipped back into the drudgery of moviemaking, of putting on the makeup and the ears and soldiering on day after day, while failing to recognize the scope of the achievement. The excitement would wear off, and I’d forget about the big picture—or maybe I just couldn’t see the big picture. At Cannes, however, it began to come into focus. This was the first time I realized that The Lord of the Rings was going to be something truly extraordinary; it was also the beginning of the “rock star” phase of our lives.

The special screening, a brilliantly conceived marketing gambit by New Line, gave journalists from around the world their first big taste of The Fellowship of the Ring, and the resulting publicity nearly overshadowed the movies ostensibly at the center of the festival. Running for twenty-six minutes, the footage opened with the elegant wizard Gandalf arriving in Hobbiton at the home of Bilbo Baggins, whose dramatic birthday disappearance (through the use of the ring) preceded a swift and efficient introduction of the members of the Fellowship. Then came the centerpiece of the footage: a fourteen-minute sequence depicting the Fellowship’s harrowing trek through the Mines of Moria that climaxed, as the movie does, with a thrilling battle against an army of orcs and a harrowing encounter with a giant cave troll. The footage concluded with the appearance of a flying dragon (a Balrog), and Gandalf bravely standing between the Fellowship and the fiery beast.

When the screen went dark and the lights came up, the theater erupted with applause. Like everyone else, I was awestruck. Digital characters had blended seamlessly with human actors to create a cinematic experience like nothing that had come before it. The media gushed over the quasi-premiere, noting that it bore Peter’s unmistakable stamp and suggesting strongly that the film promised to deliver on New Line’s huge investment. I knew then that The Lord of the Rings, or at least the first installment of the trilogy, was going to be huge, and that life was about to change for all of us. This was the beginning of the endless ride of parties and premieres and public relations.

It was also the start of me losing my mind, fretting constantly about what The Lord of the Rings would mean to me, worrying about whether I was in a horse race with other actors, trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted, instead of just relaxing and enjoying the experience.

That same week, for example, I had a regrettable interaction with one of my costars, Orlando Bloom, who had already been plucked out of the ensemble and targeted for stardom. Not that there was anything remotely surprising about that. Orlando was so talented and appealing, so ridiculously good-looking, that there was never any doubt about what lay ahead for him. He had “movie star” written all over him.

From the very beginning, I found Orlando likable. He wasn’t a hobbit, but he was part of the hobbit group, and we all connected right away. More than most of us, Orlando was excited about the physical work involved in the films, and his attitude was terrific. He was fresh out of drama school and incredibly happy to be in New Zealand, working on a big-budget movie. There were times when Orlando would get selfish and try to take advantage of the production assistants—“Hey, baby, could you go get me something to eat, please?”—but it wasn’t the sort of behavior emblematic of movie star entitlement; it was just lazy guy stuff, and it was harmless and even kind of endearing. We ridiculed him mercilessly whenever he did it, and he weathered that ridicule pretty well, which only added to his appeal.

Like Legolas and like some of the characters he has played since, Orlando is legitimately dashing and swashbuckling. He’s an extreme sort of guy who doesn’t mind breaking an occasional bone in the pursuit of adventure and thrills. We rented motorcycles one day and did some off-road biking in the hills of Queenstown. I was relatively cautious, but Orlando was utterly fearless, at one point opening the throttle and charging to the top of a steep incline against the advice of our guide.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he yelled as Orlando leaned into the handlebars and gunned the engine. A few minutes later there was Orlando, sitting proudly atop his bike at the summit. Then he turned the bike around and prepared to descend. There was just one problem: it was too steep. Facing the very real possibility of flying over the handlebars and getting seriously injured, Orlando removed his helmet and yelled to us at the bottom.

“How do I get down?”

The guide laughed. “Hey, mate, you found your way up there, you’re gonna have to figure out how to get down.”

Which he did. After all, this is a guy who broke his back and somehow escaped any long-term disability or pain. He’s got nine lives, and he’s living each of them to the fullest.

Orlando and I talked a few times about the business of movies and the stardom that was destined to come his way. We talked about money, and I remember being somewhat amused by the realization that I was probably making a lot more than he was, because that certainly wouldn’t be the case in the very near future. Orlando didn’t much care about any of that. He was just so happy and easygoing, and it was screamingly obvious what the industry had in store for him.

“You have a chance to be a major star,” I said at one point. Orlando just shrugged and smiled, like someone who either didn’t care or had just heard something he already knew. I gave him advice about agents and managers, and he went off and made a lot of decisions that I wouldn’t have made—decisions that have since proved to be a hell of a lot smarter than decisions I would have made. But there were times when I ran into Orlando, or read some story about him, and thought, Oh, my God, it’s gone to his head, and he’s become a cataclysmic jerk!

That’s what happened in Cannes, when I approached Orlando while he was chatting with Barry Diller, one of the more powerful and influential men in Hollywood. I got the feeling that Orlando was blowing me off, that he wasn’t about to waste time embracing a friend when there was an opportunity to cultivate a business relationship. And I got mad at him. After Barry left, I gave Orlando a little shove in the chest and said, “Who the hell do you think you are? We’re supposed to be friends.” He was shocked and sort of apologized, but he also made it clear that he had intended no disrespect at all. When I thought about it afterward, when I really analyzed what had happened, I came to the conclusion that I was the one who had behaved badly. I had misread the situation and overreacted. Envy and insecurity had gotten the better of me, and I’d briefly lost it. Orlando, to his great credit, was instantly forgiving, and we got through it with no discernible fallout.

Since then Orlando has risen to the top of the food chain, and it’s hard not to be impressed by the way he’s weathering his stardom. He’s a good guy and he has talent. I don’t know if he’ll earn the respect of his fellow actors in the British theater, at least for a while, simply because it’s difficult to be taken seriously in those circles when you’re making great gobs of money in mainstream movies, while also enjoying the status of international sex symbol. It’s astounding to travel with Orlando, to see how many women—from teenagers to grandmothers—fall at his feet. Everywhere I go, fans of The Lord of the Rings give me things. Before I can even say, “Thank you,” they ask me to please make sure the gift is presented to Orlando.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s a tough job to be adored by millions of women, but I somehow think Orlando is equal to the task.

*   *   *

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring debuted in December 2001 to overwhelming critical praise and commercial success. After twenty years of hard and sometimes brilliant work on small movies, Peter Jackson was an overnight sensation. The bosses at New Line, considered by many to be foolish for having gambled so heavily on a project that had been rejected by every other studio in town, were suddenly geniuses. Such are the vagaries of the movie business.

For me, the success of the first film was less palpable. Sam was a peripheral character, and so my role in the promotion of the movie was to be a sturdy member of the ensemble, available for interviews and parties, and preferably armed with an assortment of cogent observations and pleasant anecdotes. This was a role I was generally happy to play, for I really was proud of the movie and my work in it, and I was legitimately happy for Peter and Fran. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that there were some awkward moments, such as the time I ran into Ian Holm at the London premiere of The Fellowship of the Ring.

First, though, a few words about Ian. When this guy showed up in New Zealand to play Bilbo Baggins, he carried himself with a kind of seriousness and elegance that commanded attention, maybe even more so than did the other Ian in the cast. Ian McKellen was playing Gandalf, and thus had to wear a beard and a nose and a hat. Something about the makeup and costume—the hat in particular—took the edge off his presence as an authoritative man of the stage, a grand Shakespearean actor. Ian Holm, conversely, only worked on the films for a short period of time, and you always got the feeling when you saw him that he was, well, Ian Holm. That’s not to say he didn’t inhabit the character. He did, of course, and he played Bilbo beautifully. But I was intimidated by him.

There’s a feeling you get before you meet an actor of note, an excitement and nervousness and a resolve to work through that transition, and I certainly experienced that with Ian. I had admired his work in so many films, from the duplicitous android in Alien to the tough but sensitive coach in Chariots of Fire, to the damaged, ambulance-chasing attorney in The Sweet Hereafter. That last performance was especially fresh in my mind when Ian arrived in New Zealand, and it fueled my desire to get to know him better. But the opportunity never presented itself. We worked together in only a few scenes and never had any substantive conversations. On the day Ian left, I asked him to sign my single-volume edition of The Lord of the Rings (we all did this, much as high school seniors autograph each other’s yearbook). Ian smiled, took the book, and wrote, “Sean: Finally, my boy, we meet.”

It was kind of tongue-in-cheek, but also a little removed, as if to say, Why are you having me sign this thing? We barely know each other. I remember feeling a bit disappointed that we hadn’t connected in some other way. Really, though, that wasn’t possible. The only extended time we shared—and calling it “shared” is a stretch—occurred when Ian was having his makeup applied and I was sitting there watching him endure the transformation into a hundred-year-old hobbit. Face work is infinitely more difficult and uncomfortable than having prosthetic ears and feet applied. In fact, after watching Ian and John and some of the other actors on The Lord of the Rings, I’d have to think long and hard before I’d accept a role that required that kind of daily torture. Anyway, Ian and I shared a small amount of time while he was a prisoner, and I don’t think my attempts to converse were unwelcome. I’m aware of those dynamics, too. I used to glad-hand with everybody, but I’ve developed some restraint over time. You can’t necessarily get in someone’s face just because you admire his or her work. So I tried to be respectful of Ian’s space.

At the London premiere, however, Ian and I had a chance to chat. Typically, there’s no real communication at these events, just a lot of awkward, superficial small talk. But I wanted to take a moment to congratulate Ian on his performance, which I thought was just superb. The transformation that suddenly takes place when Bilbo tries to take the ring one last time from Frodo is among the highlights of the movie. And I wanted to share that sentiment with Ian. So I paid him a compliment, after which there was a pregnant pause. Now, actor protocol dictates that a compliment be repaid in kind. But that didn’t happen. Instead, Ian said, “Thank you,” and we sort of stood there, enveloped in an awkward silence. Honestly, I admired the fact that Ian wasn’t going to say something nice just for the sake of saying it, but eventually he relented.

Sort of.

“You don’t really do anything, do you?” he said.

“Nope. Not really.”

“But it’s just fucking brilliant the way you do it. Isn’t it?”

Oh, you have no idea.

Ian obviously hadn’t really thought about it and wasn’t particularly moved by my performance. Admittedly, though, there hadn’t been much to elicit a reaction. There is an attractive shot at the end of the film, with Sam and Frodo looking off into the distance, where the viewer is left with the sense that these two characters are destined for greatness, so at least I didn’t feel like an interloper at the party. It had been my job to be small and subtle in the first film, and I think I did that reasonably well.

I once did a movie called Boy Meets Girl, where I walked with a swagger, smoked a cigar, drank too much, and spewed a lot of self-important nonsense: “I’m gonna travel, Jack! Gonna see the world!” It was almost like an homage to my dad’s character in The Addams Family: everything about it facilitated a big performance. The Lord of the Rings was just the opposite of that. Sam is so subtle. He doesn’t have the showstopper lines, except at the end of the third movie. For much of the trilogy he’s quiet and stoic. Earnest. So, in a sense, Ian’s observation was astute, not just something born of panic or desperation or even politeness. It was honest, and you can’t help but admire that.

*   *   *

Because The Lord of the Rings was designed and marketed as three separate films, yet shot as one very long film, the studio had great chunks of time with which to work following the completion of principal photography. We finished shooting in December 2000; then they (I’m talking primarily about Peter and Fran) had a full year to deliver The Fellowship of the Ring, followed by another year to deliver the second installment, The Two Towers, and a third year to deliver The Return of the King. Each year they would assemble the film and look at it and think about it and be afforded the opportunity to entertain new ideas, to see things in a different light. A year is a long time. Three years is a really long time, especially in the entertainment business. A lot can change. To their credit, they allowed themselves to be responsive to some of the things that fans would say or write. The scene with Orlando sliding down the trunk of the oliphant at the end of the third film, for instance, reflects everybody’s understanding of what a matinee idol he’d become. That would not likely have been in the third film initially. It’s an amazing thing, actually, that a movie with that kind of an outrageous “wink” in it can also be perceived as serious filmmaking; it’s a testament to how broad an experience it is, and how flexible the filmmakers were.

As we all know, the world changed on September 11, 2001, and I think The Fellowship of the Ring became even more resonant with people in the wake of the attacks on the United States. As Gandalf says to Frodo in the Mines of Moria, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil.” I think that sentiment was poignant to a lot of people. I also think that when The Fellowship of the Ring was released, it was welcomed almost as a gift by people who had been worn out by the endless media coverage of the sadness and violence of September 11, by the harsh reality of life and death. To be able to disappear into the fantasy world of hobbits and elves and wizards, a world in which courage matters and good triumphs over evil, was a sweet and wonderful respite. In an interview with USA Today, I was asked whether I thought The Fellowship of the Ring represented a healthy opportunity for people to escape for three hours. Here’s the truth: my livelihood depended on the success of these movies, and like anyone else, after the shock of September 11 began to wear off, my mind slowly turned to the pragmatics of life. I remember thinking how great it was that we’d be able to bring The Lord of the Rings out in the aftermath of September 11, and how people might be inspired by it.

People all over the world, but especially in the United States, were reeling from the tragedy, and it wasn’t as easy to be cynical anymore. Something about being able to play with your kids and enjoy the things in life that are at once simple and fantastic. The Lord of the Rings is all about that, really—about being able to give yourself over to those fantastical elements. It’s easy to satirize, as South Park, Saturday Night Live, National Lampoon, the Onion, and Mad, just to name a few, have demonstrated. But the trilogy is still revered. For some reason, people don’t get sick of The Lord of the Rings, and I think it has a lot to do with the nobility of the characters and their quest for a better world.

The impact of September 11 is most evident in The Two Towers. As far as I know, no one blinked at the title (it was Tolkien’s, after all), and no real consideration was ever given to changing it out of deference to the victims of the World Trade Center disaster. That would have been a meaningless gesture, I think, and one that betrayed the purity of Tolkien’s vision. Better to have handled it the way it was ultimately handled: with a thoughtful and eloquent speech delivered at the climax of the movie.

After the success of the first film I think everyone involved was looking for a way to say something meaningful with The Two Towers. Peter repeatedly voiced his concern that the movie “didn’t have enough heart yet,” that perhaps action overwhelmed human emotion, and I know that after the way audiences responded to Sam wading into the water in pursuit of Frodo at the conclusion of The Fellowship of the Ring, Peter began looking at me as a guy he could turn to if he wanted to tug on a heartstring. But it was more than just that. Who wasn’t questioning the meaning of life in those days? Imagine what it must have been like for Peter, who went from being a relatively obscure director (outside New Zealand, anyway) entrusted with the future of an entire studio to a bona fide man of wealth. What an awesome, complex series of emotions.

I found out that the ending to the second film had been dramatically altered in May 2002, when the fax machine in my house began to ring. I’d had a couple of good conversations with Peter about what he hoped to do in the coming months, when he got us back down to New Zealand for reshoots. The Two Towers, he explained, would end with a stirring speech delivered by Sam, one that summed up the mood of the entire trilogy.

“We’ll be sending the pages soon,” he said. “Let me know what you think.”

When the fax came through, I was stunned by the power of the words. Certain moments, certain scenes, are so good that you can almost do them on the spot, without any rehearsal whatsoever. You don’t even have to memorize them. That’s the way this felt. I was standing in my bathrobe, reading the scene aloud, practically weeping at the clarity and power of it.

“It’s like the great tales, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really matter. Folk in those stories had lots of chances to turn back, only they didn’t. They kept going, because they were holding onto something.”

“What are we holding onto, Sam?”

“That there’s some good left in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.”

I got right back on the phone with Peter, thanked him (and Fran and Philippa) profusely for writing such a beautiful scene, and for giving me a chance to act in it. I couldn’t wait to get back to New Zealand, for this was yet another chance to do something important. I just felt so excited about it. It seemed as though the writers had somehow assimilated the mood of the planet and reflected it in this particular scene; it was almost like an homage to the value of the source material in modern society: Why is it worth watching this fantasy at a time when we’re fighting in Afghanistan and you never know when the next terrorist attack will come? Why even go to the movies? Why not stay home with your family and try to learn from history and hold your political leaders accountable for their ability to keep you safe? What’s the point of stories anymore?

By using Sam, the simplest and one of the noblest of Tolkien’s characters, as a vessel, the filmmakers tried to answer those questions. They said, in effect, Thank you for loving and supporting the first film, and this is why the second film is worthy of your attention; this is why you ought to let yourself enjoy the story without a shred of guilt.

It felt important to me, as if the movie was more than just a movie now. If there was a point to The Two Towers, it was summed up in this speech, and I was the one who would get to do it. That recognition, which was instantaneous, brought a sense of pressure, but mainly it brought excitement and enthusiasm. After I got off the phone with Peter, I showed the scene to Christine, who loved it. Then I called my father and read it to him over the phone. Dad can be a harsh critic, but he was blown away by this scene.

“Wow!” he said, almost breathlessly. “That’s great, Sean. And you can do it.”

That much I already knew: I could do it. But then again, anyone could do it, because it was that good a scene.

Less than three weeks later I found myself back in Wellington, this time without Christine or Alexandra. I stayed for about a month, and during that time I encountered just about every significant member of the cast. That’s the way the movies were made: we were constantly fixing and changing and adapting, right up until the release date. Interestingly, each time we saw each other, it was as if no time had passed. There were countless occasions for reunions: premieres, publicity tours, awards shows. For more than three years it was a cycle that would not end. Funny thing, too. People change over the course of two or three years. They look different. But when you put on a wig and makeup and costume, somehow the time dissolves and you melt into the character all over again, to the point where even the camera can’t distinguish between scenes shot in 1999 and those shot in 2002. There are some logistical problems, however, such as the issue of my weight. I’d lost most of the fat I’d gained to play Sam shortly after the end of principal photography. By the summer of 2002, however, I’d started to balloon all over again, which made the physical work during reshoots more difficult than it might have been. And more humiliating. Consider the moment when we shot a scene in which Frodo, straining against the power of the ring, pulls his sword on Sam.

“Okay, now put the blade under his chin,” Peter yelled to Elijah, who was kneeling over my prone, lumpen form.

Elijah smiled. “Which one?”

That cracked up everyone on the set, including me, although the truth of it hurt a little because I was mad at myself for getting that fat again. And I think the additional weight might have hindered my performance. I’d nailed the speech in rehearsal, but for some reason, when we went to shoot the scene, we needed twenty-five takes to get it right. Ultimately I think the scene met the expectations I had had when the fax came through; I mean, it was so well-written that there really was almost no way to blow it. Even so, I was a little concerned that I felt more emotionally connected to the scene in my bathrobe in Los Angeles, and when I was rehearsing it alone with Elijah, than I did when we actually shot it. I honestly believe it plays well in the movie, and I’m not disappointed with the finished product in any way, but somehow it wasn’t the perfect acting experience I had anticipated. But then maybe there’s no such thing. When we finally finished, Elijah gave me a hug and said, “That was hard, wasn’t it?” But he was so patient. It was a strong Sam moment, and I needed his help and inspiration to get through it.

When I saw the final version of The Two Towers, I felt really good about it, better than I had felt about the first film. Naturally, this was partly due to the scene that was written for Sam, but it was also because I was so impressed that Peter and Fran had figured out how to start and end the movie without it being the beginning or ending of the trilogy. The Two Towers is a bridge, a link between the setup of The Fellowship of the Ring and the denouement of The Return of the King, and as such it presents a unique challenge to the director. When most people think of The Two Towers, they think of the battle of Helm’s Deep, a titanic standoff between ten thousand digital orcs and a far smaller army of men. It’s an amazing, visceral sequence, and the indisputable highlight of the film, if not the entire trilogy. Audiences reacted that way when they saw the movie in theaters, and I felt that way when we were making the movies. Even though I had absolutely nothing to do with the battle of Helm’s Deep (Frodo and Sam were off on an adventure of their own), it always felt like the most important thing about The Two Towers.

But The Two Towers succeeds on so many levels: as pure adventure, as epic storytelling, and most notably, as an examination of evil, as personified by Saruman and Wormtongue, and the courage required to stand up against it. Like the entire trilogy, I suppose it also says something about the value of brotherhood. Good triumphs over evil in The Lord of the Rings primarily because characters of different races, even different species, are willing to set aside their innate differences, and even their dislike for each other, in pursuit of a common goal.

It was related to the sentiment that I tried to capture, at least in some small way, when I made my short film, The Long and the Short of It, during our return trip to New Zealand in the summer of 2002. The idea came to me early in the production, and Dominic Monaghan helped me flesh it out. We ended up with a sweet and simple five-minute film about a man who gets some unexpected assistance while trying to paste a large poster on a wall. Really, though, it’s about people silently joining forces to complete a task. Each has some talent, some ability that makes him or her uniquely suited to the job. Simply put, it’s a tribute to teamwork, and thus a tribute to The Lord of the Rings.

There were twenty-four cameras available during the production, and Peter’s attitude was, Hey, if you can find the time, go ahead and take one of them and do your short film. Remarkably enough, though, there was never a single camera available during principal photography. We were just too busy. Every camera was in use every day, and nobody had a minute to spare. When we returned for pickups, however, the opportunity presented itself.

A couple of guys from Panavision were on the set demonstrating for Peter the new digital technology that George Lucas had used on Star Wars. As soon as I learned of their presence, I leaped into action. All of the thousands of hours of muted frustration that I experienced wishing I could be directing came pouring out in a rush of excitement. Peter, Barrie, Elijah, and everyone around was gracious and supportive. Peter, in particular, had always honored my passion as a filmmaker, in theory and in practice, so long as I demonstrated the right level of respect to the Lord of the Rings process. It was during principal photography, while filming the Bridge of Khazad-Dum sequence, that I was originally inspired with the idea for the short film. Actually, the first seeds were planted on the first day in New Zealand and then again on the first day of principal photography. During the tour on the first day in New Zealand, Peter mentioned that he would be using all of these cameras, and he didn’t blanch for a moment when I suggested I could do a side project. The only time I ever acted on that impulse was years later during pickups, and Peter was instantly and characteristically supportive.

On the first day of filming, Brian Bansgrove, our gaffer, first came to my attention. Elijah was reading aloft and I was cooking the tomatoes and potatoes and mushrooms and ham, when we heard the most singular and gravelly Australian voice proclaim, “Why don’t you point some light at the little bloke in the trayee?” I looked at his leathery face and instantly thought, Man, would he be compelling to watch on screen. I ruminated that I should try to come up with a way to showcase his charisma and individuality in a short film. Much later in the filming, during Gandalf the Grey’s clash with Balrog, and the Fellowship’s horrified witnessing of Gandalf’s apparent demise, I was noodling the idea of finding some way to showcase in a short film the beauty of a woman named Praphaphorn “Fon” Chansantor. As noted, all of the hobbits had scale doubles who endured so much and evinced remarkable patience in the seemingly thankless task of helping convey the notion of relative height without the promise of future glory. They were bona fide, legitimate members of the Fellowship, and yet few people outside production were likely to ever know that they existed. Fon, who primarily doubled Billy Boyd, was one of the most exquisitely beautiful creatures anyone had ever seen. In her late twenties, she stood about three and a half feet tall, and on her arrival from Thailand, where she’d been discovered for this job, she spoke not a single word of English. Well, besides forming a lifelong friendship with Billy and enjoying a lovely rapport with my wife and daughter, Fon taught herself English over the course of the shoot and now speaks the language fluently. I wanted to do something to celebrate her beauty.

As I stood off to the side of the set watching Fon and Brian (who has since tragically taken his own life), I started cooking up an idea to make a short film about the two of them. I started talking aloud to everyone, and Dom jumped in the most enthusiastically and helped me fashion a story. I walked over to Peter, who was waiting for something to be done, and told him the story. He said it sounded cool and asked if he could be in it. I was thrilled. He asked if he could play the part of a bus driver. I hadn’t thought about a bus driver, but if that’s what Peter wanted to be, by Jove, I was going to adjust the story to ensure that a bus driver was included! I went home that night and wrote the script. Three pages long, it took me about twenty-five minutes to write. Then nothing happened with it for years. Oh, sure, I thought about it and looked for an opportunity when it might be done, but as I’ve said, one just didn’t present itself. Until the summer of 2002, that is.

So there I was in the makeup bus for the umpteenth time, having ears and wig applied, when I was told by Zane Weiner, our unit production manager, that the Panavision guys would be performing a test of their equipment. As it turned out, the actual body of the camera they were testing was one that George Lucas had used on Phantom Menace. Anyway, I jumped out of my chair, and within fifteen minutes I had secured not only the commitment of the Panavision guys to extend their visit over the weekend, but also Peter’s agreement to come in on Sunday, and Barrie and Zane’s agreement to help me put the project together.

That was just fine, because it was only Wednesday and we weren’t going to shoot until Sunday. Never mind that this would be everyone’s first day off in weeks. I was a man on a mission. Andrew Lesnie, our now legendary cinematographer, graciously agreed to replace his late gaffer as the star of the picture. I didn’t have to ask Paul Randall, our seven-foot-tall elf, human-scale double, and all-around utility crew member, to round out the trifecta of my cast. To my extraordinary benefit, everyone I asked for assistance instantly accommodated my every request.

Without going into too much more detail (the film and its “making of” documentary can be seen on The Two Towers DVD), I had an absolute ball. The film was accepted at the Sundance Film Festival and went on to win several film festival prizes. None of that would have happened if I wasn’t in The Lord of the Rings. It never ceases to amaze me that out of hardship or perceived hardship comes the most glorious of rewards.

To my utter astonishment and great relief, quite a few people turned out for the shoot even though most of them had been out partying until two or three in the morning. They staggered in, bleary-eyed, and volunteered their services. I’ll never forget it. At one point, I thought we were going to have to cancel the shoot because of the weather—steady rain and gale-force winds—but no one begged off. We put in a six-hour day and got it done. If you’ve seen the DVD, you know how it turned out. You also know that Peter Jackson is quite a capable actor. But that’s not the point. The point is this: he showed up to do a cameo in my short film, and he treated the job with respect and seriousness. He figured out how to work the bus within a few minutes, and he looked totally authentic. Unlike me, he didn’t complain. Not once.

It’s fair to say that Peter the actor was a director’s dream.

And you know what? I’m not sure I deserved that kind of treatment.