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 of 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.

So it was odd to hear my name mentioned in the same breath as some of the best actors in the business, which was what happened after the release of The Return of the King, when the 2004 Oscar campaign got under way. The 2004 awards season coincided almost exactly with the publicity tour for The Return of the King, and I found myself out in front, driving the PR bandwagon for the better part of two months, from the first premiere in Wellington to the day, in late January, when the Academy Award nominations were revealed. It was an exhausting, sometimes hypnotic adventure into the surreal heart of our celebrity culture, one that left me alternately exhilarated and depressed, but ultimately emboldened by the knowledge that I am, at my core, a father and a husband who happens to have an interesting job. I’m luckier than most.

*   *   *

Academy Award nominations do not fall haphazardly and unexpectedly from the sky. The recipients typically are good actors in good parts (as Samwise Gamgee was for me), deserving of praise and recognition. But there are only five nominations in each acting category, and so some deserving performers routinely are overlooked. It’s up to the studio to determine which actors it wants to support in the Oscar campaign. To a large extent, this decision is made by answering a pragmatic question: Who has the best chance to win? More often than not, it’s the actor whose performance has been singled out and applauded by the broadest range of critics. But there are other criteria: the popularity of the movie in which the performance is embedded; the critical response to that movie; the date the film was released (have people forgotten about it?); and perhaps most important of all, the actor’s personal backstory.

In my case, it was an easy call. I think New Line had a sense that as an Academy legacy I might be an attractive candidate for the category formally known as “outstanding performance by an actor in a supporting role,” and more colloquially referred to as best supporting actor. For one thing, the studio desperately wanted to win the Academy Award for outstanding motion picture (also known as “best movie”), and historically it’s been demonstrated that in order for a film to be so honored, it helps to be viewed as a movie that showcases great acting. Spectacles and fantasies, especially those laden with special effects, have often been denied on Oscar night. Indeed, not since Braveheart in 1995 had a film received the Academy Award for outstanding motion picture without receiving at least one nomination in the five acting categories. So you can understand the sense of urgency at New Line to make sure that someone in The Return of the King be plucked from the acting ensemble and given an opportunity to sample the heady elixir that produces something known as “Oscar buzz.”

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.

The first of the major contests to announce its nominees was the Golden Globe Awards, generally regarded as a reasonably accurate barometer of the Oscar climate, if not exactly a predictor of the Academy Awards themselves. I was in the middle of a live interview on ABC’s Good Morning America when the announcement was made.

“Wait a minute,” said the woman who was interviewing me. “We have breaking news. The Golden Globe nominations just came in.”

“Oh, yeah?” I tried not to betray a hint of nervousness, even though I could feel my heart suddenly racing.

Through her earpiece the news was delivered, and she repeated it back to me (and an audience of a couple of million viewers), reciting the nominations for The Return of the King.

“Best picture, best director, best song … and … best musical score! So, four! Four nominations.”

She smiled at me. I smiled back.

“Wow, that’s great. I mean, best director—that’s the one we all really wanted. We’re pulling for Peter. He deserves this more than anyone.”

Meanwhile, inside, I was dying. I was surprised by how much it hurt. I could feel the blood rising in my face, the hair rising on the back of my neck. I think I recovered pretty well, though. I’ve analyzed the tape and thought, Man, that was a tough moment. I can detect a subtle change in my demeanor, a slight dip in the shoulders, a little twitch in the eyebrow, but I don’t think it was noticeable to the viewers. When the segment ended, the interviewer was thrilled. She shook my hand and thanked me.

“Hey, Sean, nice job! That was great live television, huh?”

Oh, yeah, just terrific.

But it was great television. It was honest and dramatic, and as a moment of masochistic self-discovery, it was meaningful. It made me wonder, What am I really about? What do I want out of life? The marketing folks at New Line were somewhat less philosophical and introspective.

“Those fucking assholes!” one of them said later that morning, referring to the mysterious Hollywood Foreign Press Association, which chooses the Golden Globe nominees and winners. “How dare they!”

Yeah, he was pretty pissed off. And legitimately surprised. New Line executives thought I was a shoo-in for a Golden Globe nomination, especially since they had been told that I was runner-up to Eugene Levy in the arguably far more prestigious and competitive New York Film Critics Circle Awards. I still don’t know if that was true or not. I know only that the Golden Globes came and went, and the Oscar buzz began to diminish.

Next came the nominations for the Screen Actors Guild Awards. This was vastly more important to me because the nominees were selected by my peers in the union. Christine set the alarm for 6 A.M. and we got up together and watched the announcements live on television. I was groggy and tired, and I kept telling Christine, “Honey, it’s not going to happen,” not because I was hypersensitive or because I was trying to dilute the potential disappointment. I just had a feeling it wasn’t going to happen. And it didn’t. Although The Return of the King was nominated for best acting by an ensemble, the film received no individual acting nominations, which left me feeling somewhat conflicted: I was happy for the cast, and disappointed for myself. We deserved recognition in the ensemble category, of course, but I had clung to an unspoken hope that I’d get singled out and that perhaps a SAG nomination would start the trend toward an Academy Award nomination.

Christine gave me a hug and we walked together into the kitchen, where Ali was busily eating her cinnamon toast.

“Hey, guess what?” Christine said. “The nominations for the Screen Actors Guild Awards were just announced, and Daddy and the rest of the cast got nominated for the ensemble award.”

Ali looked up, fork in hand. “What does ‘ensemble’ mean?”

Christine smiled. “It means you’re part of a big group.”

Ali glanced at me and nodded soberly. “Oh,” she said, a trace of disdain in her voice. “It’s so nice to be part of a group.”

We were floored. Here was my seven-year-old daughter, reflecting my disappointment. So we laughed it off, and that was that. I took Ali to school and along the way reiterated my pleasure with the SAG ensemble award. That was important, I told her. It was meaningful. And this time she agreed.

*   *   *

The Academy Award nominations were announced on January 26. I did nothing special to prepare, nothing to sway the Oscar karma. More than a decade earlier, when I discovered that my first short film was being considered for a nomination, I had driven up into the Hollywood hills with a couple of colleagues and sat there in front of the Hollywood sign and swore to the movie gods. “I promise to use an Academy Award for good, not for ill!” The nomination was really meaningful to me then. It was important, and the next morning when the announcements came out and I wasn’t nominated, I was really disappointed. I moved on, and two years later I got nominated for Kangaroo Court, and that was a great moment. But it was funny. Weeks before that nomination, I wasn’t even thinking about it. Christine and I were in college, working hard. My mind was elsewhere. I found out about the nomination through a phone call from the writer of the film. And that led me to wonder, Is there a moral here? Like, if you’re thinking about it and hoping for it, it won’t happen, but if you’re really about the business of doing something more meaningful and valuable with your life, then that kind of acknowledgment will come to you.

It’s like watching a sporting event. You sometimes wonder if you can have an impact on the outcome simply by watching it or not watching it. It’s about superstition, and it’s fundamentally ridiculous, although I think we all fall prey to it once in a while. Maybe I did. More than just a little bit. But I wouldn’t call it more than a recurring fantasy. I tried as much as possible to divest myself of the speculation and oddsmaking, although the barrage of information was hard to avoid. I received dozens of calls and messages saying, “You deserve a nomination.” Online polls were enthusiastic in their support of Sam. Critics were divided. There seemed a reasonable chance. The night before the nominations were announced brought more phone calls: from studio executives, family members, agents and managers and publicists. Joel Stevens, my manager, wanted to know where I’d be in the morning, when the nominations came in, so that he could get in touch with me immediately.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll call you.”

I made no specific plans. The nominations were to be announced on live television at 5:30 A.M. Pacific Standard Time. There was no need to set the alarm. I figured if I woke up comfortably and the sun was already rising in the sky, I’d have my answer: no nomination. If there was a nomination, someone would call. Either way, I wouldn’t have to live through it in real time.

I woke up a few times during the night, and as dawn approached I began actively dreaming. I was in that fugue state where you’re half asleep, half awake. I dreamed that I got nominated; then I dreamed that I didn’t get nominated. When the cycle completed itself, I opened my eyes, lifted my head, and saw that the room was empty. The house was quiet. Outside, darkness had given way to light. I looked at the clock: it was 6:53.

And I knew.

I rolled out of bed, put on my bathrobe, and wandered downstairs and into the kitchen, where Christine was standing at the center island, looking over some paperwork, sipping a cup of coffee. Our eyes met for just a second. Christine shook her head. I nodded, smiled, and walked into another room, my office, and turned on the TV. The pain was not acute. It was more like, Okay, well, let’s see who got nominated.

You know what? They were all good. Really good and deserving actors in strong, memorable performances: Djimon Hounsou (In America), Tim Robbins (Mystic River), Benicio Del Toro (21 Grams), Ken Watanabe (The Last Samurai), and Alec Baldwin (The Cooler). Can I honestly say that my work was any more deserving of recognition than theirs? Can I point to one of those men and say, Why him and not me? Absolutely not. In fact, I could look at that list and ask, Where is Eugene Levy? Where is Paul Bettany (Master and Commander)? That’s the thing about the Academy Awards: they are almost by definition unfair. There is no objective standard by which to measure great acting. Never has been, never will be. Most actors understand the inherent flaw of the Oscars, but give themselves over to it anyway—especially if they’re lucky enough to get nominated. I won’t lie: it would have been a kick to sit there in the Kodak Theater on Oscar night and hear my name read aloud, to hold my breath and try to maintain my composure as the envelope was opened. That’s a dream for any actor. But now that it hadn’t come true, well, I was oddly unaffected.

Time to get on with the business of life.

Others in my orbit were less sanguine. That day brought dozens of sympathetic phone calls from friends and relatives and business associates. My mother was the most persistent. She was in Los Angeles working on a movie, and she left a bunch of messages on my cell phone. Mom was all wrapped up in the Oscar race, far more than I was. I later found out that there was even a story in Mom’s local newspaper detailing her efforts to bring good fortune my way. She’d purchased a statue of Sam from Weta, and in the days leading up to the unveiling of the nominations, she’d placed the statue just inches from the Oscar she’d won decades earlier for The Miracle Worker, in the hope that it would bring good luck. Not surprisingly, Mom was a wreck when she learned I hadn’t been nominated. She hadn’t slept all night and had stood in front of the television at 5:30 in the morning screaming her lungs out as the nominations were announced.

“Your mother has called eight or nine times,” Christine said. “You’d better get in touch with her.”

So I phoned her, and of course she was devastated. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s so unfair. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

The truth is, I didn’t value the nomination to the extent that she did. In my heart of hearts, I was okay. The Academy snub, as it was sometimes called, became a big subject of discussion in my corner of the universe, primarily because the studio had invested a lot of money in its Oscar campaign, and because there were legitimate career ramifications. Ultimately, though, in terms of what’s really important, I discovered that it wasn’t all that valuable to me; it wasn’t that big a deal. All of this I communicated to my mother, who seemed at once bewildered and relieved.

“Oh, Sean,” she responded proudly, “you’re so well adjusted.”

I’m trying, Mom … I’m trying.