There and Back Again (31 page)

And it was hard work, of course, not just for the cast, but also for the crew, which did a commendable job of making sure that we could actually get to some of the more remote locations. They would use helicopters to transport sling loads of equipment and four-wheel-drive vehicles into otherwise impassable places. There always seemed to be several stages to each journey: a chopper ride, followed by a drive, followed by a hike. Once you got out of the van (or the Jeep or the Humvee, or some other similar rig), there would be a long walk—sometimes as much as an hour—in prosthetic feet. The studio tried to protect its investment (and by that I am referring to the fake feet, not the real feet) by having us wear big green plastic boots, but these looked ridiculous and made walking even more of a challenge.

Complaining, however, was hardly encouraged. Somehow it seemed generally in the spirit of things to grin and bear it. Not that I wasn't concerned. I was. Our bodies were put through a lot as a function of making these movies. We all had bumps and bruises and minor injuries; some of us incurred injuries that were a bit more than minor. It was part of the job. But Elijah often seemed uniquely oblivious to the possibility of disaster. I used to call him “Plastic Man” because he looked like a little doll or something; they could do anything with him—fling him from the top of a crane or push him off a cliff or dunk him in ice-cold water. Nothing bothered him. Elijah went through an unbelievable amount of physical stress without uttering so much as a peep. That was left to me, the “Nervous Nellie” hobbit, always driving people nuts with my worrying and fretting that something terrible might happen.

And not just to the actors. At one point, for example, there was something of a crew mutiny fermenting, which got me really excited, because, hey, I played Rudy! I like to believe that my heart is in the right place, that I'm informed by a working-class, solidarity kind of philosophy. So when I saw the sheer exhaustion of the crew (and to a lesser degree, the cast), I became concerned, and I hoped in my heart that they might rise up and protest. This was a legitimately dangerous production; that no one died making these movies is a fact I found frankly stunning. I was sure we would lose crew members, because there were thousands of people working on
The Lord of the Rings
at one time, and it just seemed like it wasn't the safest environment in which to work. I'm not sure what the workplace regulations are in New Zealand, but my guess is they must be less stringent than they are in Hollywood. The kinds of fumes and chemicals that the special-effects people routinely subjected themselves to—my God! Take, for example, Richard Taylor, the special-effects guru, who is one of the most brilliant men I've ever met. He's an absolute genius and the movie could not have happened without him, but the man made enormous sacrifices in the name of his art. When he and his wife (and working partner) had a protocol done on their bodies to test for toxins acquired over the course of their careers, the results were staggering. I know this is hyperbolic, but I felt like they were in
Silkwood
territory. But these people were so committed to their craft, their art, that they just did it willingly, knowing the risks.

(Please remember, these are just my thoughts and impressions, not necessarily reality as experienced by everyone else. Furthermore, I'm not suggesting that Peter, Barrie, and the rest of the leaders on the production were reckless or inhumane or foolish. There were extraordinary precautions taken for safety, and everyone in New Zealand that I came into contact with had as much love for life and safety as any people I've ever known. But standards and regulations in an industry historically develop over time as a result of accidents and lessons learned on the job. The film industry in New Zealand is newer and therefore less developed in many regards. So all I'm saying is that during my time on the movies I witnessed smart, hard-working, good people take calculated risks in an endeavor to push the envelope of creativity. Admirable in success to be sure, but dangerous nonetheless and worthy of mention as the industry goes forward in time.)

I thought about the Taylors as I watched the rebellion among the crew, most of whom had been working an endless string of twenty-hour days. I saw drivers taking catnaps behind the wheel moments before trying to guide massive trucks along rugged mountain precipices, with death on either side of them, and I kept thinking to myself,
Somebody is going to die here!
My concern (some called it paranoia) became the butt of jokes, but I honestly believe that it was legitimate. As someone who would like to be a director, as a social activist—as someone who would like to be thought of as a leader—I was worried about the conditions people worked under, and what they did without question or complaint. So I was happy when the crew got together to take a vote on whether to shut down the movie. The producers knew what was happening, and they responded with a small increase in overtime compensation—not much, really—and I was expecting the crew to close down the movie for a while because what everyone really needed was about three days of sleep. But that's not what happened. To my amazement, they voted to keep working at the same pace for nothing more than a nominal bump in their pay. Perhaps they realized that once the movie was over, that was it; the giant teat that everyone had been suckling would go dry, and they'd go back to their ordinary lives. This was their chance to be part of something special, and nothing was going to get in the way.

But then that's typical of the Kiwi mentality. I was in New Zealand during the American election debacle of 2000. I remember having my prosthetic feet applied as I filled out my absentee ballot in the makeup bus, and then calling my father on a cell phone and asking him to deliver my ballot to a polling place when it arrived. And I remember the New Zealanders having a ball at the expense of the stupid Americans who seemingly couldn't figure out how to hold a free and fair election, despite spending an immense amount of time going all around the world, telling everyone else how they should embrace democracy and capitalism.

As a self-appointed ambassador for the United States, I was in a difficult position, trying to advocate for the process in my country while grappling with its obvious and oh-so-public shortcomings. One night in the aftermath of the election, I came home late, bleary-eyed after another eighteen-hour day on the set, and instead of going to bed, I got on the Internet, downloaded the sixty-four-page Supreme Court ruling that ultimately led to George W. Bush becoming president, and read the entire document before going to bed. I thought it was important to have an opinion when I showed up on the set, so that when the grips and the gaffers and whoever else started asking me questions and giving me shit, I'd have a response. I didn't want to be dismissed as yet another uninformed American. It was really interesting: I was getting an American civics lesson while visiting a foreign country.

What I like most about New Zealanders is their universally high standards. While they undoubtedly suffer from a bit of “little brother syndrome” (with Australia the big brother), and thus took some snide satisfaction in seeing a superpower such as the United States wallow around in ineptitude, they're equally demanding of their own icons. When politicians or athletes or other public figures fail in New Zealand, it's a serious matter.

If I could make one generalization about New Zealanders, it would be this: they work much harder than most people in order to achieve something. In Hollywood, frankly, the working-class mentality is a little bit softer. It's harder to get the unions, or some members of the unions, to work for less or to work harder. At least, that would be the producer's perspective. Even for an actor, it's frustrating to see that the mentality is to go a little bit slower, all the time, and to have a chip on the shoulder about the corporation that is employing you. I wouldn't say American movie crews are lazy, but let's put it this way: American crews are more experienced, and probably have more talent bred historically into them, but New Zealand crews work harder. And it won't take Peter Jackson and his squadron of willing, able-bodied filmmakers long to compete with anyone on the planet. I just hope a global balance of opportunity can be struck, whereby filmmakers the world over are inspired, work hard, and share in the fruits of their labor.

They're extraordinary people, Kiwis. They're frontier people who've learned how to survive away from much of the Western world, and they've managed to create a First World country with all the bells and whistles of contemporary civilization, despite existing a vast distance away from most of it. It's an amazing accomplishment. And while they are ruthless on their homegrown heroes when they fail, they take the appropriate pride in the accomplishment of their native children. Consider that the New Zealand five-dollar bill bears the image of Sir Edmund Hillary, the famous Kiwi mountaineer. On May 29, 1953, Hillary and his climbing partner, the Nepalese Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, became the first men to set foot on the peak of Mount Everest. Think about that. You know, only a handful of people can look up at the night sky and see the moon and say, “Been there, done that.” Guys like Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin. Same thing with Sir Edmund Hillary. He was the first to be able to look up at Everest, the unreachable summit, and say, “Been there, done that.”

Peter Jackson is now a huge favorite son of New Zealand, and I just love the fact that Hillary came to visit Peter on the set. Nobody made a big deal out of it, at least not far in advance. We just showed up one morning, and one of the assistant directors said, “Hey, Sir Edmund Hillary is coming to the set today.” He might as well have said, “Oh, by the way, God is going to come over and have a bite of lunch.” I mean, Hillary is one of the most remarkable men on the planet. He'll have a seat in the hereafter at a table marked Greatest Accomplishments of All Time.

And he's coming to the set? Today?

I remembered that Hillary had recently written a book, so I started asking around to see if anyone had a copy. Or, at least, a New Zealand five-dollar bill. I wanted something meaningful for him to autograph. That's how excited I was. Regardless of how many famous people I meet, I'm always impressed with the accomplishments of others—from the mundane, though undeniably heroic accomplishments of, say, a single mother to the greatest accomplishments known to man, like walking on your own power to the top of the tallest mountain. I'm totally inspired by people like Hillary, and when I find myself around them, all my self-flagellation just goes out the window and I act like an excited little kid meeting one of his heroes. So I was giddy as a schoolboy when I found out that Hillary was coming. And when I told Peter that I was bummed out because I didn't have Sir Edmund's book, Peter got one of his assistants to go to the bookstore for me. I don't know who paid for the book, but an hour later I was holding a copy of
A View from the Summit
by Sir Edmund Hillary (as well as a five-dollar bill).

That may seem like a small thing, but it really wasn't. Peter Jackson gave me that book, and I felt like it was his way of saying, “Come down to my land for a while.” And I was humbled that I'd been invited. Whatever disappointment I might have felt from time to time, the truth is that Peter Jackson invited me down to New Zealand to play in his paddock, and extraordinary things happened in that paddock. You know, it's like in the United States when jazz started, or in any great place on the planet that enjoys a renaissance. Peter is drawn to greatness, and he draws greatness to him. He's comfortable communicating with great people, and once in a while he opened the door to that sacred chamber of greatness to me. This was one of those days, the day a hulking giant of a man named Sir Edmund Hillary came to the set.

I had lunch with him, and while it was fun, it was also kind of awkward because I just didn't know what to say. Eventually, the title of his book popped into my head, and I used that as a way to start a conversation: “Well, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The view.”

“Oh,” he smiled, “pretty good, actually.”

After lunch he autographed my book and my five-dollar bill. Then he stayed for a little while and watched us film one of the many “walking” shots in the trilogy, a scene of the hobbits trekking through the forest. That was cool. When you're going in front of the camera after doing eight trillion walking shots, there is a tendency to take it for granted. Not always, of course. When you've been helicoptered to the top of a mountain, you feel like, Oh, this is beautiful! This shot is being preserved for all time, and it's showing New Zealand in all its splendor. But when you do a walking shot that's closer to the city and to civilization, and you know there will be twenty takes, it takes a bit more work to get excited.

But not on this day. Not with Sir Edmund Hillary sitting behind a monitor. I wanted the scene and my work in it to be worthy. Somehow, with Hillary looking on, that simple walking shot became more important than all the other walking shots.

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.