Read Online There and Back Again by Sean Astin with Joe Layden - Free Book Online

role was mine to lose, I waded carefully into the waters of negotiation.
    I had just made $250,000 on Encino Man, so I was surprised when they offered me roughly half that amount to play Rudy. After all, I’d be carrying the movie. Now, I realize that while it had major studio backing, Rudy was designed as a small, personal film, one that would tug at the audience’s heart rather than grab it by the jugular. Those types of movies don’t necessarily become blockbusters. But the budget for Rudy was at least double the budget for Encino Man. Hoosiers grossed $60 million domestically, while Encino Man grossed nearly $40 million. So it wasn’t a stretch to believe that Rudy could perform just as well. At the least, small movies can be successful; otherwise the studios wouldn’t produce them. They can win awards, satisfy audiences, and make money, too. Although probably not as much money. Personally, I didn’t really care. I was told the offer was what it was, and it wouldn’t go any higher. The job was almost mine to accept or reject. If I played hardball, they’d make a deal with Chris O’Donnell.
    Now, I’m not sure how much most people care about the art of the deal in these situations, but I’m happy to share a level of detail about my experiences because I think folks can learn from it. Obviously, we’re not talking about chicken feed here—$125,000 is a lot of dough. Never mind that we pay half our salary to the government and ten percent to an agent, ten percent to a manager, and a little more to a publicist, business manager/accountant, physical trainer, etc. It’s still a lot of money. But that’s not how you think in these situations. Showbiz is one of the only fields I can think of where what you’ve made previously can prove to be only a minor factor in determining what you might/maybe/should/ought to/probably will get paid this time. How much they want you relative to how much they want someone else, while factoring in everyone’s availability and the risk of possibly losing you or your competition, means much more to the bottom line than does past salary.
    Christine and I were fresh back from our honeymoon, in love and feeling great. I was in excellent physical condition, running four miles a day and thinking pretty clearly all of the time. It was summer, so I could usually be found in our pool pondering business and creative issues. The head of production at Tri-Star then was Marc Platt, an extremely intelligent and proud family man. He was also a shrewd executive. I knew, or at least believed, that Kevin Mischer, the junior executive who was “covering” or championing Rudy , was in my corner. Kevin was a good friend of my agent, Josh Lieberman (I probably would not have played Rudy if I had stayed at the smaller agency at that point in my career). Kevin was an executive I had worked with on Toy Soldiers, and he would go on to have a very bright career—despite having worked with me twice!
    I’m half kidding, but I’m pretty sure that’s how folks think: These movies grossed X number of dollars; therefore, nobody wants to see Sean carrying a picture. Of course, everything can change with a hit. All things being equal, I’d rather feel that a studio executive sees me as a good-luck charm for his career, rather than a two-strike stink bomb that.
    To the best of my recollection, the way it was presented to me was this: Everyone wants you but Marc Platt. He insists that you “test,” and he swears he’s not budging off the $125,000.
    I was in no mood to risk a game of poker, so I settled for it. Actually, that’s not quite accurate, for I didn’t consider it to be “settling.” I wanted the part. I needed it. Some jobs you take for your wallet; others you take for your soul. Rudy fell into the second category. And as Dominic Monaghan would admonish me years later during the making of The Lord of