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

pushing myself harder than ever. Interestingly, I was there at the same time that Tom Hanks was losing the weight he’d gained to play a paunchy baseball coach in A League of Their Own, in preparation for his Oscar-winning role in Philadelphia. I’d make jokes as I passed him on my way out of the gym to my third or fourth high-protein meal of the day: “Hey, Tom, want me to pick up a burger for you?”
    His response? Something along these lines: “Screw you!”
    In so many ways, acting is an intensely weird, narcissistic endeavor. It requires immense self-involvement, the belief that people want to watch you perform, play. It’s like athletics without the competition. And as in sports, there is an assumption, a pact between performer and spectator, that the actor not only will give his best, but also, in most cases, will look his best. It seems part of the contract. While it may sound silly and shallow to suggest that most folks don’t go to the movies to watch unattractive people, it’s also probably true. At five-foot-seven with a body that does not naturally lend itself to washboard abs, and a face that is more cherubic than chiseled, I know I am not the classic Hollywood leading man. But there is a certain level of fitness and attractiveness that I can attain, and that I suppose a studio has a right to expect its stars to have. (For me, The Lord of the Rings is the rare exception to the rule. In those films Peter Jackson’s expectation, based on Tolkien’s writing, was that I look less like a leading man, not more; thus, Samwise Gamgee’s portly appearance.)
    Obviously, I haven’t always lived up to Hollywood’s expectations, Encino Man being just one example. I remember Dan Petrie Jr., my friend, my mentor, my trusted ally, coming up to me at my wedding and saying, “Sean, you look good; don’t ever get fat like that again.”
    I laughed, shook his hand, and didn’t really say anything other than, “I understand.”
    â€œNo, man, I’m serious,” he added, his eyes almost pleading with me. “For your career. Don’t let it happen.”
    I knew he meant it. I’d heard it before. In fact, when I showed up on the set of Toy Soldiers a couple years earlier, Mark Berg, the film’s producer, fairly blanched at my softness in the midsection: “Come on, Sean. Get to the gym!”
    I sort of resented it, because I thought I looked sufficiently heroic the way I was. But I was wrong. I wasn’t disciplined enough to take care of my body, which should be among an actor’s most important responsibilities. That’s not to say that an actor should be excessively concerned with superficiality. Of course not. Actors come in all shapes and sizes. But an actor’s instrument is in part his physical body. Sure, the mind, the spirit, general knowledge, and technical training are critical factors in being a solid, well-rounded actor, but the body is the vessel through which you communicate the ideas of the script. And I didn’t want to play tuba parts at that point in my life. I wanted to be able to do a drum solo or be the first violin. On Toy Soldiers I knew the genre. It was an action picture, a smart pubescent thriller—and I was the mini Bruce Willis. I can see Dan cringing while reading this, because he wrote a very sensitive character and I’m reducing poor Billy Tepper to a Slim-Fast cautionary tale. But I’m making a different point.
    I needed to be told what to do, which is sad. I’d had no trouble working out when I played organized sports as a kid, or when I was training to run 10K races or even marathons, but I hadn’t yet reached the point where I was willing to accept it as part of my job. I felt I needed a reason. The obvious logic—it’s good to be fit—just wasn’t enough motivation. For better or worse, my life has been one of extremes, and that extends to my