There and Back Again by Sean Astin with Joe Layden Page B

genius in his own right—the contract that was written between them, or why Aaron had his name taken off the film. I’m going to understand or explain that? No way.) I watched Jeremy suffer, day in and day out, at the hands of Warren Beatty. Jeremy tried to help Warren create a counterculture figure in the character of Bulworth, while trying to create a career for himself, and toward the end the poor guy seemed like an emotional wreck.
    I think of all of this now as I remember that first conversation with Warren at his office, when I stood in the doorway and told him I’d be honored to experience his firm editorial hand, to have him reject every idea, every written word and thought, that I threw his way.
    And his response was a single simple word, spoken with a smile: “Good.”
    *   *   *
    The next day I visited the set of Bulworth , primarily to soak up some atmosphere and meet a few of my coworkers, including Oliver Platt. Oliver is a big hulking behemoth of a brilliant actor, and a man who has, shall we say, a presence . He entered the stage like a summer thunderstorm and thrust out a meaty hand.
    â€œSean, nice to meet you! Man, I loved you in Rudy . What a great movie!”
    â€œUh, thanks, Oliver. Nice to meet you, too.”
    â€œYeah, this is going to be special. Gary C-Span is so cool, the way he doesn’t do anything the whole movie, and then he gives a speech at the end? That’s brilliant, man. Fucking brilliant!”
    Whoaaaaa …
    I didn’t agree with him, but I didn’t want to disagree either, because the truth was I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Oliver had more information about my character than I did, and it occurred to me that somehow he’d gotten deep inside Warren’s head (in much the same way that Ian McKellen would burrow into Peter Jackson’s head during the filming of The Lord of the Rings ). He was so far inside Warren’s head, in fact, that there was almost no way to separate them. Oliver, I suspected—and later this was demonstrated to be true—had suggested to Warren that the character of Gary be mute throughout the film, and then spring eloquently to life at the climax; Warren had liked the idea, and so they had moved forward believing it. My heart began to race. A day earlier I had met with Warren, had heard him say, “Come along with me, and we’ll see what evolves.” And now I was standing on the set, having my hair blown back by Oliver Platt as he dissected the character I had been assigned the task of not merely playing, but interpreting—even, to a degree, creating—a dissection I found baffling, but that apparently made sense dramatically to the director. I hadn’t even signed a contract yet, and already I felt trapped. The only way to get out of the trap was by advocating for myself, quickly and aggressively. Why I didn’t want to do that is … well, it’s the imp of the perverse, isn’t it? That little node of self-destruction that people allow in themselves, and that always leads to trouble.
    Bulworth proved to be an unbelievable four-month apprenticeship that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, because I learned so much not only about the art of filmmaking and cinema culture, but also about what it means to use and abuse power. It was in some ways the most important four months of my professional life, although I’m not sure I’d want to live through it again. Before accepting the job, I had sought the advice of a friend and mentor, and his response was thoroughly negative.
    â€œDon’t do it. You’ll hate it.”
    He was right—and he was wrong. I accepted the job not only because it would allow me to be in the Los Angeles area when my daughter was born (in November 1996), and because it was, I thought, a small amount of work for reasonable remuneration, but also because I wanted to test myself,