I don't know what you did on New Year's Eve, but I was in the middle of a Lord of the Rings home video screening, which seems as good a way to spend it as any. LOTR has always seemed to me to be a winter story, possibly because I first encountered it as a boxed set of books--including The Hobbit--as a Christmas present in my senior year of high school. I'm looking at it right now; although the books are threadbare from much handling, the box, with it shiny gold foil, is in good condition. It's covered all over with Elvish symbols that, now that I look at them, are not unlike something you'd see in Jung's Red Book, with their wheel shapes flowing around central stars and flowers. Very mandala-like, these devices are.
Of course, all of the movies have been holiday releases as well--but I'm thinking back now to my first introduction to Middle-earth all those years ago, when I spent most of Christmas break absolutely immersed in the books. I can see myself now in the small bedroom I shared with my sister, sitting up in bed, eyes intent on the page, completely absorbed in a world of Tolkien's making. I remember how strongly the characters, the settings, and the events of this strangely compelling other world impressed themselves on my imagination and how nearly impossible it was to stop reading.
I used to re-read the books periodically but fell out of the habit some years ago, though I think it may be time now to re-visit the tradition. It will be interesting to see how the intervening years, and Peter Jackson's films, have changed my reactions to the stories on the page. I've written recently about the ways in which Mr. Jackson's Hobbit films (especially the final one) seem to part company with the book, but his LOTR has always seemed remarkably close to Tolkien's vision.
In the three years since I bought the video trilogy, I've probably watched the movies once a year. Even in that time, my way of looking at them has changed from one viewing to the next. Interestingly, The Fellowship of the Ring, which was formerly my favorite part, no longer is--at least not in exactly the same way. I linger over scenes in the Shire, which used to seem merely a prelude to the action, and Rivendell, both of which I find it increasingly hard to imagine leaving on such a task as the hobbits had. The Shire, in its innocence, and Rivendell, in its elegance and otherworldly beauty, are of course as under threat as any place else in Middle-earth until the quest is done . . . but the feeling of safe harbor, ease, and peace is strong in both places.
I find myself mentally speeding the company through Moria and down the river to the place near the falls where the Fellowship breaks up. While this is a major break in the story, and a sad ending to the companionship of the nine, it's almost a relief to me to see Frodo and Sam slip off to the eastern shore. I now find myself enjoying the scenes in both The Two Towers and The Return of the King in which the remaining members of the Fellowship look for and are reunited with one another and become deeply involved in the affairs of Rohan and Gondor.
In reading the books, I always considered these aspects of the story less interesting, dealing as they do less with enchantment and more with strategy, politics, and the role of humans in events. Now, I find the people and their problems much more engaging than I did as a teenager, and the courage of not only Theoden's people but those of Gondor, along with the bravery of the companions who aid them, is very compelling to me. I like Theoden's seasoned, no-nonsense authority, Aragorn's valor and calm intelligence, Gimli's sense of humor, and Legolas's steady eye. I like the way the two younger hobbits, Pippin and Merry, seem to grow up in the course of their dealings with Ents, wizards, and warriors, while remaining essentially light-hearted and free.
While the quest of Frodo and Sam to destroy the ring is protracted and wearying (as in the books), the doings of the other characters, even though they involve a constant succession of either major battles or preparations for them, include many scenes of everyday life, love, jealousy, secret hopes, failings, renewed purpose, and tragedies of an all-too-human nature. The story in its latter stages becomes more character-driven than it was in the beginning. In the face of the big events taking place both in Mordor and the kingdoms of men, small incidents revealing the character of the players bring events back down to earth and are rewarding to watch.
One of my ideas about why this is so has to do with the fact that I don't see as much distance between the concerns of Middle-earth and those of the real world as I used to. Far from seeing it as an escapist fantasy, as I did as a teenager, I now see its contours as much closer to a map of the world as we know it. Like a true myth, LOTR gets its power not so much from its fantastic elements as from the way it resembles reality. It's a mirror in which we see ourselves reflected.
Showing posts with label Peter Jackson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peter Jackson. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Monday, December 22, 2014
Speaking in Tongues at the Lonely Mountain
Certainly, I'm not the only one who walked into the theater this week to see The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies with mixed emotions, including anticipation, curiosity, and sadness at the thought of this being the last film. Having seen Peter Jackson's approach to Tolkien in the first two Hobbit movies I was somewhat prepared--but not totally--for the way he closed the trilogy.
Mr. Jackson's Hobbit is not your mother's Hobbit (or in some sense, even J.R.R. Tolkien's). The characters, the setting, and the plot are there, but the theme, the emotional import, the direction, and the tone have all undergone a sea change. Knowing the great love fans of Tolkien have for the original material (I share the feeling), I think it was risky for Mr. Jackson to take the road he took. If you come to the last film expecting a warm farewell to beloved characters, I think you'll come away baffled. Rather than sticking to the agenda of beguiling children's tale, the last film in particular seems to me to have outgrown its genre. Personally, I wouldn't take a kid to see it.
I'm guessing many fans are shaking their heads and wondering why this had to happen. Considering what the book is really about--a company of adventurers in search of treasure and territory who run afoul of enemies and end up fighting over it all--I wonder if there even was a way to keep the tone light without seeming at least a little disingenuous in view of the world we're living in. Is there a day that goes by when we don't read about territorial disputes, ambition, and the bloody consequences that ensue when they aren't held in check? In the real world, none of this is good news, so why would it be in a movie? Still, we seem in some ways very far from Middle-earth here. It is more as if the film is really about something else.
My sense of the three Hobbit films is that the first one is closest in tone to the book, with all the bonhomie and excitement of a shared adventure as the companions set out on their quest. They actually do have some claim to the territory and treasure they're seeking, they seem like good fellows, they have a wizard on their side, and Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of unimpeachable character, falls in with their plans. He is undoubtedly reluctant at first but more from a sense of the inconvenience and bother of it all than from any moral concern. The companions meet some nasty enemies, fight their way out of tight corners, and display a becoming sense of loyalty and courage.
It's in the second film that the moral ambiguity really surfaces. Elves and dwarves are revealed to be at one another's throats; greed and antagonism make the entire enterprise seem less noble than it did at first. Even Bilbo, who now possesses the ring of power without fully understanding its effects, discovers in himself an unexpected viciousness. In Lake-town, to which the company eventually makes its way, a self-serving leader lords it over the population. In the end, the dwarves' efforts to recover Erebor awaken the dragon, a consequence everyone seems to have expected without considering the danger this might pose to the innocent inhabitants of Lake-town.
In The Battle of the Five Armies, the strain shows most tellingly in the disagreements among the members of Thorin's company. Thorin angrily asserts that someone is hiding the precious Arkenstone from him; he's actually right, but his bitterness over this assumed betrayal begins to consume him. The mayor of Lake-town abandons his people to Smaug's wrath and dies, smote by the falling dragon, creating an opening for Bard to take over. When Bard comes to Thorin to demand Lake-town's promised share of the treasure, Thorin goes back on his word--nor will he share any of the treasure with the elves, who also have a claim. While the elves and the people of Lake-town prepare to battle with the dwarves, the orcs and their allies show up, forcing alliances to shift again as the erstwhile enemies prepare to battle a common foe.
This is pretty much in line with the book, but the battle itself is much less sanitized than in Tolkien's handling of it. There is great courage shown in the battle, and there is also a sense that some enemies, like the orcs, are truly dangerous and must be stopped. The fighting itself is fierce and bloody. In the end, several of the company die in a nasty and protracted fight with the orcs on top of Ravenhill, including Thorin. The effect of the finale is not so much heroic as disheartening.
By this time, I was not so sure the dwarves had done the right thing by returning to Erebor or that much had been accomplished aside from some people getting richer. Who was having a good time on this quest? (Nobody, by now.) The ring of power is now abroad in the world, the company is diminished both in numbers and moral standing, many lives have been lost, including that of Kili, the sweetest and most valiant of the dwarves, and the certainty of more war looms on the horizon. Of course, this all leads to the War of the Rings, a contest in which the moral certainties seem to be much clearer than they are here.
I wonder what that trilogy would look like if Mr. Jackson were making it now instead of a few years back, but fortunately it's already been done. The Lord of the Rings depicts the hero's quest as a way to conquer one's own shortcomings and to sacrifice for the common good. The battles are not only with one's enemies but with one's self, and we need that kind of story, even more so than this kind. The Battle of the Five Armies shows the tragedy of war, its senselessness, and the too frequent result that it leads to more war. The film also has a marked sense of suspicion about the uses of power. Even a seemingly "good" figure like Galadriel is transformed by it. (Actually, I found her to be the most terrifying thing by far in the battle to vanquish the Nine and can only think that was the intention.)
The Lord of the Rings deals with the results of events enacted in The Hobbit and shows the good that can come when disparate parties realize they must overcome their differences to preserve what's good and useful in their world; as depicted by Jackson, it's the more optimistic of the stories. It's ironic that The Hobbit, which comes across as something of a lark in its original form, has become more somber than The Lord of the Rings on film. Perhaps Mr. Jackson is trying to point out the difference between a quest based on the desire for wealth and advancement and one in which the key theme is sacrifice and endurance.
In my essay last year on The Desolation of Smaug, I talked about my sense that the film's characters sometimes played more than one role and that that fluidity was in tune with the ideas of James Hillman, who believed that we all play multiple roles in life. I had an even stronger sense of that happening in this film. When Smaug attacks Lake-town, we see Tauriel looking up at the dragon from the boat in which she is escaping with a curious smile. A strange thing perhaps, unless (just for an instant) Smaug represents something other than an enraged dragon. Or is it rather that Tauriel herself is someone other than she appears to be?
In another scene, the rather horrifying battle on Ravenhill, the orc Azog pauses for an instant with an almost kindly smile. There are several instances like this throughout the film, in which a different personality unexpectedly appears in place of the one you were just looking at, causing a bit of discontinuity, a shift in energy. What you thought was happening a moment ago then seems to be called into question. I read last night that even Peter Jackson used a double in his own cameo scene, so that from one angle, you're seeing Peter Jackson, and from another, you're seeing a stand-in for Peter Jackson. I don't know if that was merely a coincidence or if it says something about what's going on in the film.
To what end, you may wonder? The effect is jarring, and I confess to being mystified. If the purpose was to demonstrate that a character can have more than one side, I'm sure Mr. Jackson could have handled it with more subtlety and conviction. In the end, I was left with the feeling that I no longer knew who the characters were or what they represented. It was a little bit like the film had been made in a foreign language and translated awkwardly, so that the lips were moving but didn't match the words being spoken. That's surprising for a director of Mr. Jackson's ability.
Mr. Jackson's Hobbit is not your mother's Hobbit (or in some sense, even J.R.R. Tolkien's). The characters, the setting, and the plot are there, but the theme, the emotional import, the direction, and the tone have all undergone a sea change. Knowing the great love fans of Tolkien have for the original material (I share the feeling), I think it was risky for Mr. Jackson to take the road he took. If you come to the last film expecting a warm farewell to beloved characters, I think you'll come away baffled. Rather than sticking to the agenda of beguiling children's tale, the last film in particular seems to me to have outgrown its genre. Personally, I wouldn't take a kid to see it.
I'm guessing many fans are shaking their heads and wondering why this had to happen. Considering what the book is really about--a company of adventurers in search of treasure and territory who run afoul of enemies and end up fighting over it all--I wonder if there even was a way to keep the tone light without seeming at least a little disingenuous in view of the world we're living in. Is there a day that goes by when we don't read about territorial disputes, ambition, and the bloody consequences that ensue when they aren't held in check? In the real world, none of this is good news, so why would it be in a movie? Still, we seem in some ways very far from Middle-earth here. It is more as if the film is really about something else.
My sense of the three Hobbit films is that the first one is closest in tone to the book, with all the bonhomie and excitement of a shared adventure as the companions set out on their quest. They actually do have some claim to the territory and treasure they're seeking, they seem like good fellows, they have a wizard on their side, and Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of unimpeachable character, falls in with their plans. He is undoubtedly reluctant at first but more from a sense of the inconvenience and bother of it all than from any moral concern. The companions meet some nasty enemies, fight their way out of tight corners, and display a becoming sense of loyalty and courage.
It's in the second film that the moral ambiguity really surfaces. Elves and dwarves are revealed to be at one another's throats; greed and antagonism make the entire enterprise seem less noble than it did at first. Even Bilbo, who now possesses the ring of power without fully understanding its effects, discovers in himself an unexpected viciousness. In Lake-town, to which the company eventually makes its way, a self-serving leader lords it over the population. In the end, the dwarves' efforts to recover Erebor awaken the dragon, a consequence everyone seems to have expected without considering the danger this might pose to the innocent inhabitants of Lake-town.
In The Battle of the Five Armies, the strain shows most tellingly in the disagreements among the members of Thorin's company. Thorin angrily asserts that someone is hiding the precious Arkenstone from him; he's actually right, but his bitterness over this assumed betrayal begins to consume him. The mayor of Lake-town abandons his people to Smaug's wrath and dies, smote by the falling dragon, creating an opening for Bard to take over. When Bard comes to Thorin to demand Lake-town's promised share of the treasure, Thorin goes back on his word--nor will he share any of the treasure with the elves, who also have a claim. While the elves and the people of Lake-town prepare to battle with the dwarves, the orcs and their allies show up, forcing alliances to shift again as the erstwhile enemies prepare to battle a common foe.
This is pretty much in line with the book, but the battle itself is much less sanitized than in Tolkien's handling of it. There is great courage shown in the battle, and there is also a sense that some enemies, like the orcs, are truly dangerous and must be stopped. The fighting itself is fierce and bloody. In the end, several of the company die in a nasty and protracted fight with the orcs on top of Ravenhill, including Thorin. The effect of the finale is not so much heroic as disheartening.
By this time, I was not so sure the dwarves had done the right thing by returning to Erebor or that much had been accomplished aside from some people getting richer. Who was having a good time on this quest? (Nobody, by now.) The ring of power is now abroad in the world, the company is diminished both in numbers and moral standing, many lives have been lost, including that of Kili, the sweetest and most valiant of the dwarves, and the certainty of more war looms on the horizon. Of course, this all leads to the War of the Rings, a contest in which the moral certainties seem to be much clearer than they are here.
I wonder what that trilogy would look like if Mr. Jackson were making it now instead of a few years back, but fortunately it's already been done. The Lord of the Rings depicts the hero's quest as a way to conquer one's own shortcomings and to sacrifice for the common good. The battles are not only with one's enemies but with one's self, and we need that kind of story, even more so than this kind. The Battle of the Five Armies shows the tragedy of war, its senselessness, and the too frequent result that it leads to more war. The film also has a marked sense of suspicion about the uses of power. Even a seemingly "good" figure like Galadriel is transformed by it. (Actually, I found her to be the most terrifying thing by far in the battle to vanquish the Nine and can only think that was the intention.)
The Lord of the Rings deals with the results of events enacted in The Hobbit and shows the good that can come when disparate parties realize they must overcome their differences to preserve what's good and useful in their world; as depicted by Jackson, it's the more optimistic of the stories. It's ironic that The Hobbit, which comes across as something of a lark in its original form, has become more somber than The Lord of the Rings on film. Perhaps Mr. Jackson is trying to point out the difference between a quest based on the desire for wealth and advancement and one in which the key theme is sacrifice and endurance.
In my essay last year on The Desolation of Smaug, I talked about my sense that the film's characters sometimes played more than one role and that that fluidity was in tune with the ideas of James Hillman, who believed that we all play multiple roles in life. I had an even stronger sense of that happening in this film. When Smaug attacks Lake-town, we see Tauriel looking up at the dragon from the boat in which she is escaping with a curious smile. A strange thing perhaps, unless (just for an instant) Smaug represents something other than an enraged dragon. Or is it rather that Tauriel herself is someone other than she appears to be?
In another scene, the rather horrifying battle on Ravenhill, the orc Azog pauses for an instant with an almost kindly smile. There are several instances like this throughout the film, in which a different personality unexpectedly appears in place of the one you were just looking at, causing a bit of discontinuity, a shift in energy. What you thought was happening a moment ago then seems to be called into question. I read last night that even Peter Jackson used a double in his own cameo scene, so that from one angle, you're seeing Peter Jackson, and from another, you're seeing a stand-in for Peter Jackson. I don't know if that was merely a coincidence or if it says something about what's going on in the film.
To what end, you may wonder? The effect is jarring, and I confess to being mystified. If the purpose was to demonstrate that a character can have more than one side, I'm sure Mr. Jackson could have handled it with more subtlety and conviction. In the end, I was left with the feeling that I no longer knew who the characters were or what they represented. It was a little bit like the film had been made in a foreign language and translated awkwardly, so that the lips were moving but didn't match the words being spoken. That's surprising for a director of Mr. Jackson's ability.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
A Dwarf, Not a Hobbit
Is any story a myth, or is a myth a special kind of story? I tend to think a story becomes more mythic as it becomes more universal, relying on themes everyone can relate to, but almost any story has mythic elements. We don't always see a contemporary story as mythic (or a mythic story as contemporary), especially if we think of myths as tales from the past. Once you look closely, you're often surprised to find mythic characters and plots hiding inside ordinary protagonists and story lines. Even current events can be read mythically.
Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug is easy to identify as myth because it's epic fantasy, a familiar form of myth. The director has been criticized for stretching Tolkien's book into three movies and adding material, but almost any myth with staying power has variations that diverge. There have been other versions of The Hobbit, and more undoubtedly will follow. Jackson has tied his Hobbit movies very closely to The Lord of the Rings, turning Tolkien's almost playful treasure hunt into a prelude to the War of the Rings that explains much of what happens there.
I wrote last year about how I had come over time to see people I knew in Tolkien's characters. I identified most with Bilbo in last year's movie but was surprised this time to see myself most clearly in one or two of the dwarves. I don't think of myself as dwarf-like as Tolkien portrays them, but Jackson's handling of characters and interpersonal dynamics opened up unexpected vistas. This story really belongs to the dwarves, and the more I looked, the more human their problems became.
Likewise, the film shows a different side of the elves, who were heroic and otherworldly in LOTR. In Smaug (as in Tolkien's original), they're actually rather scary and, selfishly intent on their own concerns, are not above manipulation and deceit. Legolas and his father, the woodland king Thranduil, are lordly and arrogant, not people you'd really want to fall in with if you could help it. (One surmises that Legolas's character was later improved by his association with others not of his kind, the Fellowship, etc.)
The exception to elvish hostility in Smaug is Tauriel, a character Jackson and Company added to create a strong female presence. Some have criticized the surprising love triangle between her, Legolas, and Kili; I thought it brought a new piquancy to the story, which is now about more than just power, birthright, heroism, and treasure. Attraction and jealousy have been added to the mix, complicating things in an edgy but not inconceivable way.
It's very Hillmanian (as in James Hillman) to see yourself inhabiting multiple roles and stories, and I think the shifting perspectives between not only LOTR and The Hobbit but also between the first and second Hobbit movies make it easy for viewers to imagine themselves as more than one character. This is an idea I believe Jackson would approve, since he has appeared in cameo roles in all of his Tolkien films, here a Corsair, there a dwarf, there a man eating a carrot. Even some of the characters within the movie seem to play more than one role; Beorn is a potential protector and at the same time a fearsome predator; Gandalf is both wise and foolish, powerful and powerless; Bard is a leader in the making disguised as a rough and cunning bargeman.
It will be interesting to see if perspectives shift again as the Hobbit trilogy draws to a close in the next film. The current movie does a good job of showing the effects of power on those who wield it: from Bilbo, who finds in Mirkwood that the ring is already driving his actions in ways he doesn't want; to the Master of Laketown, who seems to enjoy the trappings of power more than the actual exercise of leadership; to Thorin, whose quest for his birthright as King under the Mountain is fraught with questions of moral ambiguity and divided responsibilities. Then there's Smaug himself, a living emblem of "might makes right," shown at one point gilded in molten gold, which he shakes off like a dog shedding water before flying off to attack Laketown. More than just the continuation of a hero's journey, Jackson's second Hobbit film is rather acute in looking at the shadow side of the quest.
You can respond to Smaug on many levels. The kids in the audience seemed to enjoy it as an adventure story, which it is. Tolkien fans are kept busy with comparisons between the book and the film (personally, I think most of Jackson's choices fall in with the spirit of Tolkien, if not the letter). Lovers of special effects and spectacle have a great deal to chew on, and the mythologists among us (and I hope we're all mythologists to some extent) are invited to find themselves and the world around them in the quest of 13 dwarves and a hobbit for treasure. On none of these levels is the filmgoer likely to come up empty. One of the characteristics of myth is its multilayered capacity to say several things at once.
Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug is easy to identify as myth because it's epic fantasy, a familiar form of myth. The director has been criticized for stretching Tolkien's book into three movies and adding material, but almost any myth with staying power has variations that diverge. There have been other versions of The Hobbit, and more undoubtedly will follow. Jackson has tied his Hobbit movies very closely to The Lord of the Rings, turning Tolkien's almost playful treasure hunt into a prelude to the War of the Rings that explains much of what happens there.
I wrote last year about how I had come over time to see people I knew in Tolkien's characters. I identified most with Bilbo in last year's movie but was surprised this time to see myself most clearly in one or two of the dwarves. I don't think of myself as dwarf-like as Tolkien portrays them, but Jackson's handling of characters and interpersonal dynamics opened up unexpected vistas. This story really belongs to the dwarves, and the more I looked, the more human their problems became.
Likewise, the film shows a different side of the elves, who were heroic and otherworldly in LOTR. In Smaug (as in Tolkien's original), they're actually rather scary and, selfishly intent on their own concerns, are not above manipulation and deceit. Legolas and his father, the woodland king Thranduil, are lordly and arrogant, not people you'd really want to fall in with if you could help it. (One surmises that Legolas's character was later improved by his association with others not of his kind, the Fellowship, etc.)
The exception to elvish hostility in Smaug is Tauriel, a character Jackson and Company added to create a strong female presence. Some have criticized the surprising love triangle between her, Legolas, and Kili; I thought it brought a new piquancy to the story, which is now about more than just power, birthright, heroism, and treasure. Attraction and jealousy have been added to the mix, complicating things in an edgy but not inconceivable way.
It's very Hillmanian (as in James Hillman) to see yourself inhabiting multiple roles and stories, and I think the shifting perspectives between not only LOTR and The Hobbit but also between the first and second Hobbit movies make it easy for viewers to imagine themselves as more than one character. This is an idea I believe Jackson would approve, since he has appeared in cameo roles in all of his Tolkien films, here a Corsair, there a dwarf, there a man eating a carrot. Even some of the characters within the movie seem to play more than one role; Beorn is a potential protector and at the same time a fearsome predator; Gandalf is both wise and foolish, powerful and powerless; Bard is a leader in the making disguised as a rough and cunning bargeman.
It will be interesting to see if perspectives shift again as the Hobbit trilogy draws to a close in the next film. The current movie does a good job of showing the effects of power on those who wield it: from Bilbo, who finds in Mirkwood that the ring is already driving his actions in ways he doesn't want; to the Master of Laketown, who seems to enjoy the trappings of power more than the actual exercise of leadership; to Thorin, whose quest for his birthright as King under the Mountain is fraught with questions of moral ambiguity and divided responsibilities. Then there's Smaug himself, a living emblem of "might makes right," shown at one point gilded in molten gold, which he shakes off like a dog shedding water before flying off to attack Laketown. More than just the continuation of a hero's journey, Jackson's second Hobbit film is rather acute in looking at the shadow side of the quest.
You can respond to Smaug on many levels. The kids in the audience seemed to enjoy it as an adventure story, which it is. Tolkien fans are kept busy with comparisons between the book and the film (personally, I think most of Jackson's choices fall in with the spirit of Tolkien, if not the letter). Lovers of special effects and spectacle have a great deal to chew on, and the mythologists among us (and I hope we're all mythologists to some extent) are invited to find themselves and the world around them in the quest of 13 dwarves and a hobbit for treasure. On none of these levels is the filmgoer likely to come up empty. One of the characteristics of myth is its multilayered capacity to say several things at once.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A Hobbit, Not an Elf
I went to see The Hobbit on Saturday; along with most everybody else, I had been looking forward to it for a while. Normally, I don't read a book shortly before seeing the movie, but as it happens I did re-read the book quite recently, detachable cover and all (I got it as part of a boxed set for Christmas when I was a senior in high school). The story is so familiar to me that even without having it fresh in my mind, I would have noticed the places where Peter Jackson inserted material.
I've read that most of the added scenes can be traced to material in the appendices of The Lord of the Rings. It seems reasonable of Mr. Jackson to tie this movie (and the rest of the trilogy) to his prior work. The Hobbit (as a book) has an entirely different flavor, a lighter and more humorous tone, than the somber Lord of the Rings; I remember having to adjust to the change in atmosphere when I first read the books. The Hobbit is a caper, but LOTR is an epic. Mr. Jackson has emphasized the aspects of the story that place The Hobbit more firmly within the sequence of events leading up to the cataclysmic episodes in the later books.
So seeing the movie is both like and unlike reading the book; it is a little jarring if you go to the theater expecting absolute faithfulness to Tolkien's story as originally written. I agree with those who think some of the scenes were a bit long. (I thought we'd never get out of the Orcs' tunnels, but I felt the same way when I read the book. And the scenes with Radagast in the forest seemed misplaced, almost as if they been transplanted from a Disney movie.)
All of that aside, any combination of Tolkien and Peter Jackson is bound to have its share of magic, and it was fun to see The Hobbit on the big screen. One thing Mr. Jackson has always emphasized is the heroic nature of the quest; in LOTR he poignantly addressed the characters' struggles to live up to the enterprise and the ways in which their adventures changed (and scarred) them. The fellowship of the ring came together to accomplish something more important than individual ambition; in serving something larger, all of its members (even the weak ones) grew. In The Hobbit, Mr. Jackson seems intent on bringing out in a similar way the noble aspects of Bilbo and his companions. Not merely disgruntled treasure-seekers, the dwarves are in search of a home and a legacy that has been violently taken from them. No longer simply their bewildered "burglar," Bilbo becomes sympathetic to their loss and their real emotional need to reclaim their inheritance.
If any young person happens to be reading this, you may not have had the experience of a book (or a movie) somehow becoming different as you come back to it over time. It's happened to me with books I didn't like the first time around (like Moby-Dick, now in my dissertation, if you can imagine) and with books I've always loved. The first time I read The Hobbit, it was simply a very enjoyable, highly imaginative fantasy. It stayed that way for a long time, but when I started studying mythology, I was able to see it and LOTR in the light of a hero's journey and to understand intellectually the story's appeal. Then a little more time went by, and wow, the stories and characters took on an even more vivid hue as I started to recognize myself and other people I know in them.
In the introductory pages of my edition of the The Hobbit are the words of a commentator, Peter S. Beagle, who states, "Lovers of Middle-Earth want to go there. I would myself, like a shot." Imagine your surprise when you finally figure out that you don't have to go there because you're there already. Tolkien's world is really just a mirror, showing us ourselves, in costume, dropped into an imaginary setting, as myths tend to do. I just recently realized how completely familiar Bilbo's conflicted nature, the respectable, tea-cake loving Baggins side, and the wildly adventurous Took side, were to me. I also share his love of meals and the comforts of home. (I had always wanted to be an elf, but it turns out I'm more of a hobbit. You can't always get what you want.)
At the movie's end, Thorin and company are standing on the eagles' rock, looking eagerly toward the Lonely Mountain, with Bilbo declaring, "I do believe the worst is behind us" (of course it isn't -- there are two more movies to go). I don't know about you, but my reaction to that was a wry and painful sympathy. They haven't even gotten to the spiders yet, much less Smaug! This is where Bilbo and I part company: if it had been me, considering all the Orcs, wargs, and trolls I had already bested, I would have been demanding that someone take me back to Rivendell, poste-haste, for some R & R, river views, and a permanent hiatus. Of course, then there wouldn't have been a story.
Thank goodness for heroes!
I've read that most of the added scenes can be traced to material in the appendices of The Lord of the Rings. It seems reasonable of Mr. Jackson to tie this movie (and the rest of the trilogy) to his prior work. The Hobbit (as a book) has an entirely different flavor, a lighter and more humorous tone, than the somber Lord of the Rings; I remember having to adjust to the change in atmosphere when I first read the books. The Hobbit is a caper, but LOTR is an epic. Mr. Jackson has emphasized the aspects of the story that place The Hobbit more firmly within the sequence of events leading up to the cataclysmic episodes in the later books.
So seeing the movie is both like and unlike reading the book; it is a little jarring if you go to the theater expecting absolute faithfulness to Tolkien's story as originally written. I agree with those who think some of the scenes were a bit long. (I thought we'd never get out of the Orcs' tunnels, but I felt the same way when I read the book. And the scenes with Radagast in the forest seemed misplaced, almost as if they been transplanted from a Disney movie.)
All of that aside, any combination of Tolkien and Peter Jackson is bound to have its share of magic, and it was fun to see The Hobbit on the big screen. One thing Mr. Jackson has always emphasized is the heroic nature of the quest; in LOTR he poignantly addressed the characters' struggles to live up to the enterprise and the ways in which their adventures changed (and scarred) them. The fellowship of the ring came together to accomplish something more important than individual ambition; in serving something larger, all of its members (even the weak ones) grew. In The Hobbit, Mr. Jackson seems intent on bringing out in a similar way the noble aspects of Bilbo and his companions. Not merely disgruntled treasure-seekers, the dwarves are in search of a home and a legacy that has been violently taken from them. No longer simply their bewildered "burglar," Bilbo becomes sympathetic to their loss and their real emotional need to reclaim their inheritance.
If any young person happens to be reading this, you may not have had the experience of a book (or a movie) somehow becoming different as you come back to it over time. It's happened to me with books I didn't like the first time around (like Moby-Dick, now in my dissertation, if you can imagine) and with books I've always loved. The first time I read The Hobbit, it was simply a very enjoyable, highly imaginative fantasy. It stayed that way for a long time, but when I started studying mythology, I was able to see it and LOTR in the light of a hero's journey and to understand intellectually the story's appeal. Then a little more time went by, and wow, the stories and characters took on an even more vivid hue as I started to recognize myself and other people I know in them.
In the introductory pages of my edition of the The Hobbit are the words of a commentator, Peter S. Beagle, who states, "Lovers of Middle-Earth want to go there. I would myself, like a shot." Imagine your surprise when you finally figure out that you don't have to go there because you're there already. Tolkien's world is really just a mirror, showing us ourselves, in costume, dropped into an imaginary setting, as myths tend to do. I just recently realized how completely familiar Bilbo's conflicted nature, the respectable, tea-cake loving Baggins side, and the wildly adventurous Took side, were to me. I also share his love of meals and the comforts of home. (I had always wanted to be an elf, but it turns out I'm more of a hobbit. You can't always get what you want.)
At the movie's end, Thorin and company are standing on the eagles' rock, looking eagerly toward the Lonely Mountain, with Bilbo declaring, "I do believe the worst is behind us" (of course it isn't -- there are two more movies to go). I don't know about you, but my reaction to that was a wry and painful sympathy. They haven't even gotten to the spiders yet, much less Smaug! This is where Bilbo and I part company: if it had been me, considering all the Orcs, wargs, and trolls I had already bested, I would have been demanding that someone take me back to Rivendell, poste-haste, for some R & R, river views, and a permanent hiatus. Of course, then there wouldn't have been a story.
Thank goodness for heroes!
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