It has often seemed to me that fans of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (and The Hobbit) fall into two categories:
those who adore Peter Jackson’s films and those who despise them. I fall into
the former category and my husband into the latter. From our conversations, I
have concluded that in most cases, it is impossible to change the other person’s
mind (not to mention disrespectful to try). This is hardly a problem of cosmic
importance, unless one person attempts to drag the other to all six extended
cut versions of the movies or prevents the other person from enjoying them.
Both sides put forth arguments and reasons, and they are entitled to them. I
think just about everything that can be said has already been expounded upon.
I am firmly in the love-them camp. All the objections folks
have are absolutely right, and have no relevance to my experience of the movies.
The uncritical, immersive, “take me away” quality of my enjoyment of the films has
definitely piqued my curiosity. What happens when I spend hours in Jackson’s
Middle Earth?
In general, I am far less critical of visual media than of
text. Because my own art form is prose, I have developed a keen internal editor
and critic that may be regaled to the back seat but never entirely departs. I
have no such filters for films or paintings. Only a horrifically bad film can destroy
my suspension of disbelief, but horrifically bad films are enjoyable for quite
different reasons than good ones.
I devoured Tolkien’s novels as a young adult, although I
never wanted to run away to Middle Earth then. I found some aspects of the books
frustrating: the “travelogue” passages were often tedious, I had no idea what
Tom Bombadil was doing in the story, and I had trouble forming clear images of
many of the places, for example Helm’s Deep. Nonetheless, I joined the ranks of
fans wearing buttons that said “Frodo Lives!” and “Beware the Balrog.” I stood
in line to see the films by Ralph Bakshi and Rankin-Bass (The Hobbit and The Return of
the King), all of which I found unsatisfying. The hobbits and dwarves in
the animated versions were silly, in bad need of haircuts, and the Bakshi film
was just plain weird. The orcs looked like sabertoothed Sand People (from Star Wars), the Balrog was a costume
from a bad opera, Boromir looked ridiculous in a Viking helmet, and none of the
character moved in a natural way. Et
cetera.
I had no idea who Peter Jackson was, but special effects had
come a long way since the 1970s. Needless to say, I had excitement but not high
hopes. I came prepared to see a live action version of the previous attempts. Five
minutes into The Fellowship of the Ring,
I was in love. The Jackson films “clicked” for me and brought the stories alive
in ways that previous versions, even the original text, fell short.
This is not to say that everyone must feel the same way. Different media and different
interpretations work for different people. I’m delighted that some folks
prefer Tolkien’s text or even the animated versions. I am also delighted that
this one form of presentation worked so well for me. When I go back and re-read
the books, I can now immerse myself in the rich and varied landscapes of Middle
Earth, and see and hear the characters.
After the extended editions of all three Ring movies came out on DVD (and I had
watched all the commentaries and appendices), I set them aside. Every few
years, however, I would watch them (3 movies over 2 days, usually, and when my
husband – who is in the “doesn’t work for me” camp – was out of town). Either
by happenstance or internal prompting, my schedule synchronized with the parole
hearings of the man who raped and murdered my mother. That is, I’d gear up for
the hearing, get re-traumatized no matter what precautions I took, come home
and fall apart, and slowly put myself back together again. Some quality of the
Jackson films spoke to me and offered itself as a healing tool.
I have some ideas of how this works. “Sanctuary” is one of
them: a safe and glorious space, with companions who ensure I do not walk alone
through the darkness. The defeat of evil when all hope is lost, with the
crucial role of an act of mercy, a reminder to nurture my own capacity for
compassion – for myself, for others. Lastly, the cathartic nature of the battle
scenes.
This latter had not occurred to me until I was relating to
an acquaintance that one of the ways I “let down” after a parole hearing was to
watch the Jackson films. His response was that the films were way too violent
for him (and he implied that exposure to violent scenes is in itself a destructive
thing). As I thought about this, I realized that the re-triggering of past
trauma, overlaid with new, painful revelations and the harrowing experience of
entering a prison and seeing the perpetrator, left me saturated with feelings I
had no way to discharge. Vigorous exercise was insufficient, and calming
practices like yoga or meditation were too sedate. In years past, I practiced
Chinese martial arts, particularly kung fu, but injuries and the absence of a
studio ended that outlet 15 years ago.
The effect was to shorten the time of tension and restlessness. It was as if I had taken my own nightmares and thrown them into the fight scenes, and then done battle with them, with Aragorn and Gandalf and Eowyn and all the others at my side. And in the end, I came home with Sam to my own garden.
Now I can watch them – and The Hobbit movies as well –
for escapist style entertainment, but there is always at least a hint of magic
that lingers. The music has brought its own gifts, which I’ll share with you in
a subsequent post.
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