Poffy
The Green
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The
Bling's The Thing. by
Jon Dunmore © Feb 6, 2002.
Precursor
To Fantasy:
"Yeh,
Woodstock - I was there." What - as a pair of gametes in two people who were
making out while watching Alvin Lee and Ten Years After, you 21 year old peach?
Much like
Woodstock, John Ronald Reuel Tolkein's oeuvre has insinuated itself into
First World vernacular and most Real Worlders - even if they have not read any
of his works - simply lie about being intimately familiar with his wealth
of fantasy characters and worlds. But those Fantasy World books are heavy-duty
reading and unless they were tackled in school, or ingested during an insurmountable
gulf of time spent supine in a hospital bed or desert island idyll, I cannot imagine
that nine-tenths of those who profess a knowledge of Fantasy Worlds have actually
invested the energy in imbuing their psyches with the pain-staking canon.
Not
that I am against Fantasy Worlds - The Lord Of The Rings occupies its two
inches of shelfspace in my library and I am a regular patron of Madame Svetlana's
House Of Clamps every month or so, though after consuming the two brain-draining
trilogies of The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant The Unbeliever, I put the
kibosh on books which featured non-earth maps in their prologue pages, as the
recurring motif of Good battling Evil (with the requisite Dragons, Wizards and
iron-thewed Heroes peopling the landscape) began to grate on my elfin sensibilities.
The
geek contingent may hiss at me in denigration for having not tasted the wonders
of Anne McCaffrey's storm-driving dragon heroes; for never buckling myself into
a rousing game of ElfQuest II, or creeping the corridors of horror in Dungeons
and Dragons, yet, though I may never have wielded vorpel sword to lop off
green-skinned limbs, or battled an ogre to avoid being turned into a purplish
bogradoon, I have been a Dungeonmaster [refer above to House Of Clamps],
so cut me some Fantasy slack, O you Questophiles and Salad-Tossers!
Thus,
this exordium is to proclaim that in the following arcane writings, I do not compare THE LORD... film to The Lord
book, nor do I attempt a dissertation
on comparative Fantasy Worlds in Tolkein's ilk, but rather, regarding this film
as a sui generis Fantasy tale unto itself, I cry havoc and let slip the
balrogs of war.
Overview
Someone said they
would give me a penny every time there was a close-up of filth-encrusted hand
opening around a gold ring. I now possess an attractive and handy electrical kitchen
appliance for accepting that deal. The movie being named THE LORD OF THE RINGS,
it was imperative that the suburbanites in the audience keep being reminded what
all the running and screaming and puling and poking was over.
In
Sweden, this film is renamed CLOSEUPS OF DIRTY HANDS. Like fans of THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW emulating their film heroes, people arrive at screenings
having not washed their hands or hair for three weeks. If you can make a person
puke by letting them smell your hand, you get in for free. If you have vomit in
your hair, you get an attractive salad-tosser. If it's someone else's vomit, you
get a Gold Pass.
Ironically,
I lost my ring in my kitchen appliance yesterday.
Characters
Between Points
A and B of any Fantasy World tale, the dramatis personae consists of about
3 million characters you'll never have to think about for the rest of your life
(much like algebra); thank goodness there were only about 30,000 characters in
this movie, most of them practically cameos, due to the sheer quantity.
Elijah
Wood, not having reached puberty yet at 22, was the Casting Director's masterstroke:
the wide-eyed and bushy-footed hobbit hero, Frodo, extending the film's appeal
to the generally-untapped pedophile demographic. (Those cerulean-blue peepers
and cheeks as-yet-unscarred by the Gillette Corporation makes it feel so devilishly
like cradle-robbing
) Forty-foot-high baby-bottom face, shot through soft-focus
lens for two hours screentime, should leave more than just popcorn and raisinets
stickying the floors of some cinemas.
Ian
McKellen, renowned rille-faced veteran of stage, film and backdoor-mannery, was
the stringy-haired, hessian-robed wizard Gandalf The Grey, hard-pressed curbing
his desire to touch Elijah Wood's Golden Ring, dusky whispers taunting him whenever
the candy-skinned man-boy would saunter near. One face-crease away from being
Patrick Stewart's doppelganger, McKellen leads the ragtag expedition (did I just
say 'ragtag'?) into special effects flummery and wins the audience over time and
again with his awesome displays of unadulterated burlap robe-wearing.
Sean
Astin, having reached puberty and finding that he didn't like it (so reverting
back to dull, ambiguous child actor) was Frodo's comedic sidekick, Sam-I-Am, most
notably from Dr. Seuss's classic tale of Wizardry and Demonology, Green Eggs
And Ham. When entrusted by Gandalf to ward Frodo on his quest, Sam-I-Am's
purpose in life became clear: attempt at leading-man stardom nullified (remember
the stirring intensity he summoned in Icebreaker or Dish Dogs?),
husky manservant roles from here on in. His one attempt at poignancy ("If
I take one more step, it's the farthest I've ever been from home") is righteously
slamdunked by two hobbits from the East End, who join Frodo's quest to travel
to the farthest reaches of the land, which was about ten miles down the road.
Ian
Holm plays Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the diminutive Hero of the book that preceded
The Lord Of The Rings tome, The Hobbit, which, if current idiot
trends are any indication, will probably be made into a film sometime around 2010,
after all three Rings movies have had their run on home video release and
brainless marketing pioneers come up with the heftily original idea of doing a
PREQUEL. Bilbo's initial meeting with Gandalf set the special effects tone for
this movie. Here at last was a modern movie that did not shove its efx In Yo Face;
a masterful handling of double-camera technique so subtle that it took a few minutes
to even realize your eyesight was being exploited. And so it went throughout the
film: each effect - and there were many - only enhanced the credibility of this
incredible tale, paradoxically working towards making this Fantasy World seem
more 'real', rather than transport the film into the realm of CGI glut-fest: the
vast subterranean caverns, camera tilting through their dank corridors as if they
really existed; the giant sculptures from antiquity adorning the countryside;
the wizardry, the beasts, the Vallejo-esque castled structures, and then there
was -
The
Balrog: was there ever a cooler daemon to stalk cloven-hoofed and flame-chiaroscuroed
across a screen, stage or pentacle? This torn-winged, hell-blackened, ram-horned
apotheosis of Evil Incarnate (how I love him so!) faces off with The Great Gandalf
in a cinematic sequence so astounding, breath-stopping and power-hammering that
George Lucas is still trying to re-write STAR WARS: EPISODE II. Just in case there was the smidgeon of doubt, Gandalf
assures us, "Your swords are useless!" (Was it the fact that this ten-storey-tall
entity was causing thermal atmospheric disturbance through its existence in our
dimension that gave him the clue? Or was it the fact that most of the Fellowship
was already doing their impression of Jesse Owens at a Klan rally?)
Sean
Bean, well-known advocate of 'big men grabbing other big men' (UK Football ad
spokesperson, "We know how ya feel - we feel the same way!") and known
Secret Agent with a license to kill, was one of the few Real Men in the movie
- and by that, we are only differentiating between dwarves, elves, hobbits, wizards,
stone-creatures, wraiths and other beings with dynamic costumes and/or pointy
ears. It took three broomstick-thick arrows to bring The Bean down, in a battle
with the head orc, a MANstrosity straight from the Bodies In Motion gym on Olympic
and Sepulveda in West LA.
Liv
Tyler is a goddess. Anyone got her number?
Christopher
Lee, whom many younger viewers may not remember as the Lord Of The Wings, the
original caped crusader - no, not Batman, but twice as fey - Dracula (pronounced
'Drah-kyule', or any other Euro-sounding deformation of the name, which lends
it more legitimacy for some reason), is the treacherous Saruman, Gandalf's Human
Resources Manager. Enrobed in startling white, snowy mane cascading to his lower
back, beard grown down to big-ass medallion on his sunken chest (that was how
he turned up on the set every day - before makeup), Wahmpyre Christopher is testament
to the rejuvenative diet of worms and virgin blood. Considering his mortal body
died 35 years ago, Lee continues to make onscreen cameos with as much flair and
verve as undead people half his age.
Orlando
Bloom, whose real-life name is perfectly congruent with his leggy, blond elfin
archer, Legolas, was responsible for holding up shooting for days on end when
camera lenses would crack under the spell of his haunting boy-face; Liv Tyler
was constantly knocking on his trailer door, begging for beauty tips, which he
happily conveyed; tips like, "Don't speak after sex" and "Wear
skirts and no panties", but she thought he was joking
Viggo
Mortensen (reeking Euro Man-Toy like a furry version of Fabio) is the unshaven
rockstar Hard Guy Hero who gets the girl. On his first day of shooting, he started
making out with Orlando Bloom until someone told him that wasn't the girl. Always
looking like he's just stepped out of a shower that didn't clean him, the wet-haired
Viggo, as Strider/Aragorn, lends his mighty sword to the quest in the hope that
Wizard Gandalf might one day conjure up some soap.
Hugo
Weaving, having displayed his fabulous wardrobe in PRISCILLA: QUEEN OF THE DESERT, was a no-brainer for the role of the Elfin Queen, Elrond, simply being
told by director Peter Jackson, to "wear something from PRISCILLA,"
which he did. Weaving summoned untold reserves of his thespian prowess by successfully
melding two of his most famous roles: that of the drag queen in Priscilla and
the monotonal Mr. Smith in THE MATRIX, further confusing anyone in the
audience who was insecure with their sexuality to begin with. The pointy ears
were just icing on a cake much too rich to swallow (and I do mean swallow
)
In
Canada, this film is renamed AMBIGUÉ, because no one has been able
to figure out the sex of most of the lead roles yet. In Ontario, police descended
on almost two-hundred movie-goers, citing probable cause as "intent to solicit
as transvestites", before they realized that it was just fans dressed as
Legolas, Elrond or Saruman. Even a few Gandalfs got arrested for loitering with
intent - but that was true.
Scattered Events
The
Story So Far: The spirit of the long-dead super-wizard Sauron works through Christopher
Lee to recover his lost, magical Ring Of Power. Cloaked riders - the Ring Wraiths
- on steeds with bloodied hooves, scour the land in search of the hobbit whom
the ring has been bequeathed to, Frodo Baggins.
Urged
by Gandalf to journey to faraway lands to destroy the ring, Frodo embarks with
his three idiot friends. At an inn of disrepute, the hobbits stop for the night
and a draught of mead. Frodo, in trying to stop one of the East End hobbits making
an ass of himself, trips and goes ring-over-tit amidst the drunken bar patrons,
whereupon he - disappears. Inadvertently ringing his finger, Frodo is assaulted
by high-decibel shockwave static, out-of-focus fuzzheadedness and time-dilatory
dream-state slow motion, a sum effect not unlike having way too much tequila with
the boys the night before and going home with a fat stripper named Belulah and
waking up with your face buried firmly between elephantine cheeks. (How I miss
those days.)
Strider
allies with the naïve hobbits at the disreputable inn and ushers them to
a stony knoll, where he retains his sweaty demeanor by battling Ring-Wraiths single-handedly,
while the hobbits do Benny Hill impersonations. Frodo is stabbed in this melee,
which was good because it necessitated the appearance of Liv Tyler, whereupon
I touched myself. The sensual electricity is headily apparent between Liv and
Viggo, even though he hasn't washed since 1437 and his musky shirt is now stuck
to his back with sweat; the pimples on his thighs reddening with excreta, due
to his pants not being removed for two years; his boots sloshing with runoff from
his backside
Some chicks just dig the rugged outdoorsy type -
In
Hugo's Elfin Keep, he schmaltzily crows the film title, "Hmm: nine companions
- you shall be The Fellowship Of The Ring." Embarrassing? Ooooo! Sign me
up! Hugo's willing to say anything if it'll pay for that gender-reassignment operation.
In
the magnificent, subterranean Goblin Hall (a masterpiece of CGI architecture,
200-foot pillars stretching upwards into darkness and into the shrouded distance),
the fleeing friends must combat a hybrid orc, a brainless giant lumpy thing with
the speed of a train, the relentlessness of Herpes Simplex B and the face of a
good-looking Jabba The Hutt. For the first time in a "special effects movie",
the giant, brainless monster looked like it could actually kill the real-life
actors. For this was no jaded Ray Harryhausen stop-motion/clay-mation model -
pioneering as his craft was in its day - this was fully-destructional state-of-the-art
computer graphic, melded with live RC-puppetry and smoothed over with post-production
speed and shadows and weight-distribution computations. It was visually unnerving.
Not since seeing Kevin Costner's hairstyle in THE BODYGUARD was I that
disturbed.
As
good as this movie is - and it's very good, for you are dragged into the
adventure, unbidden - there are many segments that seem unnecessary, where the
quest encounters incidents which do not further the plot and therefore could have
been left out of the final cut - such as the crumbling stone stairs sequence.
At a point like this, even if there is no plot point per se, then at the
very least, someone should die (usually the person with last billing, or who is
not pretty enough to take up any more screentime). But no one died; no one was
injured; no one made any discoveries (a path to freedom, ancient runes exposing
a mystery); there were no character revelations ('I'll save this person at the
loss of my own life' or 'Screw these guys! I'm saving myself'). Some may argue
that the party was slowed down enough for the Balrog to catch up with them and
battle Gandalf, but the Balrog is a PARA-DIMENSIONAL DAEMON - it doesn't need
the plot convenience of crumbling stairs to catch up with mere mortals. This segment
was one of many which was simply a gratuitous flexing of extra-grim special effects
muscle. Granted, it was phenomenal, which lent to the movie's overall luster,
and it allowed the dwarf a nudge-nudge-wink-wink pc line of dialog, when Strider
suggested he be thrown across the yawning gap, "Nobody tosses a dwarf!",
but nonetheless, it was merely to annoy George Lucas.
You
don't need to read Tolkein or Fantasy World books in general to gain a grasp for
political coups. An aspect of those Fantasy World plots that has always
bothered me - even as a child (a Mini-Me Dark Warlord) - was the intent behind
the Bad Guys' misdeeds. It seemed they were always out to blight the very land
that they were trying to conquer. Does it not occur to them to just overpower
the current ruler and inherit all his peoples, serfs, farm animals and lands and
let business continue as usual? - the only difference being that the taxes are
now coming to him - the Bad Guy. Sure, you'll probably have to resort to a little
attritional warfare, but ultimately, why decimate the whole shebang? I mean, really
- what fun is it going to be ruling over a char-blackened globe that won't support
crops or fauna? How long can you exert control over your hordes of half-men-half-weirdos
if you can't feed them? Letting them rape everything in sight is okay at first,
but what are you gonna do in order to spawn a new generation of troops and peons?
Let's face it - even the evilest of Eeevil Lords needs to keep some kind of order
- otherwise, what's a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet for?
So
why all the foofaraw over one little ring? Why did the end of the movie seem like
the middle of a Monopoly game? Why a "fellowship"? That's just what
Ontario authorities were asking those Gandalfs they picked up. But all they could
get out of those hopped-up old ex-hippies is some dumbo-jumbo about how the Jefferson
Airplane slipped them some bad acid at Woodstock, man...
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