Well, it seems as if, eventually, we all make the trip there
and back again. However much we may like to believe that we never retrace our steps, and that we are on a constant march forward, we find ourselves going back, to revisit those places we discovered when we were young, maybe at part of that instinct that guides salmon to return to their spawning grounds after a lifetime in the ocean, or us adults to relive our childhood years. In this case my return path led me to revisit once again J.R.R. Tolkein’s novel The
Hobbit, a project that was naturally brought to a finish after much wrangling and acrimony involving Peter Jackson and a host of studios. That it was going to be made was never in doubt; it is part of a franchise, and Hollywood has proved its métier precisely by taking advantage of formulas and works that can be spun into sequels and extended series. Which goes to say, I am not entirely cynical about this film, since the book was part of my formative experiences as a child, but I was not particularly hopeful about this film.
I don’t know why I didn’t rush out and view the film when it was first released over six months ago in the theaters. Perhaps I was a little reluctant, like Bilbo Baggins, and saw this as a bloated expansion of what was meant to be a reasonably compact fairy tale, one with a happy ending and with a rite of passage that was meant to be affirming. Fairy tales are very popular, after all, and they appeal to something deep inside of us. If there is a specific lesson to be learned after seeing this film, I can’t seem to recall it, other than to be careful not to expect too much in the way of subtlety. Cinema can provide magic moments, but it also leaves much to be desired at times with regards to the power of suggestion, and in the era of CGI and 3D, it seems as if filmmakers nowadays don't want to leave anything to the imagination. I haven't changed my opinion that when Hollywood undertakes a blockbuster project consisting of a film adaption of a cherished book, it is almost always a disappointment. Not always, but usually so. Just look at the track record with films made from Phillip K. Dick films (not including, of course, the spectacular Bladerunner).
I don’t know why I didn’t rush out and view the film when it was first released over six months ago in the theaters. Perhaps I was a little reluctant, like Bilbo Baggins, and saw this as a bloated expansion of what was meant to be a reasonably compact fairy tale, one with a happy ending and with a rite of passage that was meant to be affirming. Fairy tales are very popular, after all, and they appeal to something deep inside of us. If there is a specific lesson to be learned after seeing this film, I can’t seem to recall it, other than to be careful not to expect too much in the way of subtlety. Cinema can provide magic moments, but it also leaves much to be desired at times with regards to the power of suggestion, and in the era of CGI and 3D, it seems as if filmmakers nowadays don't want to leave anything to the imagination. I haven't changed my opinion that when Hollywood undertakes a blockbuster project consisting of a film adaption of a cherished book, it is almost always a disappointment. Not always, but usually so. Just look at the track record with films made from Phillip K. Dick films (not including, of course, the spectacular Bladerunner).
It certainly helped that I saw the film on video and not in a movie theater. It seemed more less stressful that way, with less of the discomfort of having to put up with a group of strangers with unusual and annoying personality traits, who make demands on your patience, a la the dwarves who are guided to Bilbo Baggins' hobbit hole. The bands of rowdy mini orcs and trolls (and trollettes) saunter into a movie theater and jostle about before huddling in one or the other corner, with feet resting on the seats in front of them, jeering and conversing loudly, issuing cat calls, texting and sending the wayward light from their screens in your direction, slurping loudly on their drinks and rustling with packages of candy that are inevitable left half-consumed on the floors, ending up inevitable on your soles of your unsuspecting feet. Also, need I add that it is a pleasure not to have to endure what seems like thirty minutes of loud previews for upcoming films, with scenes culled from the most frantic and dramatic moments, highlighting crashes, shouting, intense emotions, and jangling noises, nor to have to endure frigid temperatures like those of a winter in the Andes?
Now, with that said, this film seemed hardly an innovate film. It has much the same look and feel of the first trilogy, and of course, this was precisely the point, for the first three films constitute a formula that was to be duplicated. There was no rebooting the look and feel of the Lord of the Rings. It was, instead, a mirror image, not only in terms of cinematography and film and in the reappearance of familiar characters, but also, in the storyline or chronotopes (to use a concept culled from the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin) to suggest familiar plotline situations, familiar choices, familiar points of departure. They recur again and again, in a way that seems this to be a thinly disguised reworking of the more extended Lord of the Rings, although we know that the latter was, of course, much different in tone. The Hobbit, upon having read it, was meant to have a lighter mood, and I viewed it as more in the lines of a rollicking jaunt, with much less of the religious symbolism of the latter work. It was an adventure tale, situated in a place that seemed familiar but also exotic, a tale along the lines of Marco Polo's trip to the East, or the accounts of the European explorers such as Mungo Parks who explored Africa several hundred years ago, and whose narratives were amply celebrated. And what was most becoming was that Bilbo was meant to be us, the reluctant adventurer, accompanying a band of strange dwarves, embarking on a dangerous journey, the provincial bourgeois sensibility being taken for a "walk on the wild side".
We are, of course, treated first to a preamble that sets up the story of why this quest is undertaken. Much like the recounting of history that is seen in the Lord of the Rings, which narrates the alliances of different races against the common threat that is represented by a rebel who, like Lucifer, is imbued with a certain dark majesty, we are treated to a recounting of the history of the golden kingdom of the dwarves, located at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, a fabulously prosperous kingdom that was carved out not by slaves, as was the case with much mining activity carried out in European history, and repeated in the slavery imposed on the Indians in the Americas, but in relative harmony. The kingdom was a happy place, and was ably led by the king, one who grew perhaps too fond of his wealth, inviting the arrival of usurpers. This usurper takes the majestic form of the dragon Smaug, who sweeps in and kills a vast number of inhabitants, before crashing through the gates and invading the inner domain. Have we not seen this before? Is it not a familiar parable, that of the wealthy kingdom that invites plunder by outsiders?
We recapitulate familiar episodes of human history, and in this case, usurpation leads of course to exodus. The dwarves lose their kingdom and are forced to regroup and find a new homeland, unable to rescue what was lost, most notably, the heart of the mountain, the famed Arkenstone that was dropped in the frantic attempt to escape. What does the Arkenstone represent? Is it rather too obvious? Is it a symbol perhaps for something transcendent, for the ideal of art, for the connection with the earth and its vital processes, for that which is most unique and that seduces all who encounter it? It seems to be a talisman almost as powerful as the ring of the latter trilogy, the ring that bound all the others together, "One ring to rule them all". it is the idea, perhaps, of dominion, a crown that symbolizes of course power, and that proved as well irresistible to the dragon. (I think the dragon is also a symbol, and it suggests the naked ambition and blood lust that we all harbor, and that is given release from time to time in circumstances that prove utterly destructive. Just look at the destruction it wrought on Boromir in the Lord of the Rings.) The dwarves are forced to leave, and in the midst of their wanderings will wind up in Moria, where they will do battle with another race that is portrayed as usurpers, the orcs, led by the giant White Orc. (Scale is always a factor here, and we always have the recapitulation of the biblical episode of David and Goliath, where the humble, small and virtuous will always commit deeds of great bravery.)
The movie seems very familiar, like a well-worn glove that cribs as much from the Old Testament as from Homer, from the fairytales of the brothers Grimm (we don't seem to have any witches here, although there are plenty of trolls and giants and magical creatures) to the formulas of Hollywood that emphasize male bonding. The young Bilbo is played charmingly by Martin Freeman, and he captures just the right note of earnestness as well as longing that we would associate with a character who is quite a domesticated chap, the quite sort from the suburbs who lives in a two story house amidst more kitsch than you can imagine, who thinks always about what is most proper, and about what the neighbors will say, and about eating tea and biscuits at precisely the right hour. In other words, the prosperous bourgeois fellow of independent means who doesn't have to work, doesn't have to get into his car every day and drive off to downtown, counting the days until he can retire, certainly not having to worry about how to pay next month's rent or how to feed himself, if we can judge by the very generously stocked larder that is able to feed a pack of twelve voracious dwarves.
The sets, once again, are familiar, as is the recreation of a prosperous agricultural valley, one far removed from the industrial energies that will so dramatically transform the landscape in our own era, or the great excavations and contamination that inevitably pollute the landscape wherever mining is involved, except in the case of the dwarves who, quite evidently, are able to dig deep into the mountains without having them cave in like a soufflé, and apparently, don't use mercury or other substances to extract gold, but are able to mine without leaving a trace of pollutants to affect the surrounding villages that live in a pristine state. It is capitalism without despoliation, a form of capitalism that doesn't exist, for if there is one thing that we know, nature always suffers when we enter in periods of prolonged industrial development. Just look at the rustbelt in England, in Eastern Europe, in the Americas, and currently, in China and other developing countries, where the lakes are being progressively polluted and the trees are being cut down at an alarming rate, and where coal plants darken the skies with billowing smoke. Are the dwarves that elusive practitioner that we haven't been able to find, the capitalist that not only doesn't pollute, but also doesn't cheat and steal and aggregate into monopolies in order to form corporations that are "too big to fail"? It is, of course, a fantasy, for there is no such thing, and we aren't meant to reflect on this, except for the fact that a few of us see films such as these and others (for example, the Harry Potter films), and wonder, isn't magic a way of harvesting productive power but without exploitation, in order to whitewash capitalism? It would be nice to believe that work could be carried out so efficiently and instantaneously in an Eden such as Middle Earth, instead of reflecting that somewhere, somehow, feudal serfs are invisibly performing that work.
We are, of course, treated first to a preamble that sets up the story of why this quest is undertaken. Much like the recounting of history that is seen in the Lord of the Rings, which narrates the alliances of different races against the common threat that is represented by a rebel who, like Lucifer, is imbued with a certain dark majesty, we are treated to a recounting of the history of the golden kingdom of the dwarves, located at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, a fabulously prosperous kingdom that was carved out not by slaves, as was the case with much mining activity carried out in European history, and repeated in the slavery imposed on the Indians in the Americas, but in relative harmony. The kingdom was a happy place, and was ably led by the king, one who grew perhaps too fond of his wealth, inviting the arrival of usurpers. This usurper takes the majestic form of the dragon Smaug, who sweeps in and kills a vast number of inhabitants, before crashing through the gates and invading the inner domain. Have we not seen this before? Is it not a familiar parable, that of the wealthy kingdom that invites plunder by outsiders?
We recapitulate familiar episodes of human history, and in this case, usurpation leads of course to exodus. The dwarves lose their kingdom and are forced to regroup and find a new homeland, unable to rescue what was lost, most notably, the heart of the mountain, the famed Arkenstone that was dropped in the frantic attempt to escape. What does the Arkenstone represent? Is it rather too obvious? Is it a symbol perhaps for something transcendent, for the ideal of art, for the connection with the earth and its vital processes, for that which is most unique and that seduces all who encounter it? It seems to be a talisman almost as powerful as the ring of the latter trilogy, the ring that bound all the others together, "One ring to rule them all". it is the idea, perhaps, of dominion, a crown that symbolizes of course power, and that proved as well irresistible to the dragon. (I think the dragon is also a symbol, and it suggests the naked ambition and blood lust that we all harbor, and that is given release from time to time in circumstances that prove utterly destructive. Just look at the destruction it wrought on Boromir in the Lord of the Rings.) The dwarves are forced to leave, and in the midst of their wanderings will wind up in Moria, where they will do battle with another race that is portrayed as usurpers, the orcs, led by the giant White Orc. (Scale is always a factor here, and we always have the recapitulation of the biblical episode of David and Goliath, where the humble, small and virtuous will always commit deeds of great bravery.)
The movie seems very familiar, like a well-worn glove that cribs as much from the Old Testament as from Homer, from the fairytales of the brothers Grimm (we don't seem to have any witches here, although there are plenty of trolls and giants and magical creatures) to the formulas of Hollywood that emphasize male bonding. The young Bilbo is played charmingly by Martin Freeman, and he captures just the right note of earnestness as well as longing that we would associate with a character who is quite a domesticated chap, the quite sort from the suburbs who lives in a two story house amidst more kitsch than you can imagine, who thinks always about what is most proper, and about what the neighbors will say, and about eating tea and biscuits at precisely the right hour. In other words, the prosperous bourgeois fellow of independent means who doesn't have to work, doesn't have to get into his car every day and drive off to downtown, counting the days until he can retire, certainly not having to worry about how to pay next month's rent or how to feed himself, if we can judge by the very generously stocked larder that is able to feed a pack of twelve voracious dwarves.
The sets, once again, are familiar, as is the recreation of a prosperous agricultural valley, one far removed from the industrial energies that will so dramatically transform the landscape in our own era, or the great excavations and contamination that inevitably pollute the landscape wherever mining is involved, except in the case of the dwarves who, quite evidently, are able to dig deep into the mountains without having them cave in like a soufflé, and apparently, don't use mercury or other substances to extract gold, but are able to mine without leaving a trace of pollutants to affect the surrounding villages that live in a pristine state. It is capitalism without despoliation, a form of capitalism that doesn't exist, for if there is one thing that we know, nature always suffers when we enter in periods of prolonged industrial development. Just look at the rustbelt in England, in Eastern Europe, in the Americas, and currently, in China and other developing countries, where the lakes are being progressively polluted and the trees are being cut down at an alarming rate, and where coal plants darken the skies with billowing smoke. Are the dwarves that elusive practitioner that we haven't been able to find, the capitalist that not only doesn't pollute, but also doesn't cheat and steal and aggregate into monopolies in order to form corporations that are "too big to fail"? It is, of course, a fantasy, for there is no such thing, and we aren't meant to reflect on this, except for the fact that a few of us see films such as these and others (for example, the Harry Potter films), and wonder, isn't magic a way of harvesting productive power but without exploitation, in order to whitewash capitalism? It would be nice to believe that work could be carried out so efficiently and instantaneously in an Eden such as Middle Earth, instead of reflecting that somewhere, somehow, feudal serfs are invisibly performing that work.
Given that we are dealing with a new trilogy, the story has
been expanded and modified. Besides the preamble that explains the loss of the dwarf kingdom, one in which greed plays a part, we have expanded roles for certain characters, as well as melodramatic elements. The screenplay, after all, was prepared by the original triumvirate that worked on the Lord of the Rings, after all, and it includes as well a certain dose of moralizing, such as Gandalf's admonition that a warrior is one who not only knows how to wield a weapon, but when to stay it, a reference, of course, to Gollum (the movie makes it very obvious).
Among the expanded roles we may cite the example of the White Orc, a new antagonist that to my recollection hadn't had such a prominent role in the original book. This orc towers above the others (many leaders to, from Gandalf to the Elves to the other King of the Dwarves), and his villainy is painted in very broad strokes. (At times, subtlety is sorely lacking.) We also have what we may only term as cameos, which is the case with the wizard Radagast, one of the five wizards who are known to dwell in Middle Earth and who is himself seen as belonging to the second tier of his class. (Is he the Bilbo Baggins of the wizard class?). And, I’m sure, in order to fill out the remaining two films which will almost certainly each occupy two and half hour films, I’m sure there will be several embellishments to come.
Among the expanded roles we may cite the example of the White Orc, a new antagonist that to my recollection hadn't had such a prominent role in the original book. This orc towers above the others (many leaders to, from Gandalf to the Elves to the other King of the Dwarves), and his villainy is painted in very broad strokes. (At times, subtlety is sorely lacking.) We also have what we may only term as cameos, which is the case with the wizard Radagast, one of the five wizards who are known to dwell in Middle Earth and who is himself seen as belonging to the second tier of his class. (Is he the Bilbo Baggins of the wizard class?). And, I’m sure, in order to fill out the remaining two films which will almost certainly each occupy two and half hour films, I’m sure there will be several embellishments to come.
The film is paced according to the rhythm of a blockbuster
film, with many battle sequences that feature breathtaking escapes and great chase sequences, as well as fights in which, almost always, the orcs end up being scythed down almost naturally. it is a rollercoaster ride, and because we know that all the band will survive, there is little sense of true danger. The story has been told, after all, in the book, and it lacks much of the visceral edge of a true Grimm fairy tale where protagonists are, indeed, eaten, or are subject to great violence.
An example would be the episode with the orcs in the mountaintop. After a blistering night of rain in which they saw the storm gods pummel each other like Rockem Sockem robots (a majestic spectacle that nonetheless featured great boulders being thrown from one side to the other, boxing sequences and cliffs crumbling like some vast bring arena, making for another sequence of narrow escapes as the intrepid band was forced to dodge the debris and jump from one ledge to the next), they seem to find what is an all-too-convenient refuge in a cave.
Of course it is a trap, and what we have as a consequence is the passage of the group through what we may term is a sort of orc-land ride of attraction, courtesy of Middle Earth theme park. The dwarves (and the hobbit) race from one edge to the next, on flimsy bridges that couldn't have been much good for anyone because they are very poorly constructed (I know, I know, orcs aren't dwarves when it comes to scaffolds and bridges), and we have a nonstop flight in which the swarms threaten but never manage to overpower the band. We aren't talking about verisimilitude, of course, but this strains belief, nonetheless.
This is almost like a reunion film, after all. We have once again the elves at Rivendell, but if in the book they come across as fey, singing silly songs, we have here once again the impossibly solemn elves of the first trilogy, ethereal but certainly not fey. We have Lady Galadriel, played by Kate Blanchet, and of course Lord Elrond, with Hugo Weaving reprising his role. And, we have Saruman, the great wizard who has been compromised but hasn't been detected yet, stern, foreboding, reassuring, but also, of course, duplicitous. Gollum/Sméagol, of course, also reappears as character, of course, because he appeared in the original book, and he is one of the most compelling characters of all. Tragic, alternately good-willed and evil, split in two, unable to reconcile, with Gollum (the evil twin) almost always ascendant. Once again, CGI fails to give him a sense of weight and density, and it seems almost as if he could float upwards, if he jumped hard enough. (Can such a thin and weightless creature really overpower and kill an orc, even one as wounded as the one who lands at his feet?)
The more I think about it, the more I think that this fantasy work by J.R.R. Tolkein is a parable, once again, of the situation that prevailed in Europe before and after World War Two. It is the fantasy version of what George Orwell was to undertake in his novel 1984, for it is a story of the rise of fascism and, then, the subsequent threat posed by the East, a threat that perhaps was always evident in the imagination of western European countries. In the east are to be found the vast expanses of desolate territory, and from the east came the tribes that always announced their presence suddenly, ferocious tribes of warriors that sacked Rome and pillaged what had grown to be the peaceful countries of the West, in the narrative that has been written from the point of view of these countries. There seems to be a sense of ideological conflicts at play, where civilized and sedentary communities are under threat, where the "nameless" and shadowy threats take the form of ghosts or, to use a more apt expression, "spectres", if we may recall the words of the Communist Manifest of 1848. There are spectres aplenty in these works, and it seems all the more compelling to view it as an allegory of the proletariat that is exploited by a brutalizing economic system and is bent on displacing and eliminating a pastoral mode of existence that seems destined not to survive. Is Smaug, then, not the prototype of the financial raider who swoops in and takes over vast quantities of capital, hoarding it, and leaving destruction in his/its wake?
I’ve often thought that the portrayal of the rude and violent temperament of the orcs was a not too subtle allusion to colonial peoples. After all, I am all too familiar with the view held of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans who are lumped in as part of that vanguard of invading forces that threatens, supposedly, the American way of life. This is certainly one of the messages that is promoted by anti-immigrant groups that decry the supposed "dangers" of multiculturalism, as well as the social conservatives who fear demography, and who disguise this fear by channeling their energies into anti-abortion movements. (The total fertility rate in western countries is below replacement level, and minority populations have a higher rate than that of groups of European or Caucasion extraction, so that the minority population is continually growing in countries such as the United States.) I view the militancy of groups such as the Minutemen, that group of vigilantes that sprang up about ten years ago and proclaimed the need to stop the invasion by "illegals", and whose main actions seem to consist of act of intimidation and false imprisonment along the US/Mexican border. Are they like the inhabitants of the kingdom of Gondor, who look our to Mordor (Mexico?), and decry the threatening tide that will overwhelm them with fertile orcs and other suspect races?
In the United States we have intellectuals such as Samuel Huntington, who wrote about a class of civilizations in our country, and of supposed incompatible groups that would never be assimilated, as well as, supposedly, being the first to detect the threat posed by Islamic fundamentalism. We have also figures such as Victor Davis Hanson, a classics professor who was held in high esteem by the former vice President Dick Cheney, and who in his books affirms the validity of this idea of incompatible races and civilizations, in sordid books such as Mexifornia, in which he laments the passing of the California he once knew. (How can such a figure, which such a divisive and repugnant ideology, be celebrated by the political leaders of our country, and especially, by a Vice President?)
This distrust of the outside world and this metaphorical circling of the wagons has become an article of faith for the so-called Tea-Party movement, a disparate collection of groups that are united by their opposition to supposed government overreach, by their resistance to regulation, by their skepticism of global warming, by their opposition to minority groups and their struggle for inclusion and opportunity, and by any threat that they see to their way of live that revolves around a penchant to blame others for the ills of society, and to agree with the vitriol that is spouted by extremist right-wing shills on AM talk radio, chief among them, the performance artist, Rush Limbaugh, who can so easily weave a spell of subjugation to those who hold power. Rush is who I imagine when I think of a real-life Saruman, able to lie and deceive, crafty, with no true master but his own self-interest.
An example would be the episode with the orcs in the mountaintop. After a blistering night of rain in which they saw the storm gods pummel each other like Rockem Sockem robots (a majestic spectacle that nonetheless featured great boulders being thrown from one side to the other, boxing sequences and cliffs crumbling like some vast bring arena, making for another sequence of narrow escapes as the intrepid band was forced to dodge the debris and jump from one ledge to the next), they seem to find what is an all-too-convenient refuge in a cave.
(Rockem-Sockem robots)
Of course it is a trap, and what we have as a consequence is the passage of the group through what we may term is a sort of orc-land ride of attraction, courtesy of Middle Earth theme park. The dwarves (and the hobbit) race from one edge to the next, on flimsy bridges that couldn't have been much good for anyone because they are very poorly constructed (I know, I know, orcs aren't dwarves when it comes to scaffolds and bridges), and we have a nonstop flight in which the swarms threaten but never manage to overpower the band. We aren't talking about verisimilitude, of course, but this strains belief, nonetheless.
This is almost like a reunion film, after all. We have once again the elves at Rivendell, but if in the book they come across as fey, singing silly songs, we have here once again the impossibly solemn elves of the first trilogy, ethereal but certainly not fey. We have Lady Galadriel, played by Kate Blanchet, and of course Lord Elrond, with Hugo Weaving reprising his role. And, we have Saruman, the great wizard who has been compromised but hasn't been detected yet, stern, foreboding, reassuring, but also, of course, duplicitous. Gollum/Sméagol, of course, also reappears as character, of course, because he appeared in the original book, and he is one of the most compelling characters of all. Tragic, alternately good-willed and evil, split in two, unable to reconcile, with Gollum (the evil twin) almost always ascendant. Once again, CGI fails to give him a sense of weight and density, and it seems almost as if he could float upwards, if he jumped hard enough. (Can such a thin and weightless creature really overpower and kill an orc, even one as wounded as the one who lands at his feet?)
The more I think about it, the more I think that this fantasy work by J.R.R. Tolkein is a parable, once again, of the situation that prevailed in Europe before and after World War Two. It is the fantasy version of what George Orwell was to undertake in his novel 1984, for it is a story of the rise of fascism and, then, the subsequent threat posed by the East, a threat that perhaps was always evident in the imagination of western European countries. In the east are to be found the vast expanses of desolate territory, and from the east came the tribes that always announced their presence suddenly, ferocious tribes of warriors that sacked Rome and pillaged what had grown to be the peaceful countries of the West, in the narrative that has been written from the point of view of these countries. There seems to be a sense of ideological conflicts at play, where civilized and sedentary communities are under threat, where the "nameless" and shadowy threats take the form of ghosts or, to use a more apt expression, "spectres", if we may recall the words of the Communist Manifest of 1848. There are spectres aplenty in these works, and it seems all the more compelling to view it as an allegory of the proletariat that is exploited by a brutalizing economic system and is bent on displacing and eliminating a pastoral mode of existence that seems destined not to survive. Is Smaug, then, not the prototype of the financial raider who swoops in and takes over vast quantities of capital, hoarding it, and leaving destruction in his/its wake?
I’ve often thought that the portrayal of the rude and violent temperament of the orcs was a not too subtle allusion to colonial peoples. After all, I am all too familiar with the view held of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans who are lumped in as part of that vanguard of invading forces that threatens, supposedly, the American way of life. This is certainly one of the messages that is promoted by anti-immigrant groups that decry the supposed "dangers" of multiculturalism, as well as the social conservatives who fear demography, and who disguise this fear by channeling their energies into anti-abortion movements. (The total fertility rate in western countries is below replacement level, and minority populations have a higher rate than that of groups of European or Caucasion extraction, so that the minority population is continually growing in countries such as the United States.) I view the militancy of groups such as the Minutemen, that group of vigilantes that sprang up about ten years ago and proclaimed the need to stop the invasion by "illegals", and whose main actions seem to consist of act of intimidation and false imprisonment along the US/Mexican border. Are they like the inhabitants of the kingdom of Gondor, who look our to Mordor (Mexico?), and decry the threatening tide that will overwhelm them with fertile orcs and other suspect races?
In the United States we have intellectuals such as Samuel Huntington, who wrote about a class of civilizations in our country, and of supposed incompatible groups that would never be assimilated, as well as, supposedly, being the first to detect the threat posed by Islamic fundamentalism. We have also figures such as Victor Davis Hanson, a classics professor who was held in high esteem by the former vice President Dick Cheney, and who in his books affirms the validity of this idea of incompatible races and civilizations, in sordid books such as Mexifornia, in which he laments the passing of the California he once knew. (How can such a figure, which such a divisive and repugnant ideology, be celebrated by the political leaders of our country, and especially, by a Vice President?)
This distrust of the outside world and this metaphorical circling of the wagons has become an article of faith for the so-called Tea-Party movement, a disparate collection of groups that are united by their opposition to supposed government overreach, by their resistance to regulation, by their skepticism of global warming, by their opposition to minority groups and their struggle for inclusion and opportunity, and by any threat that they see to their way of live that revolves around a penchant to blame others for the ills of society, and to agree with the vitriol that is spouted by extremist right-wing shills on AM talk radio, chief among them, the performance artist, Rush Limbaugh, who can so easily weave a spell of subjugation to those who hold power. Rush is who I imagine when I think of a real-life Saruman, able to lie and deceive, crafty, with no true master but his own self-interest.
(Dick Cheny, grimacing as always)
(Rush Limbaush, pontificating as always)
(The rise of the recalcitrant Tea Party movement that "hates government")
(The Tea Partiers aren't particularly welcoming, tolerant or even logical)
It is hard to escape this political dimension when rereading or, in this case, viewing the film version of J.R.R. Tolkein’s works. I know that Fantasy isn’t necessarily innocent, and that it presents in disguised form conflicts that are present in our society. Even in a blockbuster movie such as this one, it is hard not to feel a little sympathy for the orcs whose heads are so assuredly and inevitably hewn off their shoulders by this small band comprised of dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard. What is the story of the orcs, and do they have families? I know they must have a society, and they also have humor, and they also can be witty, but is it not the case that, as was insinuated in the original trilogy, that the orcs are merely tortured elves? Are the not the fantasy equivalent of the Morlocks, those bestial creatures that are a product of social forces, of the pressures brought to bear on them by industrial labor? Are there any female orcs, do they form attachment to mates, or have they been thoroughly bestialized? (Yes, yes, I know, they look grotesque, and who would want to identify with them, but that is one of the ideological tools wielded by groups in power, the ability to determine how the marginal and "other" groups can be portrayed, and esthetics plays perhaps an even greater role than ideology.) Yes, yes, I know that I am supposed to identify with Bilbo, but in all reality, it would be too easy to imagine a Bilbo in the modern American landscape, living in segregated communities far from the urban centers, voting for Republican extremists and calling into AM talk radio in the United States to proudly proclaim "ditto and mega-dittos" (ditto means "I agree with you and wish to reaffirm what you have said") with Rush Limbaugh and the other purveyors of extremist messages, with the Michael Savages and Sean Hannitys and the many others of their ilk, who lash out against those who lack protection or opportunity in this country. (Remember, when the dwarves in the film are looking for a new homeland, they find that the orcs had already taken refuge in the mines of Moria, but yet they feel perfectly justified in their attempt to wrench it away from them by conquest, almost, one could say, like what happened with the Southwest portion of the United States.)
To pick up on a theme brought up in the film, wherein it is
asserted that the wish to recuperate a homeland is what dignifies the quest of
the dwarves, as if the accumulated gold had no bearing in the matter nor the
wish for revenge, don’t we all have homes we want to recuperate? I guess I am
less at peace with the Hobbit than I used to be.
(Who is the true invader?)
Copyrights ORomero 2013
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