Ian Nathan's Blog - Posts Tagged "hobbit"
A Boundless Will To Astound
Celebrating the 15th anniversary of The Return of the King
Do you remember the first time? Or, to be exact, the third first time? Watching The Return of the King was a different experience to encountering the first two parts of Peter Jackson's acclaimed adaptation of Tolkien's impossible triptych. We greeted the concluding part of the trilogy with expectation not anxiety. With Fellowship of the Ring desperate hope intermingled with the fear that the series would simply fail to match the books; with The Two Towers there was the concern the second film might not live up to the first with what was most likely to prove the most troublesome of the three parts to shape into a satisfying film.
By the finale, we were relaxed. We were ready. This would be the rousing crescendo we were due. We took a depth and plunged.
Even on the third film, billions of dollars to the good, New Line had fretted about length. Jackson had reached a state of zen bemusement with the studio's neuroses, assured the audience was with him — there was also a groundswell of opinion that the Academy were coming round too. But still the powers that be, trying at this late stage to assert some measure of ownership, insisted that his tame his magnum impulses. Think of those bums on seats, they railed. On the first movie they had issued an edict that the film could be no longer than two and a half hours. "Which we kind of ignored," laughed Jackson. With the third, an edict arrived saying it mustn't be longer than three hours. The final film came in at three hours 20 mins. On Oscar night, Billy Crystal joked about the endless endings, but this was a curtain call on nearly nine hours of epic and we needed epic closure.
By the third and final part of the trilogy, Jackson was only trying to keep up with himself. There was no backing down at this stage. Going bigger was what Tolkien demanded of him. The third film was "all pay off" he liked to joke. But he meant it. What nagged at him wasn't the pressure to surmount the spectacle of all that had come before — up his copious sleeve he had mighty battles, giant spiders, armies of the undead, a phalanx of super-sized elephants and a death scene in which a burning lord leaps from the rocky prow of a city like a flaming meteor. What he sought above all was the completion of a story. That was the strange nature of the third film: it reverse engineered a trilogy into a single film. One of the reasons, we had to go back to The Shire before the credits was to underline where it all began. To come full circle.
Incredibly, this week (December 3) marks the 15th anniversary of the famous, city-wide world premiere for The Return of the King in Wellington. Something Jackson had demanded — a final gift to a city and country that had stayed the course for so long. It felt like the whole of New Zealand lined the streets as the sun shone and Hobbits and wizards waved like royalty from the backseats of convertibles, flanked by Weta-dolled orcs and dancing Maoris as they inched up Courteney Place.
I was lucky enough to see the film at the European premiere which took place at the Odeon Leicester Square and the crowds outside roared the arrival of each cast member; there were screams at the sight of Orlando Bloom and ambulances were unassumingly on hand in case of fainting. Sat near the outer edge of the rows, I saw them line up in the dark awaiting their call to the stage to take a bow. Sir Ian McKellen giggled with Liv Tyler, Viggo Mortensen brooded, a man immersed in his own thoughts, but slipped into a goofy grin when Bloom, finally rescued from the fervent outside, mock punched him. They were nervous, even now, giddy like school children, the excitement and pleasure of one another's company still present, even now on the victory lap.
They came up one by one, invited by their friend and director, the man who had guided their lives for years — Peter Jackson. Last to the stage, fittingly somehow, was Sir Ian Holm, long experienced in what is required of these affairs: some good old-fashioned tomfoolery. At the top the steps he launched into a gallop, hurtling straight past the proffered hand of his director, skidding to a halt at the far end of the stage, then running back for a bear hug. The audience were delighted at his antics (not least, because they immediately sucked any pomposity out of the occasion) clapping and laughing, but honestly we wanted the introductions done with, the film awaited.
The third film is its own beast and yet the capstone on the whole (which you might say is true of the book too). There are less of the purely sensual New Zealand pleasures of the first two. The battlescape of the Pelenor Fields was ostensibly a digital landscape that utilised plates of real locations. Alan Lee, Tolkien artist in residence, was sent up in a helicopter to sample pieces of the South Island like fabrics from a department store. It was a reflection of changing processes — a signal of digital world-building to come. But pearl-white Minas Tirith was built from real sets, big as cathedrals, and models sculpted so finely the camera could close in to within inches of the walls and still not betray the scale. I remembered visiting the miniature studio, Minas Tirith was the same height as me. Only now it was like a mountain.
Everything about the final film was bathed in an assured magnificence. It was swaggering. I was in bits by the lighting of the beacons, the camera bounding across Middle-earth as if untethered from gravity. By the ride of the Rohirrim, Theoden's white horse unmistakeable at the spearhead, the gulps around me were audible. Such spectacle was raising grand emotions; looking back, Game of Thrones owes this trilogy a debt it can never repay.
That is not to deny the intimate, those lovely character moments that had set the first two films apart from the juvenalia of fantasy. Opening small was a big decision, and so indicative of Jackson's confidence with the material: a willingness to play subtle ironies against our expectations, shaking free from the grip of Middle-earth formula. Gollum's memory of first claiming the Ring, Andy Serkis' face briefly liberated from beneath his digital make-up as Smeagol strangled (thus locating the source of his anguish in his throat) his cousin for possession of the Ring was a startling, psychological move. Have you noticed how all three films begin with memories?
Serkis had fought to play the young Smeagol. There had been a prevailing thought to cast younger, but he wrote a lengthy letter to Jackson, passionately enforcing his desire to marry the CGI triumph with the human. His director had already come round. Serkis represented the conflicted heart of the trilogy. From a certain angle, he is the protagonist.
Something that could be said of Samwise too. Sean Astin's career-defining third-film performance, which flared up as a distinct Oscar possibility (alongside Serkis the Academy's big miss), embodied that stripe of English rectitude under fire that Tolkien brought with him from The Somme. Something so redolently captured in Jackson's superlative World War I documentary They Shall Not Grow Old. Screenwriter Philippa Boyens had marshalled the ADR (dubbing) sessions and remembered sobbing over still ungraded footage of Astin shouldering Elijah Wood to stagger up the flanks of Mount Doom. On set it had crossed the safety conscious Astin's mind that he was suddenly carrying the entire trilogy on his shoulders. On film that moment crystallises their entire filmic endeavour, the determination to complete the quest against all the odds.
Casting an eye back on the reviews from a decade and a half ago, the sense of wonder is palpable. It's as if critics were finally allowed to cut loose, to take the plunge and commit to Jackson's fantasy (eek) as a work worthy of high praise. There was nothing they had to be ashamed of in appreciating the work.
Keith Phipps in the AV Club, by reputation such a hard taskmaster, sang forth his praise: "The Return Of The King ultimately proves up to the series' increasingly difficult task: making movies that echo legends, making legends that reflect life, and reconciling it all with the fact that both legends and lives all eventually meet their ends."
"[The Lord of the Rings] restores faith in the idea that popular entertainment can soar to majestic heights," reported Andres O'Hehir of Salon, another venue that could hardly be dismissed as the nerd crowd.
"As I watched this film, an eager victim of its boundless will to astound, I found my loyal memories of the book beginning to fade," said Anthony Lane in The New Yorker. He makes a good point. By the third film Jackson and the audience were free from the hold of the books — the need to compare had been blown away. Tolkien was ever present but all but forgotten.
There were the doubters of course. Those that fretted on ideological grounds about the racial implications (notions bound into the novel from Tolkien's WWI experiences: the threat from the East). Those that simply liked to huff and puff.
True, the film isn't perfect. The extended edition is better — reinserting the Christopher Lee's death scene gives a more satisfactory trajectory to the Saruman story. The Hobbits trek across the hot sands of Gorgoroth so much more gruelling. It is less shapely than the first, less earthy than the second, you miss the Hobbit banter and Gandalf the Grey's curmudgeonly charms. I never quite get the emotional kick I need from the Fellowship's reunion scene that plays without dialogue. But from the flaring beacons to the Ring being devoured by the flames of Orodruin we gladly abandoned ourselves to the monumental surge of Jackson's storytelling. We left that premiere to head off to a party of special magnificence with the cycle complete but still not quite ready to admit it was all over. That unwillingness to let go is what drove me to write a book, to fathom how such miracles were accomplished.
Looking back so many years later, the film doesn't seem to have diminished. You might argue over technical details (Jackson surely would, unable to rewatch to the films for fear of those blemishes only he can see), but a classicism has taken hold. The great monument of The Lord of the Rings, now one story not three, has become timeless. What better time to clear an afternoon and return to The Return of the King.
Ian Nathan, December 4th, 2018
Anything You Can Imagine: Peter Jackson & The Making of Middle-earth is out now.
Anything You Can Imagine: Peter Jackson and the Making of Middle-earth
Do you remember the first time? Or, to be exact, the third first time? Watching The Return of the King was a different experience to encountering the first two parts of Peter Jackson's acclaimed adaptation of Tolkien's impossible triptych. We greeted the concluding part of the trilogy with expectation not anxiety. With Fellowship of the Ring desperate hope intermingled with the fear that the series would simply fail to match the books; with The Two Towers there was the concern the second film might not live up to the first with what was most likely to prove the most troublesome of the three parts to shape into a satisfying film.
By the finale, we were relaxed. We were ready. This would be the rousing crescendo we were due. We took a depth and plunged.
Even on the third film, billions of dollars to the good, New Line had fretted about length. Jackson had reached a state of zen bemusement with the studio's neuroses, assured the audience was with him — there was also a groundswell of opinion that the Academy were coming round too. But still the powers that be, trying at this late stage to assert some measure of ownership, insisted that his tame his magnum impulses. Think of those bums on seats, they railed. On the first movie they had issued an edict that the film could be no longer than two and a half hours. "Which we kind of ignored," laughed Jackson. With the third, an edict arrived saying it mustn't be longer than three hours. The final film came in at three hours 20 mins. On Oscar night, Billy Crystal joked about the endless endings, but this was a curtain call on nearly nine hours of epic and we needed epic closure.
By the third and final part of the trilogy, Jackson was only trying to keep up with himself. There was no backing down at this stage. Going bigger was what Tolkien demanded of him. The third film was "all pay off" he liked to joke. But he meant it. What nagged at him wasn't the pressure to surmount the spectacle of all that had come before — up his copious sleeve he had mighty battles, giant spiders, armies of the undead, a phalanx of super-sized elephants and a death scene in which a burning lord leaps from the rocky prow of a city like a flaming meteor. What he sought above all was the completion of a story. That was the strange nature of the third film: it reverse engineered a trilogy into a single film. One of the reasons, we had to go back to The Shire before the credits was to underline where it all began. To come full circle.
Incredibly, this week (December 3) marks the 15th anniversary of the famous, city-wide world premiere for The Return of the King in Wellington. Something Jackson had demanded — a final gift to a city and country that had stayed the course for so long. It felt like the whole of New Zealand lined the streets as the sun shone and Hobbits and wizards waved like royalty from the backseats of convertibles, flanked by Weta-dolled orcs and dancing Maoris as they inched up Courteney Place.
I was lucky enough to see the film at the European premiere which took place at the Odeon Leicester Square and the crowds outside roared the arrival of each cast member; there were screams at the sight of Orlando Bloom and ambulances were unassumingly on hand in case of fainting. Sat near the outer edge of the rows, I saw them line up in the dark awaiting their call to the stage to take a bow. Sir Ian McKellen giggled with Liv Tyler, Viggo Mortensen brooded, a man immersed in his own thoughts, but slipped into a goofy grin when Bloom, finally rescued from the fervent outside, mock punched him. They were nervous, even now, giddy like school children, the excitement and pleasure of one another's company still present, even now on the victory lap.
They came up one by one, invited by their friend and director, the man who had guided their lives for years — Peter Jackson. Last to the stage, fittingly somehow, was Sir Ian Holm, long experienced in what is required of these affairs: some good old-fashioned tomfoolery. At the top the steps he launched into a gallop, hurtling straight past the proffered hand of his director, skidding to a halt at the far end of the stage, then running back for a bear hug. The audience were delighted at his antics (not least, because they immediately sucked any pomposity out of the occasion) clapping and laughing, but honestly we wanted the introductions done with, the film awaited.
The third film is its own beast and yet the capstone on the whole (which you might say is true of the book too). There are less of the purely sensual New Zealand pleasures of the first two. The battlescape of the Pelenor Fields was ostensibly a digital landscape that utilised plates of real locations. Alan Lee, Tolkien artist in residence, was sent up in a helicopter to sample pieces of the South Island like fabrics from a department store. It was a reflection of changing processes — a signal of digital world-building to come. But pearl-white Minas Tirith was built from real sets, big as cathedrals, and models sculpted so finely the camera could close in to within inches of the walls and still not betray the scale. I remembered visiting the miniature studio, Minas Tirith was the same height as me. Only now it was like a mountain.
Everything about the final film was bathed in an assured magnificence. It was swaggering. I was in bits by the lighting of the beacons, the camera bounding across Middle-earth as if untethered from gravity. By the ride of the Rohirrim, Theoden's white horse unmistakeable at the spearhead, the gulps around me were audible. Such spectacle was raising grand emotions; looking back, Game of Thrones owes this trilogy a debt it can never repay.
That is not to deny the intimate, those lovely character moments that had set the first two films apart from the juvenalia of fantasy. Opening small was a big decision, and so indicative of Jackson's confidence with the material: a willingness to play subtle ironies against our expectations, shaking free from the grip of Middle-earth formula. Gollum's memory of first claiming the Ring, Andy Serkis' face briefly liberated from beneath his digital make-up as Smeagol strangled (thus locating the source of his anguish in his throat) his cousin for possession of the Ring was a startling, psychological move. Have you noticed how all three films begin with memories?
Serkis had fought to play the young Smeagol. There had been a prevailing thought to cast younger, but he wrote a lengthy letter to Jackson, passionately enforcing his desire to marry the CGI triumph with the human. His director had already come round. Serkis represented the conflicted heart of the trilogy. From a certain angle, he is the protagonist.
Something that could be said of Samwise too. Sean Astin's career-defining third-film performance, which flared up as a distinct Oscar possibility (alongside Serkis the Academy's big miss), embodied that stripe of English rectitude under fire that Tolkien brought with him from The Somme. Something so redolently captured in Jackson's superlative World War I documentary They Shall Not Grow Old. Screenwriter Philippa Boyens had marshalled the ADR (dubbing) sessions and remembered sobbing over still ungraded footage of Astin shouldering Elijah Wood to stagger up the flanks of Mount Doom. On set it had crossed the safety conscious Astin's mind that he was suddenly carrying the entire trilogy on his shoulders. On film that moment crystallises their entire filmic endeavour, the determination to complete the quest against all the odds.
Casting an eye back on the reviews from a decade and a half ago, the sense of wonder is palpable. It's as if critics were finally allowed to cut loose, to take the plunge and commit to Jackson's fantasy (eek) as a work worthy of high praise. There was nothing they had to be ashamed of in appreciating the work.
Keith Phipps in the AV Club, by reputation such a hard taskmaster, sang forth his praise: "The Return Of The King ultimately proves up to the series' increasingly difficult task: making movies that echo legends, making legends that reflect life, and reconciling it all with the fact that both legends and lives all eventually meet their ends."
"[The Lord of the Rings] restores faith in the idea that popular entertainment can soar to majestic heights," reported Andres O'Hehir of Salon, another venue that could hardly be dismissed as the nerd crowd.
"As I watched this film, an eager victim of its boundless will to astound, I found my loyal memories of the book beginning to fade," said Anthony Lane in The New Yorker. He makes a good point. By the third film Jackson and the audience were free from the hold of the books — the need to compare had been blown away. Tolkien was ever present but all but forgotten.
There were the doubters of course. Those that fretted on ideological grounds about the racial implications (notions bound into the novel from Tolkien's WWI experiences: the threat from the East). Those that simply liked to huff and puff.
True, the film isn't perfect. The extended edition is better — reinserting the Christopher Lee's death scene gives a more satisfactory trajectory to the Saruman story. The Hobbits trek across the hot sands of Gorgoroth so much more gruelling. It is less shapely than the first, less earthy than the second, you miss the Hobbit banter and Gandalf the Grey's curmudgeonly charms. I never quite get the emotional kick I need from the Fellowship's reunion scene that plays without dialogue. But from the flaring beacons to the Ring being devoured by the flames of Orodruin we gladly abandoned ourselves to the monumental surge of Jackson's storytelling. We left that premiere to head off to a party of special magnificence with the cycle complete but still not quite ready to admit it was all over. That unwillingness to let go is what drove me to write a book, to fathom how such miracles were accomplished.
Looking back so many years later, the film doesn't seem to have diminished. You might argue over technical details (Jackson surely would, unable to rewatch to the films for fear of those blemishes only he can see), but a classicism has taken hold. The great monument of The Lord of the Rings, now one story not three, has become timeless. What better time to clear an afternoon and return to The Return of the King.
Ian Nathan, December 4th, 2018
Anything You Can Imagine: Peter Jackson & The Making of Middle-earth is out now.
Anything You Can Imagine: Peter Jackson and the Making of Middle-earth
