The third and final Lord of the Rings movie,
The Return of the King, won 11
Oscars last night, including best picture, best director, and
best original score. In honor of the movie’s “clean sweep” we
present this Last Call to all the armies of men, from the February
issue.
Director Peter Jackson spent seven years of his life planning,
shooting, and editing the Lord of the Rings movies, so one
day of mine didn’t seem like too much to ask. The crowd that
usually reclines at my Virginia townhouse — a smattering of
economists, college students, and eccentric editors of right wing
magazines — held an all day Festival of the Ring, leading up to
the opening of the third and final installment at midnight.
No expense was spared. We bought tickets weeks in advance,
carted in an extra television and fiddled with wires so that we
could simulcast in the kitchen and living rooms, stocked up on
vittles and beverages, and had pizza flown in from Giordano’s in
Chicago. In the days leading up to the occasion, we wrestled with
the vexing question that must have confronted all Rings
purists: theatrical releases or extended versions? Charity and
brevity won out. Some of the likely guests hadn’t seen the first
two movies, and the prospect of tacking on another hour to them,
already a six hour stretch, sounded less…festive than what we
were trying for.
But, as I discovered midway through the first movie, even the
shorter version wasn’t going to do it for me. I’d seen the films
too many times: most of the twists and turns had been burnt
permanently onto my brain. Of all the scenes, the only one that was
anywhere near as powerful as the first half dozen viewings was the
standoff at the footbridge leading out of Mines of Moria, where a
very tired Gandalf (played by Sir Ian McKellen) plants himself and
his ancient staff in front of the Balrog demon and makes it
understood (“You shall not pass!”) that this is far enough, buddy.
And even this scene is robbed of some of its impact by
knowing the monster will drag the old wizard down into the
abyss. It would take a new movie to bring some of that old magic
back.
My group arrived at the theatre over two hours early and the
line already stretched out and around the side of the building. The
multiplex kept expanding the number of screens until 14 of the 22
were sold out for a showing, in the middle of the week, that would
stretch past three in the morning. The concession area was a
pandemonium, and the theatres were heated several degrees warmer
than usual — near as I can tell, to keep the audience from
rioting. In my auditorium, at least a half dozen people sported elf
ears; there were a few white, flowing Arwen costumes, and one guy
down in the eye-blur section had a tee shirt with the lettering
“Frodo Lives.”
A cheer went up when the nearly endless previews finished and
The Return of the King began. At the risk of scotching any
future movie critic cred: wow. The opening scene was annoying and
the end dragged on a bit but Jackson really made Tolkien’s tale
come to life. As Frodo (the very youthful Elijah Wood) wanders
through Shelob’s forest of spider webs and bodies, your fingers
feel acrid and sticky. When the signal flares are lit, stretching
hundreds of miles through mountain passes and summoning aid to
Gondor, you want to cheer. And when the bruised, winnowed army of
men marches from Gondor to the gates of Mordor, in a suicide
mission to buy the hobbits more time, you hope, in spite of
yourself.
We exited the theatre to face rains every bit as nasty as those
before the muddy siege of Helms Deep, and parking lot that took
ages of men to empty out. On the drive home, we tried the usual
uber geek post-game analysis (e.g., the stunt doubles were less
than satisfactory, and, uh, what was with those
subtitles?) but mostly circled around the movie. We simply weren’t
up to digesting that large a spectacle so early in the morning.
