"Jackson applies a lot of learned technique in unique horror, turning out a spectacle of aurally inviting scenes. He brings the same creaky, luscious camera movements that have made him a small legend. Each frame is an extension of the man himself, creating an exquisite picture book that should be distributed to every coffee table in America."
Hell Mission Statement #38473: LOTR - Fellowship of the Ring
(To commemorate the 10-hour journey The Riv, Jimmy, and me participated in at the Maitreyaplex tonight, I thought I'd reprint my original thoughts in whole. Yes, we fought through hundreds of goofy looking kids decked out in renaissance fair garb to grab three coveted seats in the wayback. We did what very few could do. We weathered the trilogy that is the Rings in whole! I'm not going to sit for a week. Call it The Christmas Ornament Comeback Kid. He's hanging just slightly left of center. Ouch!)
The answer is no. It never ends. Not for a week or two. When it does come to its headache-inducing close, Fellowship leaves everything open ended and hanging in the balance. Peter Jackson deserves a reward: He's made the longest first act ever committed to celluloid. Die-hard fans of the Tolkien series will be ejaculating buckets of butterflies in pure joy of release. As for the rest of us? Lord of the Rings bleeds the ass. Mining entertainment from the intense study of a Hobbit's fingernails led me to only one conclusion: Yeah, it's a bit slow at times. (Both Frodo and Gandalf have well-manicured fingertips? What gives? Did I miss Jilai Baggins' Glamorous Nail Salon in the digitally-rendered make-up of the Shire?)
There are three audience member types for this movie: 1) Geek Followers of the Ring trilogy. 2) Peter Jackson fans. & 3) Tolkien fans who admire Jackson's work as a director. I fall into the Peter Jackson fan category. As for Rings itself, I could give two sh*ts and a f*ck. I've never read the books, I hate SOCA, and the only memory I have of the Bakshi cartoon has me hanging out the window of my much-older cousin's car, yelling obscenities at a line waiting to get inside the theater, "This movie sucks. It's awful!" At nine years old, it was my first turn as critic. Now, twenty-some years later, I get to hang my head out a window on the Internet highway, yelling, "This movie sucks. It's awful." Okay, that's not the case. It doesn't suck. It's not awful. I love Jackson's work, and he brings the same distinct visual style to Rings that he's brought to everything else. It's huge. The "Jackson" parts of Fellowship are the best thing I've seen on screen since, possibly, ever. There are some truly awesome moments realized here. It's the "Lordy-Ringy" parts I have a problem with. They are slow death in a most painful way. If I could turn down the dialogue, turn up the music, and edit out a good ninety-seven minutes, this would be an ass-kicking showdown of unrecognized magnitude. As it stands now, it's a hard-to-swallow (word removed for contractual reasons); a tasty, cherry-flavored lozenge of beauty that simultaneously rips tender throat tissue in drags down the esophagus. The ass-bone tells no lies: It's numb and it hurts.
Parts of this movie owe a lot to Dead Alive (aka Brain Dead). Maybe I should reverse the wording, since Rings came first. Jackson applies a lot of learned technique in unique horror, turning out a spectacle of aurally inviting scenes. He brings the same creaky, luscious camera movements that have made him a small legend. Each frame is an extension of the man himself, an exquisite picture book that should be distributed to every coffee table in America. Characters coming in contact with THE ONE RING suffer voices of possession, a theme transcribed from Dead Alive's core concept. These singular incidents seem to be an expansion of what Jackson was trying to do with Dead Alive, and his direction brings intense moments of evil and horror previously unrealized. He has a distinct way of closing-in on his actors, achieving this bug-eyed look of shock as if he's constantly poking them in the ribs with a stick out of view of the camera.
The Broogle King has tied his tongue tightly around my forearm in a means to check my blood pressure, sure. I have no qualms in stating that this is "technically" the best film of the year, and possible the best looking film of the last hundred years. Unfortunately, I can't enjoy it. Its narrative sings like a speed bump.
The first ten minutes grab at the throat like no other film has in years. I sat, suffocating, on the verge of an out of body experience. Heart palpitations almost put me on the floor. Seeing that big beast sweep a dozen warriors in the air amidst the most radically rendered battle sequence ever achieved on screen had beads of sweat breaking the skin. I was on the verge of turning into one of these chubby geeks who have spritzed oceans of salvia on their hands in a means to communicate this movie's greatness. I thought I'd been won over in one of my least favorite genres. But, alas, no: The storyline does a three-sixty by sending us directly into the Shire.
A shrunken town of hobbling midgets, "What the f*ck is this? Willow 2?" I sat in a patient haze, realizing the set up was inevitable. "Pete ‘ill make it pass, then we can get onto the good stuff." I waited.
And waited. We lingered there in that little pockmarked town of stunted mythos for quite some time; the Shire's inhabitants failing to meet the height requirements of even the most minimalistic Disneyland ride. The rest of the script moves along in this same manner of stunted growth. It's at stops and starts. One minute I'm in awe, the next seventeen I'm in hard-cushioned Hell. Fellowship will have the fan boys weeping while the average citizen squirms to be relinquished from the chair. Those who haven't delved into the yearlong Tolkien series upon which the films are based aren't going to be sh*tting a turd on the hood of in Edsel to show their enthusiasm. They are going to be craving road signs, as if stuck in Friday afternoon traffic on the 405.
The blood soaked carnage of battle, anything dealing with an Orc, Gollum, and every single scene occupied by flying arrows is well worth the price of admission. It's the inch and crawl of this journey that hasn't dignified itself in the least bit. Plus, we still have six more hours until the end of Rings as an entity in whole. Whew.
I don't see where the story gets off being one of the most cherished of our lifetime. Fellowship of the Ring is one long chase issued forth to instigate the actions of its oncoming sequels. All we've got are a bunch of midgets tromping through the neverlands of Middle-Earth in a quest for merchandise return. Yes, its theme fits in quite nicely with Christmas consumerism. It took a genius to write this? The same thing happens every time I take Uncle Bob to Target. He inevitably grabs something out of someone else's cart, decides he doesn't want it, then has me return it to its rightful place on the shelf. All the while, the owner of the cart he took it out of is pursuing us through the store, because it's a one of a kind item. I'm lost on the appeal of Lord's fanatical trappings…
Then I look at the poster and want to see it again. I just don't want to sit through its excessive means of being. Why hath the Fellowship forsaken me?
My esteemed Movieweb colleague, (name removed for contractual reasons), points out a failed detail in effort that I agree with. An evil wizard amasses a lot of time and energy in creating this huge Orc army of sh*t-f*cks, deploying them by the thousands, yet after numerous attacks, they only manage to kill one dude out of nine? The improbability of that is staggering. This evil wizard is doing something wrong. Talk about your faulty merchandise: His is the Nordstrom's Rack of goblin warfare. And yeah, I said one out of nine. I've never read the books and even I know Gandalf isn't in need of a wreath. He fell down a black hole; yet those dorks at the screening started to cry. The guy behind me sniffled for a good fifteen minutes, blubbering into his hand. Jesus H. Christ, people. There's no crying in Lord of the Rings. Pull yourselves together.
When Robert Zemeckis built back to back Future sequels, he tossed off a fairly entertaining teaser before end credits; showcasing some of the moments to be found in part 3. I was hoping for that here, but nope. We're denied. We do, however, get a sequence where Frodo glances at reflecting water in a urinal. The lady of the woods, an elfish hooch embodied by Cate Blanchet, lets Frodo peer into the future, which "kind" of works as a trailer. Crafty workmanship by Jackson, yet again. The most amazing feat is Peter's ability to resurrect Frank Zappa via computer animation for all of Saruman's scenes, casting him as a bad seed wizard who throws bad vibes in a magic-empowered showdown standoff against Gandalf. No one else would have had the balls to do that.
The Greenbook tools over at ONERING.Net turned to me before the screening and explained that I had "No clue" how giddy and nervous they were. This was their lifelong dream. For me, it was just another night at the movies. Yeah, they were right. I wasn't able to clue into their anticipation. I haven't been very enthusiastic about anything in a longtime, except my ever-expanding crush on (name also removed for contractual reasons). That, too, would take a mega-budget in achieving screen space. Those Greenbook guys are scary in a special way all their own. They clapped and loved every single inch of framed fantasy, which only goes to prove…What I have to say just doesn't matter.
Though, if you're not inclined to this particular brand of flight, don't say I didn't warn you…Oh, and Imperial Mantooth has a special message to go. He says, "Eat a dick."
(I'm not sure who that's for. I don't think he's seen the movie.)
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