The Two Experiences of the Lord of the Rings: the Novels, the Films

I've started rereading J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. I'll confess. I've read The Hobbit many more times than LOTR. Also, I've watched Peter Jackson's movie versions, the Ralph Bakshi animated versions, many, many times, to the extent that I sometimes conflate those narratives with the original narrative. And so,  rereading this novel (last time I read it was in undergraduate) some of its original strangeness shines through.

One thing that strikes me about reading the novel is how feasible the world of Middle Earth is in the novels and how epic and somewhat grandiose it is in the Peter Jackson films. There's a kind of concreteness and ontological weight, if you will, to the Middle Earth of the novels that just it not there in the films. For me, in the Jackson films, the world is so colorful, so vibrant, and so artistic--beautiful, sublime, horrifying--that it seems unreal. Middle Earth in the Jackson films is so intense makes me focus on the technology and production value. What I mean is, I can't forget the bluescreens, the CGI, the props.

With the novels, the strangeness of the world, its tangibility, its history subordinates the prose style. In other words, the story being related seems to have a life of its own that precedes any narrative or literary stylistic acrobatics Tolkien might be able to pull off.

I know you're waiting for it! I'm not going to recite that lame adage, "The books are so much better than the film!" Why? Because I don't think such a move is very useful or interesting, comparing the books to the film. The only thing they share are single narrative. Artworks are composed of many, many things aside from narrative. Narrative is just one element that creates emotion.

For me, the books and the films are two separate experiences, two different media that evoke in audiences qualitatively distinct aesthetic responses. You watch films with lots of people; you read books by yourself. The dialog in a novel can be charged with lyrical beauty, and yet--the action passages can only achieve a certain amount of excitement. In the films the battle scenes are astonishing and exciting while the dialog, though intriguing, loses is nuance through truncation and needs to be bouyed by a soundtrack of emotionally charged music.

Long story short: two seperate experiences.

But I will give you this: rereading LOTR makes me realize how much the various film versions of Tolkien's masterpieces have taken liberties with the narrative.

Jim Henson's *The Storyteller*: "The Soldier and Death" and the Pleasure of Narrative Pacing

So, last night we had some friends over for wine and board games. It was a 5 player game and I bowed out, being a host. And so, while everyone played, I sat on the couch and began to aimlessly wander through Netflix's offerings. In the course of these wanderings, I came to watch one of my favorite "film fantasys" of all time, an episode from Jim Henson's 1988 "live-action/puppet" television show, The Storyteller. The episode I watched was called, "The Solider and Death."

If you haven't seen Jim Henson's The Storyteller before, I highly recommend it to you. Here's the concept of the show: each episode takes an obscure, European folktale and relates it through live acting and puppets. There are German folk tales, Russian folk tales, and Celtic folktales. And they are all done, I think, quite well.

The one that has stuck with me the most is "The Soldier and Death," episode 5 of the first season. It stars Bob Peck as the soldier. It relates such a multifaceted and swirling plot that it's very difficult to summarize. Suffice it to say, it's about a miracle worker who, in spite of his humble beginnings, comes to capture death.

There are all sorts of reasons why this is such a good production. Let me try to highlight a few.

In terms of cinematography, this episode (and other ones) is "formally" and "technically" creative. It doesn't just rely upon scene to tell a story. It's utilizes many different "narrative modes". For example, the story isn't told primarily through showing the action of the events. Sometimes the plot is related through the spoken dialog of "the Storyteller" (played by John Hurt). Hurt's acting and storytelling abilities make the folktale thrill almost as much as the puppets and the effects. And the narrative pace is diversified. Sometimes you get slow-paced "scene" and detailed sets; other times you get "summary" and two-dimensional, abstract sets.

Devil puppets

To an extent, you have here three narrative levels: the storyteller telling the stories, the specific scenes where you see the protagonist talking with people and doing things, and the more two-dimensional, abstract scenes where large swaths of the narrative is related in a sentence or two.

Put briefly, this story is great because of its ability to master narrative pace. All in all, "The Soldier and Death" doesn't last any longer than 25 minutes; and yet, in the course of those 25 minutes, you see the main character going from a humble, homeless soldier to a miracle worker, to a kind of epic hero who visits both hell and heaven. You have in these 25 minutes enough material, I think, for a series of novels, but the treatment is such that, after the 25 minutes, you feel like you've truly been taken somewhere.

Another element of this production I love: the puppets. As a little kid, these demon puppets haunted me. After watching this, I had an entire series of nightmares, featuring these little red, be-horned fellas. When I would wake up in the middle of the night, I would imagine that if I looked out my window I would see a similar cabal of demons smiling and chortling there.

Juxtaposing Real Life with the Fantastic: The Gamers: Dorkness Rising

And so it begins. The semester is on me! Tomorrow, I start teaching my “History of the Novel” class; and, I begin, in earnest, the task of writing my dissertation prospectus. Be prepared for "reports" regarding those projects (if they treat on subjects relevant to this blog, of course).

Over "lunch-breakfast" this afternoon a good friend of mine reminded of a movie that I love. And so, I want to review it! Unlike the other film’s I’ve reviewed—the "Rankin and Bass Masterpieces" and The Dark Crystal, this film is not "mainstream," so there's a good chance you might not have heard of it.

Before proceeding into the review proper, however, you should know that it’s streamable on Netflix; also, the production company—an independent film company based out of Seattle called Dead Gentlemen Productions—has DVDs available on their website: Dead Gentlemen Productions

Apparently these folks have quite a following! All I know of them is this film, which I love. I’ve watched it at least five times.

One thing is certain: I’m seeking out more of their stuff. Because it’s not hyperbole when I suggest that this film, released in 2008, is already a kind of “contemporary” cult classic.

Gods! I haven’t even give you the title yet! The film is called The Gamers: Dorkness Rising, and it’s written and directed by Matt Vancil.

What’s it about? Well, it’s a little complicated to explain if you haven't played tabletop roleplaying games like Dungeons and Dragons. And yet—it’s quite easy to explain if you do play roleplaying games. If my description of the plot comes off to you non-RPGers as alienating, don’t be turned away! The humor and cleverness of this film is not so “sub-cultural” that you won’t find yourself laughing and perhaps touched.

Anyhow. Back to the question at hand. What’s it about? It concerns a group of friends who play Dungeons and Dragons together. If you play Dungeons and Dragons, then you know that D&D is a kind of “collaborative storytelling ritual.” Thus, the film also relates the story of this group of friends’s Dungeons and Dragons “campaign,” that is, the story they tell and act out together.

And so you have two narratives here: (1) the story of their real lives, sitting around the game table, laughing, drinking soda, arguing, etc., and (2) the story of their D&D campaign, set in a fantasy world plagued by the evil necromancer Mort Kemnon. So, you have two narratives juxtaposed over top of eachother here: a realistic one and a fantasy one. This narrative juxtaposition is the source of much of the pleasure of the film—its humor, its insights into human character, etc.. Let me try to explain.

An example. There’s one character, Gary, who has decided to play a sorcerer in the D&D game. And so he plays another character, a sorcerer. And yet, he can’t decide on which gender to make his character. And as he’s playing, he sometimes forgets his character is a girl. And so, you have a character in the fantasy world, a sorcerer/sorceress, by the name of Luster, played by two actors: Christian Doyle and Jennifer Page. One scene you have a scantily-clad, sexy sorceress; and the next scene you have a dude in excessively feminine sorceress’s clothing. What is the result of these complicated narrative swirlings that I’m having difficulty articulating here? Hilarity.

Aside front he plot, you have some very good comedic acting in here. The character of Flynn Fine, the womanizing bard (played by Scott C. Brown), is hilarious. There’s a scene where he attempts to use his bard-singing abilities to calm the rage of a marauding band of goblins, and is pin-cushioned with spears. This moved me to tears (tears of laughter, that is). When I watch the film, this scene is a “rewinder-and-play-againer”.

The stories of other characters--the game master, Kevin Lodge (Nathan Rice), and the “rules lawyer,” Cass (Brian Lewis)—are, in addition to being both hilarious and fun, touching stories. Kevin is struggling with writer’s block; Cass is struggling with his need to “win,” to be the best, the greatest, the one. There's another character, the fighter Daphne (Carol Roscoe), who is perfect at being the opposite of the stereotypical mighty-thewed warrior: intelligent, sweet, noble, and--nevertheless--deadly. In a fun way her character shines a lot of light on gender stereotypes.

For being an independent film company, the production value is also quite impressive. Costuming, computer effects, choreography, props, scenery: all of these suggest that this film is indeed an “independent,” low-budget production—and yet, the production elements seem to suggest a characteristic style, a unique flavor that is endearing and impressive rather than cheesy.

Anyhow, I love this movie! In juxtaposing “real life” with “fantasy life,” it reveals important inter-connections between the two; and it does this difficult work with humor and authenticity in a way only an independent production could.

The Dark Crystal: Secondary World Fantasy and the Authority of Material Effects

Today I’m going to review another one of my favorite films, Jim Henson’s, The Dark Crystal.

In this film Jim Henson has imagined an entirely new world. Not only does he create new races of beings—the evil Skeksis, the calm Mystics, the persevering Gelflings--he creates in this film a new planet, an entirely new ecosystem, Thra: its the flora, its fauna, its lifeforms.

There’s something about the “materiality” of these effects that imbue the film with a kind of authenticity, a kind of authenticity the best CGI couldn’t garner.

Jim Henson’s new creations—his novums, if you will--are related through artistic puppets and amazing set designs. I want to talk about them all, but I’m going to limit myself to a few highlights.

The villains of the film, the Skeksis, made such an impression on me as a young kid, and still do. Half-buzzard, half insect, beady eyes, decadent clothing: they suggest dark sorcery and decaying empires.

The main villain, the Chamberlain of the dead emperor (his name is skekSil), was my favorite Skeksi. He was one of those villains you loved to hate. He has this strange little verbal tick. In a high pitched voice he moans, “Mmmmmmm,…” which suggests he thinking. He does this throughout the film, and you come to both love and hate it.

There’s another character, Aughra, a kind of “Yoda-ish” oracle lady who helps the main character understand his fate. She is of some indeterminate race; but she has these buggy eyes and this crazy hair that always stirred me. And her gravely voice and lyrical dialog gives her a genuine authority.

There’s a scene in the film, in Aughra’s astrological laboratory, where she’s explaining “the Great Conjunction” to the protagonist; and there’s this huge model of the many planets and their courses. It’s an amazing sculpture! And you have to remind yourself—that’s not CGI! Someone built that.

Other parts of the film showcase the artistic power of Jim Henson’s studios. There’s one scene when the protagonist stumbles upon an ancient ruin of his race, the Gelflings, and there are bas-relief sculptures on a ruined wall depicting their fraught history (spoiler: all the Gelflings, aside from the two main characters, have had their souls sucked out by the Skeksis). The detail here is astounding. All the vegetation, the water running down the stone, the weeds: all of it is “artificial,” the artistic creation of a studio.

That’s why I think this film is a masterpiece: you immerse yourself in this world and begin to believe in it, and forget that all of those things, those creatures, all of those trees, living plants, natural vistas—they are all artificial creations. Sculptures. Puppets.

In this fantasy film, Jim Henson and company have--as much as anyone can hope to do--created a "secondary world".