Now, before we get started, I'd like to make it perfectly clear that when I
say I'd like to sodomize Elijah Wood, I say it out of anger rather than
latent homosexual lust. I'm sure that goes without saying, as anyone, male
or female, expressing sexual interest in that pasty, gap-toothed Pillsbury
Doughboy would be ashamed to admit it even to themselves, let alone to the
dozens upon dozens of readers PULP attracts. Nevertheless, I feel the need
to clarify my position, which is that someone needs to teach that little
brat a lesson in humility, and it might as well be me, though I'd no doubt
have to close my eyes and envision something less deviant and unpleasant,
like the dismembered torso of Anna Paquin laid out on black satin. I know
this violent hostility may seem a little extreme, even for PULP, but that
snotty bastard makes me see red. He thinks that just because he got to pork
Christina Ricci in The Ice Storm that he can continue to mock movie screens
with his abominable presence, prancing about like Sir Laurence Olivier when
he's clearly nothing more than a solid obsidian core of evil wrapped inside
a pastry. You can see it in his eyes, dancing madly from side to side,
shifty as a Mexican, searching for the next victim to infect with all those
wonderful thespian techniques he got from fast-forwarding through tapes of
The Actor's Studio while eating ham sandwiches. I suppose it's a testament
to the greatness of The Fellowship of the Ring that I was able to tolerate
his presence for nearly the entire 6 hours of the film, although I did slip
up briefly near the end and began shrieking profanities until one of the
Famous Players ushers asked me to quiet down and put my pants back on. And
great the film is, sure to please die-hard fans and slightly less die-hard
fans alike, in that anyone who's willing to sit through 360 minutes of elves
and fairies has problems a whole bigger than worrying about how much they
like the movie. The cast, like the recent Ocean's 11, is the very definition
of star-studded, featuring Ian McKellan, Viggo Mortenson, and Liv Tyler, who
seems to be hard at work developing an Alicia Silverstone-like stroke-slur,
clearly meant to evoke the tried and tested method of garnering an Oscar
nomination by playing a retard. Other highlights in the cast include
Christopher Lee, possible the greatest non-Bruce Campbell actor in the
history of the world, as the evil Sauruman. Lee, a veteran of the British
Hammer Horror cycle of the 50s and 60s, adds a much needed touch of malice
to the film, which had previously been menaced only by an indistinct bad-guy
wearing a mask not unlike the villain in any given Godzilla Vs... movie.
Also present is Jonathan Rhys-Davis, who, as he did in Sliders and Raiders
of the Lost Ark, continues to embody the very definition of the word
'bumbling'. Hugo Weaving from the Matrix, also makes an appearance playing a
High Elf alongside Cate Blanchette. While the heroes of the film are the
Hobbits, midget-like monsters meant to be cute but in reality distressing
and off-putting, the moral high ground lies in the elves, mighty and
powerful creatures not the least bit hampered by the fact that they look and
sound like they'd rather be drinking red wine and watching figure skating
than saving the world. Unfortunately, none of the cast distinguishes
themselves much, as the film concerns itself more with not pissing off any
militant Dungeon Masters in the audience than with creating an expressly
filmic narrative. While there are parts in the book missing from the film,
there is precious little in the film that isn't directly lifted from the
novel. In my mind, right between the catalogues of interracial porno and the
Vincent Price filmography, there must be some explicit reason to justify a
cross-medium adaptation, other than saving university students with book
reports and essays the trouble of reading course material. What the movie
lacks is an authorial touch, something to distinguish it from the novel in
something other than a visual sense. Director Peter Jackson, who somehow
landed this gig after making gore epic Dead-Alive and the Ghostbusters-esque
flop The Frighteners, merely pays homage to the novel here, as opposed to
adding anything distinctly 'Jackson'. However, for an straight adaptation
that refuses to separate itself from the book in anyway, the movie still
does a damn fine job. Sure, The Fellowship of the Ring is just a
monumentally expensive way to save yourself the trouble of reading the
novel, but at least it's pretty, with amazing effects, lush cinematography,
and a fine, nicely rounded tail-end.
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