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Exeunt Peter Jackson, chased by our inner Anthony Lane

perm_contribanthonylanephoto_p233_crop peter-jackson-20050824-652051

Exeunt Peter Jackson, chased by our inner Anthony Lane

The more we talk "longish orcish life [. . .] hinted at during the closing of TTT, when Shagrat and Gorbag are . . ." the further confident the Andrew O'Hehir in most of us will be in its inclination to have little to nothing to do with this film, for rather the longish while. Our decade-end sum: For a moment, we kept fellowship with the geeks -- and it speaks well of our humanity for doing so -- but, alas, they are very clearly a breed apart: fiddling with their forever toys, are these lot of unredeemable, squalor boys.

One wonders if in fact this article wasn't bait to coat the film-memory well enough in sludge, so that it could be left behind for good, so much more the cleanly. When you want to dump someone, you are inclined to focus on the bad, and conclude that's more of what it was really about than we -- in the moment -- could realize. So it was a kind of joyous, silly play we allowed ourselves, but since it is now obvious that those who stick with it amount to the small-towners who never had it in them to last even a week in the big city, it is now time to draw back, become more nuanced, and engage with an unaccountably intertwined and complex world. This will require the help of a different sort of film.

Of course it will prove a classic. Too much love and innovation in it for it not to. But let's never allow its beautiful fellowship to seem all that irrelevant to our current needs. Boy I liked Viggo's smile -- it can carry you on through as assuredly well as can the latest "New Yorker." We know this; let's not forget it.

Link: “Dude, where’s my LOTR?” (Andrew O’Hehir, Salon)

photo of Anthony Lane -- New Yorker


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