WARNING: Do not read this if you have not seen the latest installment of The Lord of the Rings. In fact, do not read this if you have seen the latest installment of The Lord of the Rings but are one of those slavish, easily angered, I-waited-in-line-for-a-month-in-a-tent-so-I-had-to-like-it-no-matter-what kind of freaks. I’ve got important matters to discuss here, and I can’t be distracted by whining from a bunch of Dungeons & Dragons outcasts who have nothing better to do until the next Renaissance Faire but play defense attorney for a zillion-dollar Hollywood epic. The thing is, I thought the movie was great, OK? Or, I thought it was great until I got to the end of the Tolkien marathon and was slapped in the face by the Hobbit That Dare Not Speak Its Name.
We all know what I’m talking about, so don’t play coy with me because I’m not in the mood. There I was in the theater, enjoying The Return of the King and respecting the quiet dignity of its understated homo hobbit love story, when, out of nowhere, I’m suddenly stuck watching big flaming Sam makin’ googly eyes in the bar at some fat spinster, and the next thing I know he’s married. Excuse me? I call bullshit on the beard.
Oh, and don’t tell me that Sam got married in the book. I don’t care what happened in the book. I don’t read any books featuring a map or a glossary, a steadfast rule that has kept me a safe and happy distance from gnomes, verbose descriptions of rural plant life, and Watership Down. And guess what, Einstein? In the Oz books, apparently, Dorothy never sang “Over the Rainbow.” Yeah, it really broke me up to see the filmmakers futz with that one, too.
LookI’m not one of those boys who needs validation in all of my popular entertainment. Really, I’m not. I accepted that Sal Mineo was just around in Rebel Without a Cause to give James Dean a nice ego boost. I know that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were staunch pussy-mongers, even if Newman and Redford had way more fun with each other than Katharine Ross could ever provide. And I also wasn’t expecting Sam at any point to look at Frodo, put his hand on his hip, and holler, “Girlfriend, why don’t you bring your big feet over here and gimme a little sugar? Snap!”
But you cannot put me through the past couple of years and 10 hours of Middle-earth and “Master Frodo!” this and “Master Frodo!” that and big, unattractive close-ups of Patty Duke’s burly son endlessly snotting on himself at the thought of losing Elijah Wood and then tell me he’s really been jonesing for some hobbit whore. (That has to be the most forced, obligatory wedding I’ve ever witnessedthey might as well have stuck some elf up there on a mike singing “Evergreen.”) I don’t care what anyone saysthe second that bride of his finishes brushing her toe hair for the night and blows out the candle, Sam is feigning a headache and it’s off to the online personals: “Faithful, hairy GWM, football player build, seeks attractive, dominant hobbit for discreet encounters with gollums and large spiders.” Fairy tale, indeed.
