Tolkien Film Quotes

(which I never cared for, though the covers were killer), Stephen R. Lawhead’s The Pendragon Cycle, Robert Jordan’s The Eye of the World, Terry Brooks’s The Sword of Shannara, and of course, towering above them all, J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings—a book I hadn’t read, which caused my brother no end of consternation. I had seen the animated films seven hundred times, so I didn’t think I needed to read it yet. (Don’t be angry. Tolkien, for me, came later.) But hobbits aside, I stood in the aisle at Waldenbooks and yearned, I tell you.

After dinner, we escaped to a movie: The Two Towers, part two of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy. It was a good story, providing the escape we sought, but something more. Near the end of the film, when Frodo feels that the burden of the ring is overwhelming and he simply cannot continue the struggle, Sam tries to convince him to hold on. Frodo asks, “What are we holding onto, Sam?” “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.” Peace

Okay. Allow me to explain. We are very interested in you. In your talent." "Talent?" "Talent is not exactly the right word. Ability." "Wait. Who, exactly, is this 'we'? You and your pimp friends?" "Pimp ...? No. We, in this case, are a government intelligence-gathering agency." "Ha! Right. Like what, the CIA?" "No, we are not the CIA. And I'm not joking." "Ah, so you're FBI." "Actually, no." "Okay, well, I don't really believe you, so you might as well tell me who you are - or, in this case, who you are pretending to be." "RAITH." "Excuse me?" "An operational intelligence organization. Reconnaissance and Intelligence AuTHority. R.A.I.T.H." "That acronym totally makes no sense." He shrugs. "I wasn't in charge of branding." "RAITH. So I suppose its mission is to travel through the fires of Mordor and retrieve a magical yet corrupting ring?" "Come again?" "RAITH. That is a Lord of the Rings reference." "Never saw it." "Now I know you're a psycho. And the correct answer is never read it. As in, I have never read the entire J. R. R. Tolkien Lord of the Rings series and then avidly gone to see the films with initial excitement and then, through the years, a bit of disappointment." "Okay, I have neither read the Lord of the Rings books nor seen the films." "One more question." "Yes." "Are you a robot?" "Very amusing.

Whatever She may have been thought to signify, its impact upon publication was tremendous. Everyone read it, especially men; a whole generation was influenced by it, and the generation after that. A dozen or so films have been based on it, and a huge amount of the pulp-magazine fiction churned out in the teens, twenties, and thirties of the twentieth century bears its impress. Every time a young but possibly old and/or dead woman turns up, especially if she’s ruling a lost tribe in a wilderness and is a hypnotic seductress, you’re looking at a descendant of She. Literary writers too felt Her foot on their necks. Conrad’s Heart of Darkness owes a lot to Her, as Gilbert and Gubar have indicated. James Hilton’s Shangri-La, with its ancient, beautiful, and eventually crumbling heroine, is an obvious relative. C. S. Lewis felt Her power, fond as he was of creating sweet-talking, good-looking evil queens; and in Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, She splits into two: Galadriel, powerful but good, who’s got exactly the same water-mirror as the one possessed by She; and a very ancient cave-dwelling man-devouring spider-creature named, tellingly, Shelob

The canons of narrative in any medium cannot be wholly different; and the failure of poor films is often precisely in exaggeration, and in the intrusion of unwarranted matter owing to not perceiving where the core of the original lies.

a plausible argument can be made that many cinematic adaptations are better than their prose source materials. At the risk of offending the enormous army of Tolkien fans, I would suggest that Peter Jackson’s films surpass Tolkien’s originals, because, to be blunt, Jackson makes films better than Tolkien writes; Jackson’s film language, sweeping, lyrical, by turns intimate and epic, is greatly preferable to Tolkien’s prose, which veers alarmingly between windbaggery, archness, pomposity, and an unbearable thee- and thou-ing faux-classicism, achieving something like humanity and ordinary English only in the parts about hobbits, the little people who are our representatives in the saga to a far greater degree than its grandly heroic (or snivelingly crooked) men.

Yet, for a few weeks, Jackson had in front of him the chance of adapting Tolkien’s beloved bestseller, reviving Charlton Heston’s dystopian talking ape thriller, or remaking the film that had, in many ways, charted the course for his life. Which would, in fact, count as his second attempt to remake King Kong.

Sam’s constant deference and humility make many modern readers uncomfortable with its connotations of class difference, and in Peter Jackson’s films this differential between Frodo and Sam is softened a bit.