Revisiting Lord of the Rings

People watch favorite Christmas movies annually, but I have no nostalgic attachment to It’s a Wonderful Life or How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Most of my childhood evolved without a TV. We never went to movie theatres. Dad rarely drove us to the drive-in. In pajamas, hugging our pillows in the back seat, my brother and I soon fell asleep.

The Misty Mountains, perhaps

For me, films that bonded to the holidays came late: The Lord of the Rings trilogy released twenty years ago, Decembers of 2001 – 2003. We made a three-year holiday tradition of seeing them with friends, going to dinner afterwards. Phil and I came early to save seats for Bill and Denise in their matching, stylish outfits; Dixon and Joan; Megan and Jeff; Bob and Gerri; Kitty and Richard arriving at the last minute as vultures eyed their choice seats. For seasons afterwards, we watched the three films at home. In the CD extended versions, each is about four hours. We watched to intermission, finished the next night: six evenings of Tolkien’s quest.

Maybe we became attached because the first, Fellowship of the Ring, was released so soon after 9-11, when our world changed. Never again would we go to the gate to meet loved ones flying in, never again fail to pass through metal detectors, never again assume we are safe here. We were in need of the triumph over evil only plucky hobbits and a principled heir to Gondor’s throne could give us. Middle Earth’s evil is dark and easy to identify, its enforcers hideous and without humanity. Orcs can be slaughtered by the bushel and no one cares. In our world, that is never the case. Some who appear evil to us are adored by others—ordinary people, some of whom we love.

Could be a ruin along the river on the way to Gondor

For years after, the trilogy gathered dust on our shelves. This week we decided it was time. Most of the tale rises as clearly in my memory as reindeer leaping through a starry sky. I savor enriching details missed before, tasty as gingerbread: the swift and sure foreshadowing of Boromir’s weakness before the ring, the signs of what Phil calls “The Passion of Frodo.” The moment the ring becomes his burden, Frodo’s carefree boyish look begins to change, the many closeups of his beautiful Pre-Raphaelite face become sorrowful, suffering.

I’m eager for the next part, yet resist till the weekend, wanting the escape, but not wanting it to be over. Because the warm memories of friends gathering to see the films in 2001 come with the knowledge that half have moved away, one is critically ill and two are gone. Because the two years of pandemic, the forecast for more to come, and the 800,000 Americans who have died of it are why we need to dive into this classic tale now. How fragile as last leaves clinging to winter trees we are, weary of hanging on. And yet, we do. We will.

Gandolf the Grey, responding to Frodo’s wish that this time had not come to him, wishes the same, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”