I wanted to finish Book V with the end of this year, when so many Black Gates feel like they've opened...
The chapter's obvious highlight is Gandalf's trashtalk with the Mouth of Sauron, and I will touch back on him in a bit; but I first wanted to back up and note a couple less-innocuous moments from earlier in this chapter: when the heralds cry "The Lords of Gondor are come! Let all leave this land or yield them up!" To which Imrahil suggests, "Say not The Lords of Gondor. Say The King Elessar. For that is true, even though he has not yet sat upon the throne; and it will give the Enemy more thought, if the heralds use that name" (198). Then, before the Black Gate itself, the heralds again cry, "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, and depart forever" (201). In each case, the rights of the legitimate King are invoked, and this feels integral to me.
For a thing that's been quietly gnawing at me throughout re-read is why it was so imperative, so essential, to Tolkien, that there be a King that Returns. There have been occasional hints of Christian apocalyptic allegory here and there, as the King is a type for the coming Messiah, but nothing that rises to the level of his colleague C.S. Lewis's Chronicle of Narnia--on the whole, Aragorn hasn't felt too much like a Christ-like analogue, but simply the heir to a restored Monarchy after a particularly long interregnum.
One might argue that Tolkien's infatuation with the Monarchy is just another way of saying he's English--but then, the English have had a really fraught relationship with their Kings! From King John forced to sign the Magna Carta in 1215, to the Peasant Revolt of 1381, to Jack Cade's rebellion of 1450, to the War of the Roses and Guy Fawkes and the English Civil War and Charles I's beheading and the American Revolution (which is best understood as a bunch of Englishmen once again trying to kill their King) and the Sex Pistols sneering "Anarchy in the UK" and The Smiths singing "The Queen is Dead" and Prince Charles' motorcade being attacked during the 2011 London riots with shouts of "Off with his head," the English have a long and bloody history of always trying to get rid of their monarchy! That the British Monarchy is one of the few surviving left on Earth is one of the supremest ironies of history.
Even in Tolkien's time, the monarchy had already been reduced to a figure-head arrangement, the real power lying primarily with Parliament, the forces of Democracy having largely won their victories, the term "constitutional monarchy" coined as a polite way to say that the Monarchy is allowed to stick around primarily due to institutional inertia. There is certainly nothing Messianic about the British Crown.
Yet there is about Aragorn's. I've been trying to put my finger on why, because it just seems to odd for a book all about challenging the absolute rule of a dictator should simultaneously celebrate the rise of a Monarch; the cognitive dissonance is astounding. But I think this chapter rather off-handedly explains the appeal of a King to Tolkein: "For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands." Quite simply, Sauron has no rights to Gondor--or the rest of Middle-Earth for that matter--because the King is asserting his claims. That the King still largely lacks the military-apparatus necessary to enforce said claims is beside the point: for what Aragorn represents is not that hereditary monarchy is an ideal form of government (I highly doubt that even Tolkein seriously believed that), but rather that there is a proper order, that the current rule of darkness is not the way things are supposed to be. King Aragorn does not merely challenge Sauron's power, but his legitimacy.
Although, as a red-blooded American, I have even less interest in a Monarch than the British, I have as of late found a strange sort of solace in wanting to say to the gathering forces of darkness, you have no rights here. You do no belong here, you are not the way things are supposed to be. There is just this sense that something has been usurped--not a Kingship per se, but an overall order wherein cruelty and viciousness are not allowed to run amok unchecked. That, I believe, more than any mere nostalgia for some chivalrous past that never actually existed, is the real appeal of Aragorn to Tolkein--this idea that evil can be checked by a proper claimant who can order it off its property.
Which in turn perhaps explains Gandalf's own boldness before the Mouth of Sauron. The White Wizard snatches Sam and Frodos' accouterments from the Mouth quite simply because they do not belong to him; they are not his to offer nor to bandy about nor to keep. Gandalf then calls Sauron a haggler, a base master of treachery, and the Mouth a slave. These are not random insults, but cutting jabs intended to mark the Dark Lord as just another thuggish low-life trying to basely steal what isn't his; Sauron may still be able to force things from you like a common mugger, or haggle with you like some back-alley swindler, but nevertheless he still has no legitimate claims to anything that actual Free Men may possess. The Mouth of Sauron himself must feel this, because after Gandalf snatches away Frodo and Sams' garments, he ceases all his mocking laughter and swiftly retreats to the Black Gate with his tail between his legs, to take refuge in Mordor's numbers because he can't take any in its claims.
This whole idea, that evil has no real claims to this world, that it can be evicted, is an empowering one, and can help to muster your forces and courage and righteous indignation, even when you feel outnumbered.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Friday, December 23, 2016
"The Houses of Healing" - Ben's Thoughts
I just can't bring myself to like these filler chapters. I'm not sure what the purpose of "Houses" can be, other than -- as Jacob noted -- heavy-handed allegory. Why was it necessary to spend so many pages on Aragorn healing Faramir, Merry, and Eowyn?
Part of me argues that it's to establish Aragorn's bona fides as a king, and that probably is what Tolkien is going for. It seems that in his mind, Aragorn must be established as both the proper heir to the throne by lineage -- his direct ancestry to Elendil and Anarion -- but by right as well, and by acceptance by the people. First he pauses before the gate and puts away his emblems of kingship before entering, to mollify the Stewards who have ruled there for so long. Then when he does enter he does so anonymously, hidden in his cloak and only when bidden by Gandalf. And finally, his great work of healing in the city, which earns him the love and trust of the people, is only done when the people "followed after him; and when at last he had supped, men came and prayed that he would heal their kinsmen or their friends whose lives were in peril through hurt or wound, or who lay under the Black Shadow." Tolkien establishes Aragorn as no tyrant, but as a benevolent ruler who accepts responsibility when called upon by his people.
But so much about this chapter rings false to me. Are we to believe that Gandalf, the wizard of action that was chomping at the bit to get out into the thick of the battle just a few minutes ago, is going to hang out in the Houses of Healing observing the battle from afar? While he is the main caretaker of the wounded until Aragorn arrives, I think the text makes it plain that there is little he can do for them. But again, are we truly to believe that Gandalf, a Maia spirit, doesn't know about or cannot harness the healing properties of aethelas? Quite unfortunately, the text supports the inference that the properties of kingsfoil are only at their peak when used by the legitimate king himself, and by no others. Such plot contrivances irritate me to the extreme. Why is that the case? For what purpose? This certainly was never before mentioned when kingsfoil was used in Book I (again by Aragorn, however, I will note).
The lovey-dovey vibe the chapter tries to pull off also rings somewhat false to me. Aragorn goes from one patient to the next, and they each awake with cliched sayings and sticky sweet praises. Equally irritating is Aragorn's exchange with Merry poking fun of the master of herb-lore and his love of languages. This seems like the Professor is trying to cheekily make fun of his own proclivities, but it doesn't fit with how Aragorn has been portrayed throughout the book and doesn't fit the tone of the chapter, either. I just... am baffled by the chapter in general It's just a slog. It's just bad.
I will note that Gandalf's explanation about what truly ails Eowyn, although a further extrapolation of what she already communicated to Aragorn in "Grey Company," contains excellent turns of phrase; so much so that Peter Jackson excised it from "Return of the King" (in fact, he excised this entire chapter and plot-line) and gave the line to Wormtongue to speak directly to Eowyn in "Two Towers." It's unfortunate that is chapter is such an great example of how beautifully Tolkien could write, and how poorly (at times) he could plot.
Part of me argues that it's to establish Aragorn's bona fides as a king, and that probably is what Tolkien is going for. It seems that in his mind, Aragorn must be established as both the proper heir to the throne by lineage -- his direct ancestry to Elendil and Anarion -- but by right as well, and by acceptance by the people. First he pauses before the gate and puts away his emblems of kingship before entering, to mollify the Stewards who have ruled there for so long. Then when he does enter he does so anonymously, hidden in his cloak and only when bidden by Gandalf. And finally, his great work of healing in the city, which earns him the love and trust of the people, is only done when the people "followed after him; and when at last he had supped, men came and prayed that he would heal their kinsmen or their friends whose lives were in peril through hurt or wound, or who lay under the Black Shadow." Tolkien establishes Aragorn as no tyrant, but as a benevolent ruler who accepts responsibility when called upon by his people.
But so much about this chapter rings false to me. Are we to believe that Gandalf, the wizard of action that was chomping at the bit to get out into the thick of the battle just a few minutes ago, is going to hang out in the Houses of Healing observing the battle from afar? While he is the main caretaker of the wounded until Aragorn arrives, I think the text makes it plain that there is little he can do for them. But again, are we truly to believe that Gandalf, a Maia spirit, doesn't know about or cannot harness the healing properties of aethelas? Quite unfortunately, the text supports the inference that the properties of kingsfoil are only at their peak when used by the legitimate king himself, and by no others. Such plot contrivances irritate me to the extreme. Why is that the case? For what purpose? This certainly was never before mentioned when kingsfoil was used in Book I (again by Aragorn, however, I will note).
The lovey-dovey vibe the chapter tries to pull off also rings somewhat false to me. Aragorn goes from one patient to the next, and they each awake with cliched sayings and sticky sweet praises. Equally irritating is Aragorn's exchange with Merry poking fun of the master of herb-lore and his love of languages. This seems like the Professor is trying to cheekily make fun of his own proclivities, but it doesn't fit with how Aragorn has been portrayed throughout the book and doesn't fit the tone of the chapter, either. I just... am baffled by the chapter in general It's just a slog. It's just bad.
I will note that Gandalf's explanation about what truly ails Eowyn, although a further extrapolation of what she already communicated to Aragorn in "Grey Company," contains excellent turns of phrase; so much so that Peter Jackson excised it from "Return of the King" (in fact, he excised this entire chapter and plot-line) and gave the line to Wormtongue to speak directly to Eowyn in "Two Towers." It's unfortunate that is chapter is such an great example of how beautifully Tolkien could write, and how poorly (at times) he could plot.
Monday, December 19, 2016
"The Pyre of Denethor" - Ben's Thoughts
I don't know if I have too much more to say about Denethor. His final decision is chilling, but it feels all too real. Here is a man whose life, as he has lived it up to that point, has no place in the changing world. Either Gondor is defeated by Sauron, and he and his city is destroyed, or the West triumphs over the Enemy, and Aragorn supplants him. He is unwilling to change, or perhaps unable to change perspective. He has been perpetually poisoned by Sauron's propaganda, a process that was no doubt accelerated since the death of Boromir, and he is left with the terrible conclusion that the only other option is destruction.
Gandalf wisely points out that "it would not seem that a Steward who faithfully surrenders his charge is diminished in love or in honour," but the problem is that Denethor does not see himself as a Steward; he sees himself as a king. He is a man that thanks to his birth, lineage, and circumstances of fate that occurred many hundreds of years prior, answers to no one. I think we would all like to say to ourselves that in the same circumstance, we would gladly abdicate to Aragorn (as Faramir, we will see, actually does in Book VI), but the temptation to think as Denethor does is probably all to real for most of us. It's not easy to give up power, to accept that we must change or be nullified, or to cede control to others in the face of great danger.
Unfortunately in these situations where we feel our control slipping, it's all too easy to jump to unwarranted conclusions, breeding anger and even paranoia. Of Gandalf, Denethor says that he has "read thy mind and its policies," and that:
And in Denethor's mind, I'm sure it was all to easy to rationalize his fear towards Aragorn: he came from a line of failed kings, whose kingdom in Arnor was destroyed over a thousand years before. Likewise, the Gondorian line had failed; the stewards had stepped in to guide the kingdom in the absence of the line of Elendil. In his mind, why should he bow to such a person? What he did not know was that Boromir, initially just as skeptical as his father about Aragorn's legitimacy, was won over by Aragorn's character and ability. Denethor refuses to give Aragorn that chance.
Fear, jumping to conclusions, inability and unwillingness to change behavior and perspective, rationalization -- these sound like very human foibles indeed. A tragic end to a compelling character.
Gandalf wisely points out that "it would not seem that a Steward who faithfully surrenders his charge is diminished in love or in honour," but the problem is that Denethor does not see himself as a Steward; he sees himself as a king. He is a man that thanks to his birth, lineage, and circumstances of fate that occurred many hundreds of years prior, answers to no one. I think we would all like to say to ourselves that in the same circumstance, we would gladly abdicate to Aragorn (as Faramir, we will see, actually does in Book VI), but the temptation to think as Denethor does is probably all to real for most of us. It's not easy to give up power, to accept that we must change or be nullified, or to cede control to others in the face of great danger.
Unfortunately in these situations where we feel our control slipping, it's all too easy to jump to unwarranted conclusions, breeding anger and even paranoia. Of Gandalf, Denethor says that he has "read thy mind and its policies," and that:
Thy hope is to rule in my stead, to stand behind every throne, north, south, or west. . . . Do I not know that you commanded this halfling here to keep silence? That you brought him hither to be a spy within my very chamber? And yet in our speech together I have learned the names and purpose of all thy companions.We know, from long experience with Gandalf, that his purpose is not to rule, nor to "supplant" Denethor with Aragorn. Additionally, we know that the "purpose" of each member of the Fellowship is benevolent and, at least initially, was bent towards assisting Frodo and the destruction of the Ring. Certainly, Gandalf did command Pippin to be silent about Aragorn and his ultimate kingly destiny. But it is Denethor, in his frustration, that fills in the blanks there with malevolent intent. How hastily we jump to conclusions when we feel like others are being duplicitous with us. Denethor was unwilling to consider the fact that it was he who was the problem, not Gandalf or Aragorn.
And in Denethor's mind, I'm sure it was all to easy to rationalize his fear towards Aragorn: he came from a line of failed kings, whose kingdom in Arnor was destroyed over a thousand years before. Likewise, the Gondorian line had failed; the stewards had stepped in to guide the kingdom in the absence of the line of Elendil. In his mind, why should he bow to such a person? What he did not know was that Boromir, initially just as skeptical as his father about Aragorn's legitimacy, was won over by Aragorn's character and ability. Denethor refuses to give Aragorn that chance.
Fear, jumping to conclusions, inability and unwillingness to change behavior and perspective, rationalization -- these sound like very human foibles indeed. A tragic end to a compelling character.
Saturday, December 17, 2016
"The Last Debate" - Jacob's Thoughts
This chapter is a sort of spiritual successor of "The Council of Elrond" in two regards: first and most obviously, it involves a long, round-about debate that functions primarily to justify a foregone conclusion--in this case, that they must send an expeditionary force to Mordor in order to buy the Ring-Bearer some time. It's all pretty perfunctory.
But this chapter also spiritually follows Elrond when Aragorn declares, "Let none now reject the counsels of Gandalf, whose long labours against Sauron come at last to their test. Nonetheless I do not yet claim to command any man. Let others choose as they will" (192). Aragorn urges the others to Mordor, but he adamantly refuses to order anyone to do so. In this moment, I cannot help but recall Elrond's parting counsel to the Fellowship in "The Ring Goes South":
For he could just as easily make an awful one. As Legolas recalls of their adventures on the Paths of the Dead: "In that hour I looked on Aragorn and thought how great and terrible a Lord he might have become in the strength of his will, had he taken the Ring to himself. Not for naught does Mordor fear him" (186). Tolkien's close friend CS Lewis had written that the reason the Lord chose Paul is because only those truly capable of great evil are likewise truly capable of great good; Nietzsche of all people, likewise said, "Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws," and Aragorn has claws indeed.
Nor do I mention Nietzsche arbitrarily: "Strength of will" was one of his key terms, one that was heavily abused and exploited by the Nazis to justify their worst atrocities. Tolkien here seems to indicate that there is nothing inherently wrong with "strength of will"...but there isn't anything inherently right about it, either. The question is not whether we should or should not have strength of will, but for what purpose we shall exercise it, whether in the cause of domination or of freedom; it is equally important to Tolkien that Aragorn understand that distinction, too. Having recently survived the horrors of WWII, these were not academic questions for him at all.
But this chapter also spiritually follows Elrond when Aragorn declares, "Let none now reject the counsels of Gandalf, whose long labours against Sauron come at last to their test. Nonetheless I do not yet claim to command any man. Let others choose as they will" (192). Aragorn urges the others to Mordor, but he adamantly refuses to order anyone to do so. In this moment, I cannot help but recall Elrond's parting counsel to the Fellowship in "The Ring Goes South":
"'The ring bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid...The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.'
'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road is darkness,' said Gimli.
'Maybe,' said Elrond, 'but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.'
'Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart,' said Gimli,
'Or break it,' said Elrond."At the time, I commented that, "For Elrond, the Fellowship must never be compelled to continue their Quest--they must all proceed of their own free will and choice, fully cognizant of their freedom to quit at any time. Otherwise, if they act only under compulsion, how are they any better or different than Sauron?" Aragorn I think understands the same, that it is only worth defeating Mordor if it is defeated by a free people. It is a small character beat, but one that I think indicates that Aragorn will in fact make a good and just King.
For he could just as easily make an awful one. As Legolas recalls of their adventures on the Paths of the Dead: "In that hour I looked on Aragorn and thought how great and terrible a Lord he might have become in the strength of his will, had he taken the Ring to himself. Not for naught does Mordor fear him" (186). Tolkien's close friend CS Lewis had written that the reason the Lord chose Paul is because only those truly capable of great evil are likewise truly capable of great good; Nietzsche of all people, likewise said, "Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws," and Aragorn has claws indeed.
Nor do I mention Nietzsche arbitrarily: "Strength of will" was one of his key terms, one that was heavily abused and exploited by the Nazis to justify their worst atrocities. Tolkien here seems to indicate that there is nothing inherently wrong with "strength of will"...but there isn't anything inherently right about it, either. The question is not whether we should or should not have strength of will, but for what purpose we shall exercise it, whether in the cause of domination or of freedom; it is equally important to Tolkien that Aragorn understand that distinction, too. Having recently survived the horrors of WWII, these were not academic questions for him at all.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
"The Battle of the Pelennor Fields" - Ben's Thoughts
So Jacob's right, the "black men" line is inexcusably racist by today's standards, and there is serious anticlimax with respect to Gandalf's confrontation with the Witch-king at the gate and Aragorn's sudden arrival thanks to his (off-screen) victory at Pelargir. Even more silly, the ships aren't full of the Dead, as we've been expecting this whole time -- as we'll learn later, they were released from their oaths at Pelargir and now the ships are full of defenders from Gondor's southern countries. The Dead are a plot device only fit to be used in a flashback, I suppose.
But despite all that -- despite the at-times disjointed plotting, and the utter refusal to shift POVs between characters, which would create a more stable, flowing narrative (for instance, don't go into Eowyn being taken into the city right after the battle with the Witch-king, save that for later; instead, jump right to the action with Eomer and Aragorn!) -- despite all that, I still think this is a masterful chapter.
Why? Two reasons. One: the confrontation and defeat of the Witch-king. And two: the concluding poem. I'll take them in turn.
I would submit that the Lord of the Nazgul has been one of the book's antagonists built up well from the very beginning. He's the one who stabbed Frodo all the way back in Book I; he's the one to make a powerful appearance at the head of the Morgul army in Book IV; and he's the one who's been plaguing our heroes in this book as everything comes to a head at Minas Tirith. So we know what he's capable of, we know what a dangerous and powerful foe he is. So to have him so easily dispatch Theoden and then launch his assault on Eowyn is a terrifying thing for the reader.
And I know the reveal that Dernhelm was actually (surprise!) Eowyn the whole time is something of a non-starter -- only the most obtuse of readers would fail to recognize that twist (to the degree that, in the Peter Jackson film, he does away with the silly reveal; Merry knows its Eowyn the whole time). Even so, when she takes off that helmet, defying the Black Rider: "[T]he helm of her secrecy . . . had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. Her eyes grey as the sea were hard and fell, and yet tears were on her cheek. A sword was in her hand, and she raised her shield against the horror of her enemy’s eyes." That's a powerful moment.
I know the set-up for the "no living man" thing was not well laid for the reader. In this book, all you get is Gandalf's allusion to it in "Seige of Gondor." But by delving into the backstory, the reader finds that a long-ago prophecy foretold that not by hand of man would the Witch-king fall. And even without the knowledge of a prophecy, I argue that the Nazgul's defeat is an effective moment: all the male riders of the king's house have either died and abandoned him in the face of such a threat; Eomer is off fighting elsewhere; and here is Eowyn, alone save for Merry, facing down the most terrible threat on the battlefield:
And next, that poem, and the paragraph preceding it. I know our main characters, the Fellowship in particular, are protected by plot armor. But Theoden does die -- in battle, yes, but when you boil it down, because his horse rolled over him at the wrong moment and crushed him. And that long list of others, including Halbarad, Aragorn's Dunedain friend, and Grimbold, and a host of other secondary and tertiary characters whose names have been tossed around for the last two books. War is not free. It seems such a waste that victory, even the crushing victory the battle turned into after Aragorn arrived, should result in that many deaths. I find the lines about how those men will never return home, never again revisit the beautiful places they loved, never again see their families or lead their people, to be particularly poignant.
Tolkien of course, in concluding the poem, uses description to powerful effect, as he mirrors the landscape and the setting sun with the death and destruction and loss of the battlefield: "Grey now as tears, gleaming silver, / red then it rolled, roaring water: / foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset; / as beacons mountains burned at evening; / red fell the dew in Rammas Echor."
Too bad that that book still has several tedious chapters before its conclusion and we can get on to Frodo and Sam. Fortunately, "Pyre," coming up next, has some meaty stuff to it.
But despite all that -- despite the at-times disjointed plotting, and the utter refusal to shift POVs between characters, which would create a more stable, flowing narrative (for instance, don't go into Eowyn being taken into the city right after the battle with the Witch-king, save that for later; instead, jump right to the action with Eomer and Aragorn!) -- despite all that, I still think this is a masterful chapter.
Why? Two reasons. One: the confrontation and defeat of the Witch-king. And two: the concluding poem. I'll take them in turn.
I would submit that the Lord of the Nazgul has been one of the book's antagonists built up well from the very beginning. He's the one who stabbed Frodo all the way back in Book I; he's the one to make a powerful appearance at the head of the Morgul army in Book IV; and he's the one who's been plaguing our heroes in this book as everything comes to a head at Minas Tirith. So we know what he's capable of, we know what a dangerous and powerful foe he is. So to have him so easily dispatch Theoden and then launch his assault on Eowyn is a terrifying thing for the reader.
And I know the reveal that Dernhelm was actually (surprise!) Eowyn the whole time is something of a non-starter -- only the most obtuse of readers would fail to recognize that twist (to the degree that, in the Peter Jackson film, he does away with the silly reveal; Merry knows its Eowyn the whole time). Even so, when she takes off that helmet, defying the Black Rider: "[T]he helm of her secrecy . . . had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. Her eyes grey as the sea were hard and fell, and yet tears were on her cheek. A sword was in her hand, and she raised her shield against the horror of her enemy’s eyes." That's a powerful moment.
I know the set-up for the "no living man" thing was not well laid for the reader. In this book, all you get is Gandalf's allusion to it in "Seige of Gondor." But by delving into the backstory, the reader finds that a long-ago prophecy foretold that not by hand of man would the Witch-king fall. And even without the knowledge of a prophecy, I argue that the Nazgul's defeat is an effective moment: all the male riders of the king's house have either died and abandoned him in the face of such a threat; Eomer is off fighting elsewhere; and here is Eowyn, alone save for Merry, facing down the most terrible threat on the battlefield:
Still she did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel-blade, fair but terrible. A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly. The outstretched neck she clove asunder, and the hewn head fell like a stone. Backward she sprang as the huge shape crashed to ruin, vast wings outspread, crumpled on the earth; and with its fall the shadow passed away. A light fell about her, and her hair shone in the sunrise.And of course it is Merry and Eowyn together that manage to subdue the Witch-king, who is but an expression of his master's contempt and disregard for all that he perceives as weak and worthless (hobbits, in particular, have been the focus of his disgust, as we saw through Pippin's experience in "Palantir" in Book IV). As Jacob points out, Sauron cannot see everything; cannot control everything. His disregard for what he considers beneath him is his (and his servant's) ultimate undoing. Powerful stuff, in my opinion.
And next, that poem, and the paragraph preceding it. I know our main characters, the Fellowship in particular, are protected by plot armor. But Theoden does die -- in battle, yes, but when you boil it down, because his horse rolled over him at the wrong moment and crushed him. And that long list of others, including Halbarad, Aragorn's Dunedain friend, and Grimbold, and a host of other secondary and tertiary characters whose names have been tossed around for the last two books. War is not free. It seems such a waste that victory, even the crushing victory the battle turned into after Aragorn arrived, should result in that many deaths. I find the lines about how those men will never return home, never again revisit the beautiful places they loved, never again see their families or lead their people, to be particularly poignant.
Tolkien of course, in concluding the poem, uses description to powerful effect, as he mirrors the landscape and the setting sun with the death and destruction and loss of the battlefield: "Grey now as tears, gleaming silver, / red then it rolled, roaring water: / foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset; / as beacons mountains burned at evening; / red fell the dew in Rammas Echor."
Too bad that that book still has several tedious chapters before its conclusion and we can get on to Frodo and Sam. Fortunately, "Pyre," coming up next, has some meaty stuff to it.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
"The Ride of the Rohirrim" - Ben's Thoughts
Once again I'm confronted with the difficulty that Tolkien obviously had in plotting Book V. He wants Merry to join the fracas before the gates of Minas Tirith, and he wants to make sure that his carefully-laid timeline adds up from chapter to chapter, perspective to perspective. The trouble is that he displays a strange reluctance to abandon a particular character for a long period of time.
I maintain that the best way to solve this problem would have been to have just one, rather than two, chapters about the Rohirrim and their journey to Minas Tirith (essentially, to combine "Muster" and "Ride") into one extended chapter. Tolkien deftly handled extended journey sequences in previous books; "The Great River" comes to mind from Book II, where the narration alternated between several POVs quite smoothly and major episodes were highlighted as the Fellowship journeyed down the Anduin River. Why something like that could not have been employed here is beyond me.
The frustrating thing about this chapter is that it ends with a bang. The Rohirrim's sneaky entry past the Rammas and into the Pellenor, combined with the tense pause before their final triumphant charge, is excellent stuff. It's just the lead-up was, as Jacob irately points out, totally unnecessary.
In the end, I agree with his assessment that the Wild Men could have been excised from the narrative and it would have been all for the better. I will, however, attempt to address the Wild Men's place among Tolkien's thematic elements. In the last several chapters -- really, ever since Frodo's meeting with Faramir in Book IV -- the Professor has been highlighting his hierarchy of Men, from the pinnacle (Numenoreans) down to the most base (the uncomfortably stereotyped Haradrim and other vassals of Sauron). Generally, there's a clear curve from the heights to the depths; force of will, art, literature, supernatural ability, and the like are at their peak with the Men of the West and at their nadir with the Men of the East. The question is, where do the Wild Men fit in? On the one hand, they embody the kind of Men present in Middle-earth before the Numenoreans returned to the land in the Second Age -- primitives. They are the distant kin of the Dead, now rallied by Aragorn at the Stone of Erech, who betrayed Gondor thousands of years ago. Yet here, the Wild Men are united with the Rohirrim in their opposition of Sauron, even if they're not willing to descend from the hills and actually engage in outright warfare.
While the stereotypes are fairly reprehensible, I do think that Tolkien was mildly challenging his own smooth ethnic model by inserting a good, righteous -- but primitive -- culture into the mix. I would like to think he's reminding himself that there's no such thing as an absolute; truth and goodness is found in every culture and walk of life. Unfortunately, I can't complain about Jacob's criticism of the execution of that idea, nor about his complaint that it simply isn't necessary or helpful at this point in the narrative.
Take the chapter for what it's worth -- which is the final sequence -- and we'll move on to what I remember being far better: the big battle.
I maintain that the best way to solve this problem would have been to have just one, rather than two, chapters about the Rohirrim and their journey to Minas Tirith (essentially, to combine "Muster" and "Ride") into one extended chapter. Tolkien deftly handled extended journey sequences in previous books; "The Great River" comes to mind from Book II, where the narration alternated between several POVs quite smoothly and major episodes were highlighted as the Fellowship journeyed down the Anduin River. Why something like that could not have been employed here is beyond me.
The frustrating thing about this chapter is that it ends with a bang. The Rohirrim's sneaky entry past the Rammas and into the Pellenor, combined with the tense pause before their final triumphant charge, is excellent stuff. It's just the lead-up was, as Jacob irately points out, totally unnecessary.
In the end, I agree with his assessment that the Wild Men could have been excised from the narrative and it would have been all for the better. I will, however, attempt to address the Wild Men's place among Tolkien's thematic elements. In the last several chapters -- really, ever since Frodo's meeting with Faramir in Book IV -- the Professor has been highlighting his hierarchy of Men, from the pinnacle (Numenoreans) down to the most base (the uncomfortably stereotyped Haradrim and other vassals of Sauron). Generally, there's a clear curve from the heights to the depths; force of will, art, literature, supernatural ability, and the like are at their peak with the Men of the West and at their nadir with the Men of the East. The question is, where do the Wild Men fit in? On the one hand, they embody the kind of Men present in Middle-earth before the Numenoreans returned to the land in the Second Age -- primitives. They are the distant kin of the Dead, now rallied by Aragorn at the Stone of Erech, who betrayed Gondor thousands of years ago. Yet here, the Wild Men are united with the Rohirrim in their opposition of Sauron, even if they're not willing to descend from the hills and actually engage in outright warfare.
While the stereotypes are fairly reprehensible, I do think that Tolkien was mildly challenging his own smooth ethnic model by inserting a good, righteous -- but primitive -- culture into the mix. I would like to think he's reminding himself that there's no such thing as an absolute; truth and goodness is found in every culture and walk of life. Unfortunately, I can't complain about Jacob's criticism of the execution of that idea, nor about his complaint that it simply isn't necessary or helpful at this point in the narrative.
Take the chapter for what it's worth -- which is the final sequence -- and we'll move on to what I remember being far better: the big battle.
"The Siege of Gondor" - Ben's Thoughts
This is an excellent chapter, one of the highlights of Book V. Tolkien has proved himself in the past to be a master of tension-building, and he does it again with great effect here. The chapter starts off with the Dawnless Day, the whole city holding its collective breath against the breaking of the coming storm. Then it hammers on sucker punch after sucker punch in a long, brutal, slog of defeats and setback for the men of Gondor: Faramir's initial retreat, cowering under the wings of the Nazgul; Denethor's callous command for him to return to Osgiliath; the news of the loss of the fords, the destruction of the Causeway Forts, the fall of Cair Andros, and then Faramir taking a wound himself; Denethor's unravelling and his men's acknowledgement of his broken state; and finally the destruction of the city gates at the command of the Witch-King. Powerful stuff, capped with the electrifying confrontation of Gandalf and the Lord of the Nazgul at the broken gate. Throughout, Tolkien manages to convey the stakes, the sense of scale, and the military movements with aplomb. The reader is assisted from setpiece to setpiece as he juggles all of the players' movements, including the Chekhov's Gun of the (hopefully timely) arrival of the Rohirrim.
It bears mentioning that some of the setup that this chapter provides falls flat in later chapters, as Jacob has already pointed out. However, taking the chapter on its face, it succeeds marvelously. A few thoughts.
First, Denethor. I admit that on this reading I was surprised by how quickly his 180-degree turn into madness and despair comes on. But isn't that how it would actually be? You put on a brave face, just as much for yourself as for anyone else, but that straw that breaks the camel's back -- in this case Denethor coming face to face with his wounded, apparently dying son -- is what it takes to tumble you over the edge. This is a man whose entire life has been framed by retreat, setback, and the knowledge that true, total victory over his lifelong foe will result only in a diminuation of himself and his familial authority.
Is it any wonder, then, that Denethor's thoughts turn to the Ring? It's not stated explicitly in the text, but I don't think that Faramir ever came right out and told his dad about the Ring when he was talking about his encounter with Frodo and Sam. This is hinted at by Denethor's remarks: "[L]ittle of what you have half said or left unsaid is now hidden from me. I know the answer to many riddles." So where does his knowledge come from? Wrested from his son's mind by his alluded-to powers of perception and discernment? Or, more mundane but perhaps more sinister, has he been spying on his son's actions through his Palantir? Later we learn that Denethor only sees through the Palantir what Sauron wishes him to see, and we know that Sauron has no direct knowledge of Frodo's quest and how close he has gotten to Mordor, but I tend to think the Stone's limitation is more of a general restriction than Sauron peeping over Denethor's shoulder every time he looks into the Palantir.
In any case, Denethor holding the Ring would be a bulwark both against Sauron and the impending encroachment of Aragorn, of whom Denethor is too keenly aware (as we discover in "Pyre", coming up). He believes he would never use its power; he would only safeguard it and use it as a threat against his opposing forces. Of course, that kind of tempting, destructive power cannot be simply locked away without use, not by a man like Denethor. Far better to reject it honestly to oneself, as Gandalf did, than trick yourself into thinking you would not pull it out in your hour of greatest need.
Then, inextricably linked with Denethor's fears about the Ring and his personal power is his complicated relationship with his second son. I think Tolkien wants us to have a vision of Denethor as a young man: a blend of Boromir's military ability and obedience combined with Faramir's thirst for knowledge and quality as a "superior," more-like-a-Numenorean kind of man. (I'm not really sure how to describe this quality. Tolkien lays these clear (sometimes racially distasteful) distinctions between Men in his text: highest are the Numenoreans, with their extra-sensory powers and links to the Elves and the Valar; next are the "lesser" but still noble men like the Rohirrim, and lowest and least are the men of the East, vassals to Sauron.) But even though he embodies (or embodied) the qualities of both his sons, he obviously preferred those of Boromir to those of Faramir, perhaps because his oldest son was so intractably dutiful. There can be little doubt from his remarks in this chapter that he spoke with his son about "Isildur's Bane" and his duty, should it chance to come within his grasp. This fact adds a nuance, one I hadn't previously considered, to Boromir's actions in the first book -- it isn't just that the Ring has seduced him based on his own emotional and mental state; his actions are influenced by the fact that all along, his father likely advised him to seize the Ring and bring it to Minas Tirith if the opportunity arose. One can definitely picture Boromir's complaints about "Elves and Half-Elves and wizards" originally coming out of the mouth of the haughty Denethor.
Poor Denethor. He learns too late the true value of his son -- far greater than that of the Ring or even of his own title and station. When he breaks, as occurs in this chapter, it's ugly.
And I haven't even mentioned the powerful yet vague descriptions of Sauron's host (effective in their opacity) and Pippin finally shining through as the stalwart who puts what is right (saving Faramir) over loyalty to order and so-called duty. Complex, meaty chapters like this one are why I love The Lord of the Rings.
It bears mentioning that some of the setup that this chapter provides falls flat in later chapters, as Jacob has already pointed out. However, taking the chapter on its face, it succeeds marvelously. A few thoughts.
First, Denethor. I admit that on this reading I was surprised by how quickly his 180-degree turn into madness and despair comes on. But isn't that how it would actually be? You put on a brave face, just as much for yourself as for anyone else, but that straw that breaks the camel's back -- in this case Denethor coming face to face with his wounded, apparently dying son -- is what it takes to tumble you over the edge. This is a man whose entire life has been framed by retreat, setback, and the knowledge that true, total victory over his lifelong foe will result only in a diminuation of himself and his familial authority.
Is it any wonder, then, that Denethor's thoughts turn to the Ring? It's not stated explicitly in the text, but I don't think that Faramir ever came right out and told his dad about the Ring when he was talking about his encounter with Frodo and Sam. This is hinted at by Denethor's remarks: "[L]ittle of what you have half said or left unsaid is now hidden from me. I know the answer to many riddles." So where does his knowledge come from? Wrested from his son's mind by his alluded-to powers of perception and discernment? Or, more mundane but perhaps more sinister, has he been spying on his son's actions through his Palantir? Later we learn that Denethor only sees through the Palantir what Sauron wishes him to see, and we know that Sauron has no direct knowledge of Frodo's quest and how close he has gotten to Mordor, but I tend to think the Stone's limitation is more of a general restriction than Sauron peeping over Denethor's shoulder every time he looks into the Palantir.
In any case, Denethor holding the Ring would be a bulwark both against Sauron and the impending encroachment of Aragorn, of whom Denethor is too keenly aware (as we discover in "Pyre", coming up). He believes he would never use its power; he would only safeguard it and use it as a threat against his opposing forces. Of course, that kind of tempting, destructive power cannot be simply locked away without use, not by a man like Denethor. Far better to reject it honestly to oneself, as Gandalf did, than trick yourself into thinking you would not pull it out in your hour of greatest need.
Then, inextricably linked with Denethor's fears about the Ring and his personal power is his complicated relationship with his second son. I think Tolkien wants us to have a vision of Denethor as a young man: a blend of Boromir's military ability and obedience combined with Faramir's thirst for knowledge and quality as a "superior," more-like-a-Numenorean kind of man. (I'm not really sure how to describe this quality. Tolkien lays these clear (sometimes racially distasteful) distinctions between Men in his text: highest are the Numenoreans, with their extra-sensory powers and links to the Elves and the Valar; next are the "lesser" but still noble men like the Rohirrim, and lowest and least are the men of the East, vassals to Sauron.) But even though he embodies (or embodied) the qualities of both his sons, he obviously preferred those of Boromir to those of Faramir, perhaps because his oldest son was so intractably dutiful. There can be little doubt from his remarks in this chapter that he spoke with his son about "Isildur's Bane" and his duty, should it chance to come within his grasp. This fact adds a nuance, one I hadn't previously considered, to Boromir's actions in the first book -- it isn't just that the Ring has seduced him based on his own emotional and mental state; his actions are influenced by the fact that all along, his father likely advised him to seize the Ring and bring it to Minas Tirith if the opportunity arose. One can definitely picture Boromir's complaints about "Elves and Half-Elves and wizards" originally coming out of the mouth of the haughty Denethor.
Poor Denethor. He learns too late the true value of his son -- far greater than that of the Ring or even of his own title and station. When he breaks, as occurs in this chapter, it's ugly.
And I haven't even mentioned the powerful yet vague descriptions of Sauron's host (effective in their opacity) and Pippin finally shining through as the stalwart who puts what is right (saving Faramir) over loyalty to order and so-called duty. Complex, meaty chapters like this one are why I love The Lord of the Rings.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
"The Houses of Healing" - Jacob's Thoughts
So one of my favorite shows of the past few years (as you two have endlessly heard me proselyte) is NBC's Community, an absolutely brilliant, high-concept comedy centered rather inauspiciously around a community college study-group. It is based on the experiences of creator Dan Harmon (currently of Rick and Morty fame) with a Spanish 101 study group he joined with his girlfriend when he first moved to L.A.; the show was very much his baby, his passion-project, informed and dominated by his sensibilities. Hence, there was probably no way for the show to win when Harmon was fired at the end of Season 3. Season 4 is easily considered the nadir of the whole series. When Harmon was hired back for Season 5, everyone immediately distanced themselves from it by calling it "the year of the gas-leak."
It's difficult to put one's finger on why exactly Season 4 suffered so: most the rest of the same writers returned; as did the same characters, played by the same actors with the same chemistry; there was a similar density of rapid-fire jokes, high-concept episodes, and Post-Modern deconstructions of genre. Nevertheless, there was just this inescapable feeling that something was simply...off. The jokes felt more forced, the situations more contrived, the relationships less natural.
Basically, Season 4 felt less like Community than it did Community-fan-fiction. And when Dan Harmon returned to the show, there was a noticeable return to form.
That's all just a round-about way of saying that that's what so much of Book V has felt like to me: less like Tolkien than Tolkien fan-fiction, written by a faithful acolyte who, despite his most slavish fawning, simply can't reproduce the magic of the original. The situations feel more contrived, the relationships less natural. Gandalf here feels not so much a person than an exposition machine; Strider is less a human than an idol. His prophetic "healing hands" in the Minas Tirith med-bay renders him so obviously a Christ-analogue that even Joseph Campbell might consider it a little on-the-nose; this fascinating character no longer gets to have a personality, he is now only an icon.
There are still moments of brilliance in Book V (as did Community Season 4, for that matter), but they grow increasingly lost in the Professor's mad rush to get to the grand finale of Book VI. But Community Season 4 at least had the excuse that it was missing the guiding hand of its creator; Tolkien, as far as I'm aware, has no one to blame but himself for the blahs of so much of Book V. He produces his own fan-fic.
It's difficult to put one's finger on why exactly Season 4 suffered so: most the rest of the same writers returned; as did the same characters, played by the same actors with the same chemistry; there was a similar density of rapid-fire jokes, high-concept episodes, and Post-Modern deconstructions of genre. Nevertheless, there was just this inescapable feeling that something was simply...off. The jokes felt more forced, the situations more contrived, the relationships less natural.
Basically, Season 4 felt less like Community than it did Community-fan-fiction. And when Dan Harmon returned to the show, there was a noticeable return to form.
That's all just a round-about way of saying that that's what so much of Book V has felt like to me: less like Tolkien than Tolkien fan-fiction, written by a faithful acolyte who, despite his most slavish fawning, simply can't reproduce the magic of the original. The situations feel more contrived, the relationships less natural. Gandalf here feels not so much a person than an exposition machine; Strider is less a human than an idol. His prophetic "healing hands" in the Minas Tirith med-bay renders him so obviously a Christ-analogue that even Joseph Campbell might consider it a little on-the-nose; this fascinating character no longer gets to have a personality, he is now only an icon.
There are still moments of brilliance in Book V (as did Community Season 4, for that matter), but they grow increasingly lost in the Professor's mad rush to get to the grand finale of Book VI. But Community Season 4 at least had the excuse that it was missing the guiding hand of its creator; Tolkien, as far as I'm aware, has no one to blame but himself for the blahs of so much of Book V. He produces his own fan-fic.
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