Category: Movies / TV / Stage

The Mythical Journey

When thinking about the spirituality of The Lord of the Rings, it’s important to keep in mind that Tolkien explicitly stated it is not an allegory, a story with a unequivocal symbolic meaning. Rather, LOTR is a myth, a story with a wealth of symbols, more of a flashlight than a map. Here are some of my thoughts about some of its key symbols, and their significance for those on the mystical path.

Above all else, LOTR is a story about the journey. Our journey is filled with grace, light, peace, and hope—the spiritual path is easy—(except for when it’s not). The Lord of the Rings presents the path as shared struggle. It’s a trek from the blissful, peaceful land called The Shire (symbolic of our home in God) to battle the forces (mostly spiritual) which are seeking to dominate Middle Earth with their lust for power.

Here, absolute power can be gained through the One Ring. This ring has its roots in Plato’s Republic, which describes a ring that could be used to render the wearer invisible and visible at will. Boromir, a prince of Middle Earth, who repeatedly becomes seduced by the Ring’s strange temptation, shows the particular situation of leaders regarding power. The temptation is to think that with more power, more good can be accomplished. But history shows that fighting wars to exert power over an enemy seldom leads to lasting peace. No exertion of power can change the spirit. Plato and Tolkien both came to the conclusion that the Ring’s power would certainly be used for evil, corrupting even the best people despite their initial intentions, and so the wisest of the free peoples of Middle Earth refuse the Ring.

But the question remains “is there something wrong with power itself?” After all, can’t power be used for good? Certainly, but the ego wants power to change things to suit itself, catering to its fears, attachments, pride, and indifference to the spirit and the needs of the world. True spiritual power comes from humility, which is to say, by not seeking it at all. More than most tales, LOTR depicts the internal part of the struggle as well as the external—Frodo’s struggle is less against those who are trying to seize the Ring, and more against his own weakness against temptation. Our journey is a struggle to overcome our own ego, with its desire for power and control.

Another compelling symbol is the hero. It isn’t an immortal elf-lord who must destroy the Ring, but a frightened, mortal, little hobbit. And in our lives, instead of waving his hand over the earth and vanquishing sin and temptation, God entrusts us frightened, mortal, little creatures to be her hands and feet in the world, and build the Kingdom of love. And through it all, we must consistently refuse the temptation to build this Kingdom by force. The Kingdom of God is love, and comes only through Kingdom living, living by love.

Another question that comes up frequently is if there is a Christ figure in LOTR. The simple answer is no, there are several Christ figures in LOTR. Arwen prays that all of the grace she has may go to healing another. Like Christ, Gandalf and Aragorn make sacrifice themselves to help his friends, while battling the forces of darkness. And Frodo follows a call away from a pleasant life at home into danger and ever-greater suffering on behalf of the Shire and Middle-Earth. It is a deep teaching of Christianity that although there is one Lord, there are many Christs.

Great myths to continue to speak to us in changing ways even in changing circumstances. What is the Ring I’m carrying? Who are my friends in the Fellowship? Am I willing to “unmake” the Ring by surrendering my ego?

The epic

Every twenty years or so, an epic movie or series comes along that inspires a generation. I’m thinking of Gone with the Wind in the ’30s, Ben-Hur in the ’50s, the first Star Wars trilogy in the late ’70s and early ’80s, and now the Lord of the Rings at the beginning of the 21st century. It is that good. The script (by Philippa Boyens, Fran Walsh, and director Peter Jackson) took what must be some of the most intimidating material there is, and interprets it brilliantly. Jackson avoids the mistake Chris Columbus made with the first two Harry Potter films of filming whole scenes literally, and instead reshapes the whole vast arc of the myth into a moving and exciting drama, comprehensible for a newcomer to the tale, while not compromising the sense of the richness of Middle-Earth lore.

What is most impressive is that Jackson’s Lord of the Rings not only succeeds, but in my mind surpasses Tolkien’s masterwork. Whereas Tolkien could be somewhat impersonal and meandering, Jackson makes this a compelling character-driven saga with a brilliant sense of dramatic pacing. There is less of “the Road going ever on and on,” and more of a band of very vulnerable and fallible people weighted by a terrible mission. The sense of the Ring’s sheer evil, and the irresistibility of its temptation is brought home far more powerfully than in the book. So is the tragedy of the sacrifices that the characters are called upon to make: Bilbo’s sorrow for leaving and burdening Frodo with the Ring’s evil; Gandalf, like Christ, laying down his life for his friends, and perhaps most of all, Boromir’s death in battle, which seldom leaves a dry eye in the theater.

In fact, every change that Jackson makes seems to be a change for the better—when Frodo is wounded, we know the extent of his danger, and the suspense is powerful somehow even on the third viewing. In the book, he just seemed to be vaguely ill, and only after he was completely healed, was the true danger he was in revealed offhandedly. The pacing and dramatic logic is vastly superior. In the book, seventeen years(!) elapse before Gandalf returns to tell Frodo that the Ring must leave the Shire immediately. Much more logically, the film has Gandalf rushing back after a brief, single-pointed mission to research the truth of the One Ring, a focus on immediacy and urgency that permeates the film. There is also an omniscient point-of-view now, which allows cross-cutting between the Fellowship and Saruman.

Language and dialogue are also more natural. Few lines come from the book unaltered, so middle-class hobbits and warrior men no longer sound like British professors. The Elvish language of Sindarin is used subtly and beautifully in those communities. Aragorn and Arwen make their tryst speaking in the beautiful language of the elves.

In the book, battle was usually described in one or two undramatic paragraphs. Not so here. Although there’s no gore, battle is awful and terrifying, a manifestation of the evil that has infected the world, as indeed it is in our world as well. There are no cheery Star Wars-like dogfights on the Death Star here. Warriors are brave because they have the resolve to face their fear, not because they’re nonchalant or reckless.

And there is beauty. I’d say LOTR is worth seeing at full price simply for the majestic New Zealand scenery alone—fjords, meadows, rivers, and breathtaking mountains. The warm hominess of the Shire is so pleasant that you can easily understand why hobbits are loath to leave their beautiful country. And the elegance of Rivendell and the haunting radiance of Lothlorien at night are superb, reminiscent of the artwork of Arthur Rackham in his Wagnerian Ring cycle illustrations.

The casting is perfect. Elijah Wood’s strangely huge eyes perfectly express the awful sense of burden and fear that Frodo carries. Ian McKellen brings Gandalf’s heart and wisdom to life. Billy Boyd plays Pippin as the center of the comic relief with a charming naivety. Ian Holm brings forth Bilbo as the curmudgeonly but deeply loving old man who’s pondering the meaning of his life as he nears its end. Orlando Bloom plays the elf Legolas with an constant and unselfconscious dignity and grace that befits the immortal race of Middle Earth, and Liv Tyler presents Lady Arwen with power, tenderness, love, and beauty.

The photography is awesome. Most amazing of all is that the hobbits—all played by fully grown men—never seem to be over four feet tall, whether they are sitting, walking, or standing, alone or with humans, or the even taller elves. Throughout, close-ups and long shots are used ingeniously to involve us with the characters in their quest. Effects donot overwhelm this story—they serve it, brilliantly and judiciously—the emphasis is always upon the characters.

It is reported that at the end of his life, St. Thomas Aquinas said, “All that I have written is but straw compared to that which I have seen.” I believe Tolkien might have felt the same way about the massive mythical world that dominated his creative life. Thanks to Peter Jackson and the thousands of others who partook in this effort, I think we can come closer to seeing what Tolkien saw.Movie stills © 2001 New Line Cinema Productions Inc.

A profound story of spiritual transformation

Seven Years in Tibet

Even as I write this belatedly by more months than I care to think about, I am still simply amazed by the poor reception given to this masterful film, which was in my mind, the only contender to Titanic as Best Picture of 1997, and probably even more deserving. After seeing it, I rushed back to see it again as soon as possible, which is something I almost never do. Seven Years in Tibet is a masterpiece, which was destroyed by critics who couldn’t understand it, apparently expecting it to be something it was emphatically not: a story about the Dalai Lama.

Certainly the Dalai Lama figures extremely prominently in the latter portion of the film, but this film is a cinematic translation of Heinrich Harrer’s prosaic memoirs by the same name, and it is infinitely superior to its source book. If you didn’t catch that, let me say it again: This movie is not about the Dalai Lama. This is the true story of the arduous spiritual transformation of Heinrich Harrer, from Third Reich poster boy and all-around asshole, into a genuine and loving human being. One more time: This movie is about an Austrian, not a Tibetan! Understand that, and I think it will be impossible not to love this film.

Harrer, the Aryan poster boy and asshole in question, is played by Brad Pitt. His performance is superb, despite an exaggerated accent at the beginning. Harrer is a young mountain climber, attempting to conquer Nanga Parbat, an unclimbed mountain in the Himalayas, for the greater glory of the Fatherland. So what’s wrong with that? Leaving his very pregnant wife behind, for starters. His pride and self-absorption become almost fatally evident on the expedition when he endangers the lives of himself and the other climbers. The expedition fails due to weather, and the return home fails due to war. The climbers descend into India, a British colony, and are taken as prisoners of war.

In the prison camp, we begin to see the complexity of Harrer’s character, which is just as tormented as it is tormenting. He repeatedly attempts futile escapes by himself, (even though each one brings recriminations down on his comrades left behind), but he finds that he can not escape, neither from the British, nor from himself and his remorse about abandoning his family. A particularly moving scene shows Harrer in the exercise yard during a downpour, repeatedly throwing himself onto the barbed wire as a self-inflicted punishment when he learns his wife has divorced him.

Eventually, Harrer does escape, but only when he learns to cooperate with some of the less impulsive prisoners, one of whom (Peter Aufschnitter, played by David Thewlis) was the captain of the failed expedition. Together, they wander across Tibetan mountains for years, seeking refuge (and generally getting none), fleeing bandits, and clashing as enemies do in the process of becoming the closest of friends. There is great comic relief in some scenes, and magnificent beauty in the starkness and strangeness of their exile. You will now have to see this on video, and you’ll kick yourself for not having seen it on the big screen. Harrer’s transformation begins here, in the cold and isolation of being a man without a country and without a hope, unrelentingly challenged by the beauty of the Roof of the World.

Eventually, both men do find a haven (and friends) in Lhasa, the Tibetan capital. After the war ends, they stay in Tibet, Aufschnitter because he has married and found happiness with a Tibetan woman, and Harrer, because he has nothing to lead him anywhere else. That changes when the 14-year-old Dalai Lama sends for Harrer, and commissions him to build a movie theater adjacent to the Potala Palace. Jamyang Wang Chuck is astonishing in his performance. He is both a humble and capable ruler-in-the-making, winsome beyond belief. He is eager to learn everything possible about the world, and Harrer becomes his tutor. The scenes between Pitt and Wang Chuck are the crowning jewels of the film, filled with sensitivity, humor, and a love that is spiritual as well as friendly and filial. During this, the Chinese begin the war against Tibet, committing atrocities by the millions. Several excellent subplots describe the descent from peace to murderous destruction. Out of duty and love, the young Lama remains with his people. And for the same reasons, he sends his friend away.

Costuming and set design were astonishing. Although Annaud tried every possible avenue to shoot the film in the Himalayas, the Chinese government was successful in intimidating every Himalayan nation to deny him. Nevertheless, the Andean scenery which we do see, is so inspiring it is not easily forgotten, even if we only experience it in the theater. I desperately wanted to get a Seven Years in Tibet calendar, although it appears none were ever made. Pity.

Is there a flaw? The Dalai Lama enters only in the last third of the film, and I don’t think a single viewer would not want to tilt the film so that the bulk of the film was his story, so engaging is his portrayal. Yet to do so, would destroy the nature of this story, which is the transformation of Harrer. And even though the screenplay wisely concentrates much more on Harrer’s relationship with the Lama than the book did, you will leave with a sense of wanting more. Perhaps that is the lesson of Seven Years, that we do not love enough, that when we see how beautiful love truly is, we will regret that we didn’t love more.

Movie still © 1997, Touchstone Pictures