Showing posts with label Tolkien. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tolkien. Show all posts

Sunday, December 22, 2024

Lord of the Rings: War of the Rohirrim

At one stage, Tolkien wanted the Lord of the Rings to run to four volumes, rather than the published three. Volume IV would have consisted of a greatly expanded version of the Tale of Years: a narrative timeline summarising the history of Middle-earth from its creation to the “present” day. Readers would have first experienced the War of the Ring from the inside, as a story, picking up tantalising hints about Numenor and Rohan and Gondor along the way, and then, once the story was over, they would see the whole history laid out before them in a linear sequence.

If he'd gone through with this plan, the core events of his imaginary history would have been fixed in print in 1955. Would that have hastened the completion of the Silmarillion, or made it even harder to achieve? Or would the Professor conceivably have decided that his Great Work was now finished and that he could move on to something else?

In the event the supplementary volume proved too ambitious, and we ended up with a rather piecemeal collection of essays at the back of Return of the King. Some people will tell you that the Appendices are disposable—pedantic world-building notes about runic alphabets and hobbit calendars that only the hard-core nerd needs to bother with. But the back matter also contains a lot of narrative. Shortened narratives—sketched out narratives—narratives in the language of saga, not in the novelistic language of Lord of the Rings. But definitely stories. And who doesn't want to hear more stories about Middle-earth?

About half way through the Two Towers, there is an enormous gigantic battle at a castle called Helm’s Deep. Tolkien tells us that it was “called after the hero of the old wars who made his refuge there”. When Theoden rides into battle, the Riders of Rohan shout “Helm has arisen and comes back to war!” In the movie, King Theoden says “the horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound again in the deep!”: Peter Jackson even puts a statue of a big guy with a war hammer [TM] outside the castle. Appendix A fills out a little of the backstory: Helm Hammerhand was a king of Rohan about a hundred and fifty years before Theoden; he was besieged by wild men (Dunlendings) in the castle and fell heroically in the battle.

Flipping between page 528 and page 1065 doesn't make the Helm’s Deep passages any easier to understand. The main text tells us that Helm was a great hero from the olden days; and the appendix confirms that he lived in the olden days and was a great hero. But it does greatly contribute to the illusion that Tolkien was recounting history, as opposed to simply making up a story. You focus in on a bit of background colour and find that there is a solid chunk of narrative behind it. We aren’t just looking at suggestive stripes of brown and green on a painted backdrop, but an actual fully realised tree. Which of course, allows us to believe that behind the appendices are more lives and more stories which Tolkien never told. And if you have the sort of mind that is inclined to play role-playing games or invent fan fiction—and nearly everyone who likes Tolkien does have that kind of mind—then the temptation to imagine what those untold stories would have been is overwhelming.

Does filling in the gaps create a Middle-earth even more real than the one Tolkien left us? Or does imagining the details which Tolkien only hinted at rather spoil the illusion? Some of my friends at college played a long, long Middle-earth Role Playing campaign in which they were Dunlendings. For all I know it is still going on. I am not sure at the time I could have told you what a Dunlending even was. “Our MERP campaign” has not changed Tolkien’s text, or rewritten Tolkien’s appendices. But it has probably changed how those six or seven gamers read those passages.

Lord of the Rings: War of the Rohirrim hangs a two and a half hour movie on those five hundred or so words which Tolkien wrote about Helm Hammerhand. It’s an anime, or as we used to say, a cartoon, but it has Peter Jackson’s name on it in quite large letters; and borrows musical themes from Howard Shore. It begins with a hushed female voiceover, possibly Eowyn, talking about how history is remembered and forgotten. It ends with an Enya-esque dirge over the rolling credits, which feature sepia drawings of the main characters. It is, in short, trying really, really hard to be the fourth part of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Possibly Kenji Kamiyama is pretending that the Hobbit didn’t happen. I know I am.

The film sticks really quite closely to the text. Helm really does call the Dunlending lord fatty (“you have grown big since you were last here”) and he really does suggest that they step outside (“the king does not permit brawls in his house, but men are freer outside”). When the King sneaks out of the castle during the siege and starts killing individual enemy soldiers with his bare hands, I must admit I found myself thinking “oh, now you have gone too far this is completely unTolkienesque”, but this is indeed exactly what Tolkien says happened. (the king “went out by himself, clad in white, and stalk like a snow-troll into the camps of his enemies, and slay many men with his hands”). The Dunlending really do think that his wraith carried on fighting them after he died, and he really was found frozen solid but still standing.

I assume that Weta’s CGI models from Lord of the Rings still exist on someone’s pen drive; and have been reskinned for the purposes of the cartoon. Certainly Helm’s Deep and the Meduseld look exactly as they did in the Jackson trilogy. This sometimes creates the impression that painted characters are walking across photographic landscapes; and sometimes their feet appear to not be quite in contact with the ground. But everyone is proportioned like a grown up human-being and no-one’s face is caricatured, and the voices are all done by proper actors and it is mostly possible to forget you are watching animation and just treat it as a Jacksonian prequel. It’s all great fun, if people with beards, clashing shields and shouting “forth Eorlingas fear no darkness” is your idea of a good time. It’s very much a Tolkien movie for people who actually like Tolkien,

If there is going to be a Tolkien-Jackson extended cinematic universe—and I am very far from persuaded that there ought to be a Tolkien-Jackson extended cinematic universe—then clearly, somewhere along the line, someone is going to have to make stuff up which isn’t in the book. Anyone who has ever written fan fiction or run an RPG is familiar with the dilemma. Where are the narrative blank spaces? Where do the new characters or the new events fit into the established universe? Do you invent a new adventure for Sherlock Holmes which Watson somehow failed to mention? Or do you decide that the Baker Street Irregulars were off having adventures of their own, independent of the Great Detective? Or decide to make up stories about Mr Shereford Doyle who lived at 221A Baker Street and solved crimes when his famous neighbour was out of town?

Phillippa Boyens spotted a gaping narrative hole in Appendix A. According to Tolkien, a local lord with Dunlending heritage turns up at Helm’s hall and asks if his son could please marry Helm’s daughter. Helm is not impressed with the suggestion. Helm and the Dunlending have a fight. Helm, being legendarily strong, kills the Dunlending, by accident, mostly. So the son of the Dunlending vows revenge, and comes back years later with an army. He usurps the throne of Rohan and drives Helm back to what would later be known as Helm’s Deep. Despite his impressive snow-troll tribute act, Helm dies in the siege; and both his sons fall in battle. But after the long winter comes to an end, his sister-son rides over the hill with the cavalry and saves the day and starts a new line of Kings.

Now, according to Tolkien, the Dunlending lord is called Freca; his son, the usurper, is called Wulf; Helm’s sons are Haleth and Hama, his sister is Hild, the nephew who saves the day is Frealas Hildeson and the daughter who Wulf wanted to marry is called…is called….

She doesn’t have a name. Or any agency. Or anything else. She doesn’t in fact have any function at all, except to not marry Wulf. So War of the Rohirrim gives her a name, Hera (which is, I think, Adunaic for “Mary-Sue”), and makes her the main protagonist of the story.

At one level, this is a very sensible thing to do. The focus on an “invisible” character enables the writers to invent new material without contradicting the source. It makes perfect sense that there were shield-maidens in Rohan before Eowyn; and that Eowyn (if the narrator is in fact she) would be interested in telling their story.

The decision to make Hera an all-purpose wonder-wench was a little, I don’t know, obvious. She rides horses wildly with her hair flowing out behind her; she outfights the boys; even giving Wulf a small scar when they were kids; she climbs up sheer mountains and talks to giant eagles and ends up (not a spoiler at all) taking an important message to a wizard whose name begins with a G.

It really is quite a lot of fun. But I kind of wonder if, as the narrator says, Hera was an important person who got left out of history, couldn’t she have been, say, a clever courtly lady working behind the scenes? Peter Jackson was understandably unhappy with an Arwen who sits at home doing embroidery throughout the adventure: but his solution, to put her on a horse and give her Golrfindel’s job, is not especially imaginative.

Tolkien fans are incredibly toxic. Well, fans are incredibly toxic. Or probably it’s just that some toxic people pretend to be Tolkien fans. Quite a lot of Tolkien fans think that the dark skinned dwarves and elves in the Rings of Power are part of a plot to abolish the white race. And quite a lot of Star Wars fans think that Rey Skywalker’s appearance in The Force Awakens was a preliminary step towards Walt Disney forcibly castrating the entire male population.

But in this case, the right wing commentariat are clearly in the right. War of the Rohirrim is absolutely a feminist appropriation of Tolkien. Re-inscribing the female perspective into a text which specifically excludes it is absolutely a political act. It’s somewhat akin to Jean Rhys retelling Jane Eyer from Bertha Rochester’s point of view. Kamiyama doesn’t just point out that Helm’s daughter doesn’t have a name: that would have been a perfectly valid feminist reading of Lord of the Rings. He goes beyond this: he creates a new story, which is extremely faithful to Tolkien—far more faithful than Jackson’s Lord of the Rings, his Hobbit, or god help us the Rings of Power—which asserts the centrality of that marginal figure. This is absolutely an act of political subversion. The act of doing it is arguably more interesting than the way it has been done; but as we have seen, there exists a category of modern art where the idea is more important than the artefact. Masculinist Star Wars fans were ludicrously absurd to feel emasculated by the Force Awakens: they are absolutely correct to feel that their male supremacy is critiqued by War of the Rohirrim.

To which I say, loudly and clearly, fuck them.

I am not sure that we need new Tolkien-esque works; but if we are obliged to have them, films like this that critique and destabilise the canon are the way to go. The existence of blokes who are bothered by this kind of thing is precisely the reason this is the kind of thing we ought to be doing, good and hard.





My reviews of Rings of Power Season II, complete without outtakes, extras and lots of digressions is now available as a smart little PDF. 

It is available free (along with lots of other exclusive content) to all subscribers to my Patreon. (Just pledge $1 each time I write an article.) www.patreon.com/rilstone

Alternative, you can buy the PDF document for $6.50/£5.00 (plus the Apple Tax, unfortunately). 

Friday, December 13, 2024

Rings of Power Season 2

 

My reviews of Rings of Power Season II, complete without outtakes, extras and lots of digressions is now available as a smart little PDF. It costs $6.50/£5.00 (plus the Apple Tax, unfortunately). 

But I would prefer it is you did NOT buy it, and instead signed up to my Patreon (pledging $1 each time I write a Thing) in which case you get it for free. 

www.patreon.com/rilstone

Sunday, December 01, 2024

XI: Discourse

The Rings of Power is a talisman and a surrogate for a certain kind of toxic fan schism. I think that you think that I am a gatekeeper; you think that I think that you are a dyson airblade (*). The rest is discourse.





(*) Not a proper fan.

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(*) Not a real fan. 

X: History

The Rings of Power plays fast and loose with the imaginary history of Middle-earth. But historical TV shows and movies play fast and loose with real history all the time. People who know about these things tell me that Braveheart was a laughably inaccurate depiction of medieval Scottish history. People who care tell me that the Crown was a dubiously accurate fictionalisation of the life of Elizabeth Windsor and her family. And many cowboy yarns are set in an imaginary country only tangentially connected with America. Heck, Shakespeare's Richard III probably only has a passing connection to the dead historical guy they found under the carpark. 

So maybe the Rings of Power is not an inept dramatisation. Maybe it is a new and separate work that happens to use a pseudo-historical setting as its inspiration?

When I was Discoursing upon this subject, I said, frivolously, that someone with a knowledge and love of the history of the American West could be forgiven for objecting to Cowboy Movie in which all the characters had English accents; which placed California on the East Coast and made Abraham Lincoln the exact contemporary of Alfred the Great. My interlocutor pointed out that someone had, in fact, taken a story set in Medieval Japan and filmed it as if it happened in the Wild West; and indeed taken a story about Renaissance Verona and placed it in 1950s New York. 

Which is a slight non-sequitur. But I concede: if someone wanted to create a radical reimagining of Lord of the Rings set in the First World War, I'd be all on board with it. Frodo and Sam as a senior and junior officer carrying a dangerous new kind of bomb to a munitions dump behind enemy lines? A disguised Prince George pretending to be a scout named Strider? The Kaiser in his dark tower sending out nine secret service agents to assassinate them? 

Why not? Why not Tom Sawyer with the geography and social attitudes of a 1970s British sit-com? Oliver Twist in the modern American residential care system? 

This kind of thing is really done, all the time. And I am normally highly in favour of it. I liked (though I didn't fully understand) the production of Wagner's Lohengrin in which the knights were substituted for laboratory rats and the Swan was a Kubrick-esq space embryo. I thought the play about Queen Lear and her three sons illuminated Shakespeare's text in unexpected ways. It's normally the rest of the world who says "Oh, but Andrew, I don't think Richard the Third would really have been driving a tank."

I went to see the Lord of the Rings stage musical. Twice. I wish I had seen the original Canadian production that everyone says was much too long. As regular readers know, the show made many changes to the story. It describes the Rings as the source of magic in Middle-earth and insinuates that when the One is destroyed, magic in general will go away. It conflates Theoden and Denethor into a single figure called the Great King Of All the Lands of Men. It jumps from the Prancing Pony to Weathertop in single dance-routine. 

Why am I prepared to defend this kind of thing; but draw the line at being told that Isildur was a young man at the time of the forging of the Rings?

I don't have a satisfactory answer to that question.

But here is part of it.

The Jackson trilogy failed as an adaptation of Lord of the Rings but it worked, brilliantly, as an action movie. It ran rings around anything in the roughly contemporaneous Star Wars prequels, and it was also much funnier. The Guardian film critic of the day, who appeared to have no interest in fantasy and may not have read the book, said the Helms Deep sequences were as good as anything Kurasowa ever did. And in some cases (not all) it did a good job at dubbing Tolkien's epic language into the patois of the summer blockbuster: 

Book:  'But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him"

Movie:  "I'm not a man."

One thinks of the modern Bible paraphrase which renders "Am I my brother's keeper?" as "Am I meant to be the baby-sitter?"

The stage musical works pretty well as a musical -- the songs remain forgettable, but the bollywood inspired dance routines in the revival were a lot of a fun; and it did a creditable job of turning the accomplishment of half a million words into an hourglass. The shrinking exercise had been undertaken by people very much in touch with the spirit of the books. The sudden eruption of paper flowers and rose petals at the end of the London version, and the distribution of packets of seeds to the audience at the end of the recent Watermill show don't reproduce the exact plot of the Scouring of the Shire. But they are in touch with its mythic emotions. Sam uses Galadriel's gift to heal the Shire. Jackson chopped out the healing and gift. 

The Rings of Power adapts an historical story, removes the history, and in return gives me...

Some pretty speeches and nice backdrops. Some generic fight scenes in cookie-cutter forests, Some Irish people claiming to be Hobbits. Some short, funny Scotsmen with silly beards. It is not a translation of Akallabeth into the language of a TV mini series. It's not a new story using the Fall of Numenor as a background. It really is an artistic vacuum. If it didn't have the title of my favourite book tattooed on its bottom, I wouldn't give it a second glance.  And neither would you. 

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Saturday, November 30, 2024

IX: Sources

Does Tolkien contradict himself?  Very well: he contradicts himself. 

He contains multitudes. He never finalised his meta-narrative; at any rate he never brought the texts embodying that meta-narrative to a publishable state. He could see the whole history of Middle-earth in his head. Some parts he saw more clearly than others. Whenever he wrote one thing down, another thing went out of focus. Wikipedia refers to a non-scholarly source which distinguishes three distinct Middle-earths (Middles-earth?). But probably there are hundreds. We have 6,000 pages of textual variations and footnotes. We have one pretty good editorial stab at presenting those variations as a single text.

In the last years of his life, Christopher Tolkien seemed to be working towards a compromise between the Silmarillion and the History of Middle-earth: three books which presented Tolkien's writings about Turin, Gondolin, and Beren and Luthien in a non-scholarly format, accessible to the general reader, but still reflecting the unfinalised state of the manuscripts. Since his death, the estate has allowed Brian Sibley to present everything Tolkien wrote about the Second Age as a chronological narrative.  

I wonder whether, at some point in the future, some scholar might be let loose on the History of Middle Earth and be allowed to produce an alternate Silmarillion -- a beginning-to-end collage of Tolkien's Unfinalized Tales that makes different choices from the ones that Christopher made? Maybe a readers' edition of the Book of Lost Tales or a Round Earth version of the Silmarillion?

Why not? That text of Hamlet you have your shelf is one editor's set of choices about how the various Folios and Quartos ought to be treated. Even your Penguin Classic Frankenstein is a compromise between the 1818 and 1831 editions: and we now know that some of the boring bits in the first version were written by Percy rather than Mary.  

I wish that were the conversation we were having. I wish that when we watched Rings of Power, we split into the faction that thought that was a good idea to incorporate elements from the Lost Road and the faction who thought they should have stuck rigorously to the published Akallabeth. I wish we were debating which version of the courtship of Galadriel and Celeborn they should run with. I wish we were being shocked to find that they'd dumped the Silmarillion altogether and were treating the abortive re-write as canon. 

I doubt if one in a hundred people watching Saturday evening fantasy TV in the 1980s knew about the textual history of the Robin Hood ballads.  And even fewer cared. But Richard Carpenter did; and he cleverly made the discrepancy between the earlier ballads (where Robin is a yeoman) and the later ones (where he's a nobleman) part of the story.  That kind of thing can be done if it's the kind of thing you want to do.

The Silmarillion is not sacred. 

But some people speak as if -- some people may honestly believe -- Christopher Tolkien created the Silmarillion out of the whole cloth. I hear every day apologists for the Rings of Power asserting on social media that Silmarillion is not really by Tolkien; that it is new work that Christopher made up based on his father's notes; that those of who object to the TV show's dumping of the lore are clinging to a "head-canon" that we ourselves made up. 

Now, writers' kids sometimes do invent new books; and they sometimes even put their dad's names on them.  And sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. We all know about Brian Herbert writing new Dune novels based on synopses discovered among his late father's papers, and going on to create many further volumes out of his own imagination. Many people have told me that they are not very good; but there is nothing sinful about their existing. There are twenty-five more or less official sequels to the Wizard of Oz written by persons other than Frank Baum. A licensed continuation of Tolkien by Other Hands might be very interesting. I am frankly astonished that no one has attempted, officially or unofficially, to write The New Shadow based on Tolkien's thirteen page opening chapter. 

But that is not where we in fact are. 

Where we are is that some gate-leaver-openers are using the admittedly unfinalized state of Tolkien's mythos as a nuclear option to deploy against those of us who honestly don't think the Rings of Power is very good. Tolkien didn't publish the Silmarillion so the Silmarillion is not by Tolkien so no version of Middle-earth is any better than any other so there is no lore for Rings of Power to be faithful to and everyone else should jolly well shut being so horrid about it.  And that is fannish trolling and gate-leaving of the silliest kind. 

However....


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Friday, November 29, 2024

VIII: Fantasy

Then we are decided.

Pointy eared people talking posh and furry footed people living down holes are in the cold light of day, every so slightly incredibly silly. And the idea of light skinned goodies and dark skinned baddies is a tiny little bit incredibly racist, and it doesn't become less incredibly racist because a few of the light skinned people now have dark skins.

It isn't true that all Tolkien's good characters are purely good and all his evil characters are purely evil and it never was. But it is perfectly true that Tolkien's brand of mythology turns psychology into geography; that the good side of human nature is externalised and put in a woody glade overseen by a pointy eared B.V.M and the darker side of human nature is externalised and put in an industrial hellscape populated by bestial cockneys. Even Michael Moorcock's barbs about class; about the Hobbits romanticising a fictional upper class rural England and the Orcs demonising the urban working class majority sometimes hits home.

It's more complicated than that. Lothlorien only remains Edenic because of the tainted Ring. Orcs aren't evil at source. Frodo fails and Gollum completes the quest. Gandalf as ring-bearer would have been much worse than Sauron.

But we are talking about the Lore, even the Deep Lore, and we are asking if that Lore really and truly matters? What would the text of Tolkien, separated from that lore even look like? 


I think it would look slightly reactionary, slightly racist, slightly superficial, and slightly silly. It would look, in fact, as exactly as it looks to the literati who haven't read it: a stream of mumbo-jumbo and psychedelia. 


Remember Private Eye's review of the Nature of Middle-earth? 

"Yet, amid much that is obscure and recondite, the Elvish chronicler Naffly in his Annals of the Second Age insists that he was the son of Shagpile, a fell warrior, and cunning withal, whose mighty deeds included the sack of the Llareggub Mountains, the pillaging of the Snurdlings of Westernesse and the forging of the great sword Bolok, first wielded at the Battle of the Thirteen Armies, at the sight of which the elf-princes fled in terror, with only Tarragon of the House of Herb resisting...." 


But none of this matters. Because Tolkien's fairy-tale archetypes, do, in fact, exist in a world with past, with a mythology, even a theology. C.S Lewis said that when you scratch Middle-earth, you find history underneath. Nine-tenth of the time, that history is not literary sleight of hand, but an allusion to manuscripts which actually existed and would one day be published.


Tolkien didn't create a story. He didn't create a series of stories. He didn't even create an imaginary world -- not in the way that Frank Herbert or Greg Stafford or Oliver Postgate created imaginary worlds. Tolkien's (if you insist) legendarium is best thought of as imaginary history: history-as-art.

To some extent, history is always art. "History" is the story about plucky little England standing alone against the beastly Germans; not a database of facts and figures about the years 1939-1945. When people pull statues down or demand that new ones are erected they aren't arguing about the facts of history; they are arguing about which story they prefer. That is why discovering, or drawing attention to, a new or neglected piece of information is called "erasing our history". CS Lewis made out the case that the popular scientific account of the universe (as opposed to the one which actual scientists believe in) gained traction because it hits all the expected narrative beats. Evolution is a good story and Genesis is also a good story, regardless of which one you think is literally true.


There are lots of stories about Atlantis: stories about Atlantis before it fell, stories about heroes who survived Atlantis; stories about modern archaeologists seeking for Atlantis. But only Tolkien, I think, made Atlantis an element -- a character almost -- in a narrative stream. We see the High Men migrate to Numenor; we see them living on Numenor; we witness the destruction of Numenor; we see the survivors establishing themselves in Middle-earth; and we and we stick around long enough that "Numenor" has become part of a long-ago golden age that the men of Gondor turn their heads towards before they say grace. 

The Star Wars Universe and all three Marvel Universes have histories. But we aren't invited to step back and contemplate that history as an artefact, with a shape and a structure and a narrative form. They are made up of the immediate present-tense moment: the present supervillain or the current space-ship-battle.

Writers -- or at any rate, writers' manuals -- are inclined to treat World Building as a dirty word. Build as much world as you need for your story to happen in, but anything else is displacement activity. Some fans, similarly, treat Lore as a something a little bit naughty -- the small print marginalia that other people obsess over.


But we are not here talking about detachable easter eggs distinct from the work of art. We are talking about the entirety of Tolkien's artistic project. We are talking about the one thing that makes Tolkien enjoyable, or even bearable. Tolkien's elves and hobbits and dwarves are embodied in Tolkien's meta-narrative. They can't exist any where else. 


Even if they still have pointy ears and beards and furry feet. 

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Thursday, November 28, 2024

VII: World Building

The Rings of Power abandons Tolkien's internal chronology.  The opening credits claims that the series is "adapted from the Lord of the Rings and Appendices", but it appears entirely uninterested in Tolkien's tally of years.

But does this matter? Does this really, really matter?

The simple answer is that if Rings of Power were giving me something else, anything else, to enjoy it probably wouldn't.  As long as I Dreamed a Dream is a good song it hardly matters if Schonberg and Boubil take liberties with Victor Hugo's enormously long novel.

But the Rings of Power proves, experimentally and empirically, that orcs and dark lords and hobbits, in an of themselves, detached from the lore and the mythos and the world building that Tolkien spent sixty years tinkering with, are not remotely interesting. There are dwarfy caves and there are hobbity burrows, and the caves and the burrows look quite pretty, but if I wanted to look at whimsical interiors I am not at all sure that I don't prefer the Clangers.

I'm fairly serious. Oliver Postgate's world building, although it consists entirely of surfaces, is second to none; and the CGI extension of his work, overseen by his son, develops it very imaginatively. It would be silly to talk about Clanger Lore or Clanger Mythos or Clanger Canon. It's a puppet show. But the experience of watching those puppets is a little like staring into a very intricate aquarium. 

Some people have said the same thing about Fraggle Rock.

There are worlds which seem real because they feel real.  And there are worlds which seem real because there is solid world building behind them. Stars Wars and the Clangers in the first category: the Lord of the Rings and Thomas the Tank Engine are in the second.

And there are worlds which do have solid world building behind then but which don't feel in the least bit real, like your first Dungeons & Dragons campaign and the Harry Potter books. But perhaps that means that the world building isn't that solid after all. 

Someone very wise once said that the reality was made up of facts, as opposed to things. Perhaps fantasy worlds are made up of feelings, not facts. Perhaps a good fantasy world is composed of what the young people call vibes. Sometimes you need a card index system or a transformational grammar to evoke the correct vibes. Sometimes a vague gesture in the direction of the Clone Wars will do the trick.

But can't a card index system and a book of grammar be works of art in their own right? 

Don't some of us enjoy reading world books for RPGs we will never play in? 

Would it be completely mad to be fascinated by the timetables and route-plans of Sodar without having the slightest inclination to ever read any of Rev Awdrey's actual stories?

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Tuesday, November 26, 2024

VI: Adaptation

People who had read Lord of the Rings -- and even people who had read it twice -- were mostly okay with what Peter Jackson did to Fellowship of the Ring. They thought he had done a literate job of translating Tolkien's long, difficult book into the language of the Hollywood summer blockbuster, even if some of them thought that turning that kind of book into that kind of film was a pretty weird thing to do in the first place.

But some of the people who had read Lord of the Rings three times were rather discombobulated by what Peter Jackson did with the Two Towers. They felt that he had pretty much abandoned Tolkien's storyline. And they thought that what he had replaced it with was, on the whole, a bit too silly: CGI hyenas, elvish cavalry, skateboarding elves and dwarf-tossing.

Some people didn't think this mattered and enjoyed the film on its own terms. But when some of the people in the first group expressed their disappointment that Jackson's Theoden had only a passing connection with Tolkien's Theoden and that Jackson's Helm's Deep had no connection at all with Tolkien's Helm's Deep, some of the people in second group embarked on a campaign of gate-leaver-openingism. 

"Well, naturally" they cried "If Peter Jackson gets one letter of an elvish inscription wrong, you are going to tell the rest of us that we aren't allowed to enjoy the movie."

Actually, Peter Jackson pretty consistently got his elvish inscriptions right: it was the broader stylistic decisions -- the Moria theme park ride, the fist fight in Theoden's hall, the Indiana Jones cliffhanger on Mount Doom -- that some of us had issues with.

With big, complicated, important books like the Lord of the Rings and the Bible, there is always going to be a certain amount of friction between people who are too pedantic and people who are not nearly pedantic enough. 


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Monday, November 25, 2024

V: Gatekeeping

There is nothing wrong with loving Dogtanian and the Three Muskhounds and having not the slightest intention of ever reading Dumas. 

You really don't have to wait seven years for your ticket to Bayreuth before you are allowed to think that Ride of the Valkyrie is a good tune. 

You're not a bad person because you like your steak overcooked.

Actually, food is interesting edge case. It is very likely that a steak chef, or a coffee barrista, or a sommelier really, really, likes steak, coffee and wine and really, really wants you to like it as well. So he may be tempted to say "I think you will like that coffee better without sugar" or "That cut of steak really needs to be enjoyed pinkly." And I think some of them might out-and-out refuse to chill your red wine or serve your white wine at room temperature. "If you want latte, sir, I am using this coffee: I am not prepared to put milk into these unusual and expensive single estate beans." 

But many others would probably allow you to ruin the food you have payed for.

Gate-keeping is very annoying. But the contrary, which I might as well call "gate-leaving-open" is very nearly as bad. If I happen to mention that I am a big fan of Victor Hugo's original novel, the gate-leaver-open is apt to think that I have somehow spoiled his enjoyment of I Dreamed a Dream. If I remark that Bob Dylan's later work repays close listening, the gate-leaver-open may think I have prohibited from liking Blowing in the Wind.  To the gate-leaver-open, any criticism is an attack and any negative opinion a prohibition. 

If I say that 1970s Doctor Who was the best Doctor Who (which it obviously was) it does not follow that I am declaring the ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteen and fourteenth Doctor's non-canonical.  And even if I am, that does not mean that I am declaring that the tapes should be expunged.  And even if I am, no-one is likely to pay any attention to me.  Your enjoyment of Jodie Whitaker is not impacted by my enjoyment of Tom Baker, any more than my enjoyment of Tom Baker is impacted by your enjoyment of Jodie Whitaker. 

It is equally true that some people will read any positive criticism, or any push back against negative criticism, as gate-leaver-openerism. 

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Saturday, November 23, 2024

IV: Fantasy

Some time ago I confessed that I didn't particularly like comic books. What I like is superheroes. I grok that Heartstopper is marvellous, but I don't generally read YA romantic fiction when it's written in words, so I am not likely to read it when it happens to be told in words and pictures. However marvellously.

Here is a much worse confession.

I don't particularly like fantasy.

Please read the next paragraph before throwing your computer out of the window.

Tolkien created a new thing. We can see him creating it, right there on the page, as part of a dialogue with his friends in the pub: the fantasy novel. There had been fantasy stories before, obviously. And there had been novels about wizards and magic, not all of them necessarily for children. And there had been modern prose romances -- that line that goes from William Morris to ER Eddison via Lord Dunsany and James Branch Cabell. But a long prose work about dragons and goblins, told in the narrative voice of a naturalistic novel was something new and strange. As if Enid Blyton had developed Toytown in the style and on the scale of Middlemarch and turned Big Ears into a tragic hero.

Which might, as I always say at this point, have been awesome.

Tolkien didn't have a novelistic model in mind when he began creating his, if you insist, legendarium. Or he wouldn't have written "know then aforetimes that in the days of Inwe" on the one hand or "this for their hearts uplifting did Halog sing them as the frowning fortress clasped then and nethermost night in its net caught them" on the other.

I don't think the pictures we see in our head when we read Lord of the Rings are necessarily the pictures that Tolkien wanted us to see. The Pauline Baynes map illustrations he partially endorsed; and that Jimmy Cauty poster that everyone had on their wall in the 1970s are a long way from Peter Jackson and even further from World of Warcraft. Tolkien never quite told us what a balrog looked like. He didn't describe orcs, but I think he probably imagined them as rough, grotesque, humans; not piggy faced Games Workshop miniatures or dark skinned CGI ogrons. Lord of the Rings begat Dungeons & Dragons and Dungeons & Dragons begat Games Workshop and Games Workshop begat genre fantasy and genre fantasy begat Peter Jackson and Peter Jackson begat the Rings of Power and there is now a Consensus Fantasy Universe which these kinds of stories happen in.

I spent a lot of time playing Dungeons & Derivatives and feel quite at home in Consensus Fantasy Land. But if all you see in Lord of the Rings are ugly orcs and beautiful elves and funny dwarves and talking trees and grey wizards and dark lords on dark thrones in lands where there are very probably some shadows, you are only seeing about 12% of what Tolkien actually does.

I once said that I liked Dickens, apart from the Dickensian parts. I am quite tempted to add that I like Tolkien apart from the Tolkienesque bits: at any rate, the Tolkienesque bits are not the bits I like the most. It's the operatic dialogue and the mock epic scenes which I return to over and over again. This will I take as a weregild of my father. Through the fate of Arda is bound up in it, you will think me generous. Master of doom by doom mastered. Nevertheless they will still have need of wood.

And the little character moments too. Sam sulking because the farmer gave Frodo a slap when he was little. Pippin wanting to quit smoking because he misses Theoden. The rabbit stew. Silly songs in the bath-tub. There are no Games Workshop box sets recreating those scenes.

So am I, after all, a gate keeper? Am I saying that if you go to Tolkien to get your fix of orcs and wizards but have not the slightest interest in variant reading of the Lay of Lethien then you are a Dyson Airblade? [*]



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Friday, November 22, 2024

III: Canon

It is often said that Tolkien never finished the Silmarillion. It would perhaps be truer to say that Tolkien finished the Silmarillion several times; leaving a paper trail of mutually contradictory versions in his wake. Christopher Tolkien had to select material: the published Silmarillion can't, by definition, represent Tolkien's final intentions. Christopher didn't automatically regard the last thing his father wrote as authoritative: he went for the versions that were most polished, most finished, most consistent with the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, or simply "best". And we know that not every word in the Silmarillion is exactly what Tolkien wrote: Christopher made amendments and added bridging passages to create a sense completion and consistency. That's what editors do. At some point between 1980 and 1983 Christopher decided that this had been a mistake and embarked on a thirteen year project to produce a scholarly edition of the exact words his father wrote, false starts and contradictions and crossings out and all.

We could, if we wanted to, say that the only canonical Middle-earth texts were the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings ("including appendices"): since these were the only works that Tolkien approved for publication during his lifetime. We could add -- I think most people implicitly do -- the Silmarillion and the Unfinished Tales, because they contain writings that Christopher Tolkien felt to be broadly consistent with what was already published. You can read the Silmarillion, the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, in that order, with the Unfinished Tales as a kind of appendix, and feel that you have read a complete history of an imaginary world in various styles and from various points of view.

It would seem odd to say "the island of Tol Eressea is canonically England" (because that was Tolkien's idea in the very early Lost Tales manuscripts), or "Numenor canonically became the continent of America" (because Tolkien explored that idea in a very late "round earth" revision). But it would be equally odd to say that the story of Sam's daughter Eleanor becoming Arwen's hand-maiden was "apocryphal" or "part of my headcanon" because it occurs in an epilogue which Tolkien was persuaded (fairly reluctantly) to take out of Lord of the Rings. And I assume that no-one in their right mind would say that the magnificent ending of Beren and Luthien ("The quest is fulfilled; even now a Silmaril is in my hand!") was "only fan fiction" because it was one of the manuscripts that was published posthumously.

So perhaps, if we are talking about Tolkien, "the canon" had better refer to "what Tolkien actually wrote" (as opposed to what was invented by David Day, Iron Crown Enterprises, Peter Jackson or Amazon TV.) 

But "canon" can too easily become a weapon to be wielded in fan disputes. It is not enough to like Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. Unless and until you jump over twelve heavily footnoted hurdles, you are a Dyson Airblade. (*).




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Thursday, November 21, 2024

II: Canon

I've been listening to Bart Ehrman's podcasts about the Bible, provocatively entitled Misquoting Jesus. Prof Ehrman has forgotten more about the New Testament than I am ever likely to know, and I have learned a lot from them. His explanation of how the "lost chapter" of Mark's Gospel was discovered; and why it is very probably a forgery is great fun.

But occassionally, his language wrankles slightly. Ehrman has a tendency to refer to the apocryphal gospels -- the Christian texts by people other than Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and sometimes Paul -- as "books which never made it into the Bible."

Which is literally true. Oliver Twist is a book that never made it into the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Sailor on the Seas of Fate is generally excluded from the Harry Potter series. But there is a danger that a listener could infer that Judas and Thomas and Peter and that huge body of second and third century fan-fic might have become of the Bible.

I suppose there could have been a world where "the Bible" never stopped growing: where books written by the disciples of the disciples of the disciples had the same status as the big Four (or sometimes Five). Maybe the Sermons of John Wesley and the Broadcast of C.S Lewis might have been canonised as part of the Twenty Eighth Testament. Don't the Quakers have something like that -- a collection of "testimonies" that each generation adds to? 

But the phrase "never-made-it-into" plays into the story that Once Upon a Time (TM) there was a big pile of books, all equally valid or equally invalid, and then one day an unruly mob armed with surprise, fear, nice red uniforms and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope unexpectedly burst in and arbitrarily deleted the ones they happen not to like.

Ehrman, obviously, doesn't remotely believe this story. He is clear and interesting and helpful about where the canon actually came from. The catholic church didn't have an official list of all the books that were definitively in the Bible until as late as the sixteenth century. But everyone who called themselves a Christian had been working from the same list for about thirteen centuries before that. The 1546 decree only came about because Martin Luther was making noises about excluding James and Revelation. 

But I think it's the story Richard Dawkins and Dan Brown and the journalists who got excited about the Gospel of Mary hoax believe in. Thomas and Mark are "the same kind of thing" and only random chance or inquisitorial suppression put one between big black leather covers and relegated the other to the Loeb Ancient Greek Texts series.

When Ronald Knox started to talk about the Sherlock Holmes "canon" in the 1930s he was making a scholarly religious joke. But once you've stopped laughing, the Holmes canon isn't particularly hard to define: it's whatever Conan Doyle wrote. Fifty something stories and a handful of novels. I am told that some people play a meta-game where, for example, Laurie King's Mary Russel books are treated as canon, but that's all part of the joke.

Comic book canon is quite a bit more fiddly. There are an awful lot of Spider-Man comics out there and it takes a monumental act of faith to believe they are all true at the same time. But if I say "Is Captain America canonically Irish?" or "Is Jimmy Olsen canonically gay?" I think you understand the question. Captain America's heritage has been alluded to in the comic books themselves; Jimmy Olsen has only been said to be Superman's Very Special Friend in fan-fiction.

You might very well say that it doesn't make any difference; but you understand the question. 

So: how, as readers, scholars, and adaptors, should we define the Tolkien canon?


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Wednesday, November 20, 2024

I - Gatekeeping

My mother went to the opera all her life: as a young woman she used to queue to get cheap back row tickets at Covent Garden ('the gods'); she went the Paris Opera during her honeymoon; and in later years she had a season ticket for the English National Opera. So she was understandably annoyed when a work colleague bought a single of Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma and thereafter claimed to be a Devotee. I don't think she ever said that there was anything wrong with listening to fat Italians singing the famous bits. She certainly didn't say that people shouldn't be allowed to do so. But it annoyed her.

If I went out in public wearing a Motorhead tee-shirt, there is a real danger that someone would approach me and ask how many times I heard them perform live and the title of my three favourite albums. If I couldn't answer, there is a good chance that they would accuse me of being a Dyson Airblade. (*)

There used to be a comic book writer called Neil Gaiman. He wrote a comic called Sandman. Lots of people who never thought they would like comics really, really liked Sandman. As a matter of fact I really, really liked it. But some of the people who really, really liked it really really really liked it. It wasn't just the best fantasy comic of the early 1990s. It was the best fantasy comic of all time. It was the best comic book of all time. The first good comic book. The only good comic book

I am still a little surprised that people who didn't like comics managed get to the end of the first graphic novels, what with the constant references to Golden Age vigilantes, aborted Jack Kirby strips, Martian Manhunters and 1950s horror narrators. But that was part of Neil Gaiman's cleverness. Sandman was a dense web of fannish in-jokes; but the in-jokes weren't told in such a way as to lock anyone out. His stuff on Satan plays pretty well if you know your way around Milton and the Bible but equally well if you don't.

I am afraid I became rather insufferable around this point. Perhaps it was fair enough to feel irritated when people who had (by their own admission) never read any other comic book fansplained to me that prior to Sandman, all comics were puerile, disposable rubbish about people in brightly coloured underwear who said SOK and KAPOW a lot, and that Neil Gaiman had single-handedly turned them into serious English literature. But this very easily shaded in to my saying out loud that if you hadn't read Doctor Strange or Little Nemo you had no darn right to like Neil Gaiman.

A lot of the people who really, really, liked Sandman have recently discovered that they never liked it to begin with. 

In recent times, the argument has started to go the other way. I really, really like Cerebus the Aardvark, while acknowledging that it is really, really, really problematic. But when I point out the very great strengths of Dave Sim's artwork and story telling, some people are inclined to reply "I expect if I had read as many comics as you have, I would be able to see this skill and innovation that you talk about, but since I haven't I won't."

Gatekeeping is definitely a thing; and it's a very silly thing; although sometimes it is a very understandable thing. "Your opinion doesn't count because you know less than me" and "Your opinion doesn't count because you know more than me" are both forms of gatekeeping. "I don't think this is very good" should never be taken to imply "You are not permitted to enjoy this."






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Digression

I must not digress.

Digression is the blog-killer.


Digression is the general point which brings total excursus.


I will ignore my digression. 


I will permit it to pass over me and through me.


And when it has gone past, I will fire up scrivener and read my notes. 


When the digression has finished there will be nothing. 


Only content will remain. 

Rings of Power - Afterparty

RINGS OF POWER

AFTER PARTY

Digression

I: Gatekeeping

II: Canon

III: Canon

IV: Fantasy


V: Gatekeeping

VI: Adaptation

VII: World Buidling

VIII: Fantasy


IX: Sources

X: History

XI: Discourse



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Saturday, August 31, 2024

The Rings of Power

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power with an open mind.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because I watched Season One of the Rings of Power.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because there were sequences in Season One of the Rings of Power which I didn't actively hate.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because I am mildly curious about where they are going to go with it.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power out of morbid curiosity.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because everyone will be talking about it.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because whether I do or not, people are going to ask me what I thought of it. 

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because I have already foresworn Doctor Who and I don't want to make a habit of doing that kind of thing as I edge towards old age.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because the Lord of the Rings is an important component of my identity: lower down than Doctor Who and Spider-Man but higher up than Star Wars and Richard Wagner.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power as a stand alone entity, casting Season One entirely from my mind.

As a matter of fact, I cast Season One of the Rings of Power entirely from my mind approximately eleven minutes after the end of Episode Eight.    

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because I like Tolkien, cheap Tolkien knock-offs, and knock-offs of cheap Tolkien knock-offs.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power because I miss playing Dungeons & Dragons. [*]

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power for the dragons, dark lords, goblins, elves, trolls, balrogs, dwarves, sword fights, bows and arrows, shiny armour, +2 magic swords.

I will watch Season Two of Rings of Power entirely without reference to the Akallabeth or the Tale of Years because frankly only a saddo would watch a movie about the early history of an imaginary world and expect it to have anything at all to do with what the original author wrote about the early history of that imaginary world.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power without remotely expecting it to aspire to the level of Villeneuve's Dune movie, because, I mean, why would I?

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power without remotely expecting it to aspire to the level of Game of Thrones because, I mean, again, why would I?

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power without remotely expecting to take it seriously as a piece of fantasy world building honestly what do you take me for?

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power as if I were reading a piece of moderately well informed and tolerably well written Tolkien fan-fiction.

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power as if I were playing a moderately decent M.E.R.P [**] campaign in which only some of the other players have read the books. 

I will watch Season Two of the Rings of Power while reminding myself that it is only a book, only a TV series, only a work of literature.

I will permit the Rings of Power Season Two to pass over me and through me. 

And when the Rings of Power Season Two has finished, there will be nothing. 

Only the original book will remain.

[*] Other roleplaying games are available. Read me talking about D&D.
[**] Other Tolkien inspired roleplaying games are available. 

Read my essays on Season One of Rings of Power.



Sunday, February 26, 2023

The Fall of Numenor

This is, I suppose, the first volume of what will become the Fourth Wave of posthumous Tolkien publications. The Silmarillion was Christopher Tolkien's attempt to produce an accessible version of Tolkien's unfinished legendarium for people who had read Lord of the Rings and wanted access to the lore. The Unfinished Tales was supposed to complete the canon: the sections that didn't fit into the Silmarillion but were too interesting to consign to the waste paper basket.

The long, definitive, twelve volume History of Middle-earth didn't quite amount to a critical edition of Tolkien's extensive literary residue, but it gave keen readers a close fly-by of the raw materials Christopher Tolkien had to work with; his father's extensive, fragmentary, repetitive and frequently inconsistent legacy. It really ought to be called the Complete Works of Tolkien: as close as we are ever going to come to fitting his actual life's work between two covers. (Or twenty-four, to be exact.) We can talk about what he should have written and what we wish he'd written, but these 6,000 pages represent the sum-total of what he actually wrote. The recent Nature of Middle-earth is really the thirteenth and final volume of this magnum opus. There are print-on-demand editions of technical Elvish texts for anyone who want them.

Towards the end of his life, Christopher Tolkien embarked on a third phase of mining Pa's writings. The Children of Hurin, the Fall of Gondolin and Beren & Luthien are slightly less intimidating presentations of material we'd already seen in the History of Middle-earth. You still have to navigate stories which don't come to an end, and multiple variant versions of the same basic narratives, but the intimidating footnotes are gone; the material is no longer scattered across multiple volumes; and the type-face is considerably clearer. It would be cruel to call these books Good Parts Abridgements of the History of Middle-earth, but they are essentially Good Parts Abridgements of the History of Middle-earth.

The Fall of Numenor is the first publication which owns up to being a secondary text. So far as I can tell, Brian Sibley hasn't consulted any primary manuscripts at all. Possibly no-one but Chris could have deciphered Ron's handwriting. But Sibley has studied the Silmarillion, the Book of Lost Tales and the Unfinished Tales a good deal more closely than you or I have. He is also passingly familiar with the BBC Lord of the Rings Radio adaptation, and supplied "Hobbit gibberish" for the Drury Lane musical. He has taken some of Tolkien's writings, re-ordered it, polished it, wiped its nose, and sent it out into the world in a lovely new dust-jacket and only a tiny seasoning of absolutely essential footnotes. The Usual Suspects have complained that Sibley is fraudulently asking £20 for material they have already paid for (in some cases, twice); that he is engaging in literary necrophilia and is, moreover, woke. But for those of us who still enjoy books as opposed to franchises, it's an utter delight. I ploughed through Nature of Middle-earth out of a sense of loyalty. I read Fall of Numenor for fun.

Linguists and philologists are interested, not only in what words mean, but in how words change. A word isn't just what it means today, but what it meant a hundred or even a thousand years ago. It was CS Lewis who taught me that the word "world" originally meant "were-ald", man-age, and passed through phases of meaning epoch, universe, solar-system and ecology before settling down to mean planet. 

But very many people are linguistic fundamentalists. Words have true, fixed meanings, which Bad People deliberately change and distort. Don't pay any attention to what your Comp School English teacher told you the word means: there is always a truer, purer meaning to go back to. Witness the recent kerfuffle about the Oxford English Dictionary's amending the definition of "woman" to reflect current usage; re-read Simon Heffer's comic masterpiece, Strictly English.

Many people feel the same way about literary characters and texts. There is a singular Robin Hood, a true Superman and an unsullied Doctor Who which different texts reflect faithfully or else wilfully distort. But other people feel that the word "Hamlet", or come to that, "Jesus", necessarily refers to a construct that has undergone multiple transformations and will continue to do so as long as intelligent monkeys exist to tell stories to one another. Henry Irving's Hamlet is not Kenneth Branaghs's Hamlet. "Hamlet" encompasses both of them and neither of them. 

And this is, I think, what makes Christopher Tolkien's work threatening to a particular kind of purist. At one level, it is meaningless to say that the Melko who threatens two elves called Beren and Luthien in a 1917 text called the Tale of Tinuviel "is" the Morgoth to whom Sauron offers human sacrifice in the Akallebeth (1958) or that the Necromancer alluded to in the Hobbit (1937) "is" the Lidless Eye from the Return of the King (1955) -- or that either of them "is" sodding Halbrand. Tolkien re-used ideas from old books in the creation of new ones, and the nature of 21st century literary fame means that "other hands" are going to start using those ideas in their own work. 

Hell, it's pushing it to say that the Hal of Henry VI Part 2 "is" the Henry of Henry V, although producers can have great fun pretending that he is.

But it is equally and oppositely true that we wouldn't be ploughing through this stuff to begin with if we didn't think we could enter into "secondary belief" in Middle-earth; if we couldn't think about it and talk about it as if it was the history of a place that happens not to exist. It is very, very interesting to see the process by which Tolkien created it; in the same way that it is very, very interesting to see the process by which Mat Irvine turned an empty washing up liquid bottle and some piano wire into a Sontaran flying saucer; but if every time you watch the old sci-fi show you think "it's only a plastic bottle" and "I can see the wires" then you aren't watching the old sci-fi show. If we can't see Strider without also seeing Trotter, if Bingo always lies behind Frodo and Gandalf is still a little man called Theoden then Middle-earth is no longer "a world more real than any other". It's no longer anything at all.

A man on Twitter today welcomed the second wave of franchised Lord of the Rings TV shows, saying "I just want to be in Middle earth. I don’t care which story or which characters we will see, I just really want to be in the world." 

To which I say, simultaneously "I know exactly what you mean" and "I don't think I understand, in that context, what you mean by 'Middle-earth'. Or, for that matter, 'be'".



So. Pull up that battered old copy of Return of the King.

Page 453, the Tale of Years.

Year 1: Foundation of the Grey Havens.

Year 1700: Tar Minastir sends a great navy from Numenor to Lindon."

Flip over to the Unfinished Tales: page 219, the Line of Elros, King of Numenor, From the Founding of the City of Armenelos to the Downfall.

"Tar-Surion was the third child of Tar-Anarion, his sisters refused the scepter. He ruled for a hundred and fourteen years. He was born in the year 1174"

The Silmarillion, of course, has a saga-like description of the Numenorian empire which feels a lot less like homework.

"And Isildur said no word but went out by night and did a deed for which he was afterwards renowned..."

What Brian Sibley has done is treated each entry in the Tale of Years as a chapter heading, and interleaved everything Tolkien wrote about that particular year in its chronological position -- not only the Silmarillion and the Unfinished Tales, but relevant chunks from History of Middle-earth, Tolkien's letters and the narrative material from the Council of Elrond in Fellowship of the Ring. We end up with a more or less linear history of the Second Age, which we can more or less read straight through, as a story.

It's a physically beautiful book: definitely worth getting the hardback as opposed to reading it on kindle. Two colour printing, with the chapter headings in blue and the fire letters in red; Alan Lee line drawings at the top of every chapter and a goodly number of colour plates. The only thing I'd have added is some family trees. It reproduces Christopher Tolkien's maps from the Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion, but it would have been nice to have some purpose built diagrams to help us keep track of who was where at each point.



The presentation of texts affects how we read them. The Silmarillion feels more definitive than it has any right too: the Unfinished Tales feel, well, unfinished, and in the History of Middle-earth, textual scholarship keeps interrupting the story. Sibley's treatment can feel bitty and fragmented. Some of the chapters are very short indeed. The Akallabeth may not be enhanced by being split into ten or a dozen chapters. But on the whole, Sibley has opened up obscure and dry passages from obscure and dry works. 

The Unfinished Tales included a 40 page story -- unfinished, obviously -- called Aldarion and Erendis, the Tale of the Mariner's wife.

It starts, off-puttingly, like one of the monarch-notes:

"Meneldur was the son of Tar-Eledil, the fourth king of Numenor. He was the king's fourth child, for he had two sisters..."

Even the keenest reader could be forgiven for saying "Who was the son of whom, exactly, and when was this, and why ought I to care?" Sibley splits it up into four sections, entitles them "The Voyages of Aldarion", "Aldarion and Erendis""The Wedding of Aldarion and Erendis" and "The Accession of Tar-Aldarion" and places them in their correct slots between the years 600 and 750 SA. We can now see where it fits into the overall saga -- how the first reigning Queen came about, and why there was a kind of schism between the King and the Queen in the next generation. And, in nice clear print with pictures and hardly any footnotes, we can also recognise it as a pretty good story.

We revere Tolkien for his world-building; we mock him slightly for his genealogies and etymologies; but he was a brilliant, brilliant, storyteller. Even if he wasn't much cop at actually finishing anything. Aldarion and Erendis is a pretty simple tale: the Prince of Numenor wants to sail to Middle-earth and have adventures; his lover wants to stay at home. He goes off for a few years, he comes back, they get married, but he longs for the sea again. She makes him promise to come back after a year; but the years roll by and he doesn't come home. Eventually he returns, but she won't have him back. It's full of Tolkien's understated narrative flourishes:

"You come late, my lord" she said "I had long ceased to expect you. I fear there is no such welcome prepared you as I had made when you were due."

"Mariners are not hard to please" he said.

"That is well", she said, and she turned back into the house and left him.

Did the tale of Aldarion just drift into Tolkien's head while he was working on his Monarch Notes, and get written down almost as a distraction from the main line of thought? Or was one of the purposes of the History of Numenor to provide a context for just such a story? I wonder if there was an original, impossible scheme in which each of the Kings on the list was supposed to be the seed of a story as long as this one; growing eventually into a vast narrative history of Numenor that would have run to double the length of Lord of the Rings. The one thing he definitely didn't do was create an independent story and paste it into the Second Age as a backdrop. Story and history are in a kind of dialectic; the history shaped by the story, the story a close-up view of the history.



The final days of Numenor is a masterpiece of Highe Fantasie. Sauron taken as hostage to Numenor; constructing a great temple to Morgoth; giant clouds in the shape of eagles amassing on the island; Sauron laughing on his fiery throne at the exact moment the island sinks beneath the waves; the Queen trying to reach the top of the highest mountain to survive the deluge...

"And the first fire upon the altar Sauron kindled with the hewn wood of Nimloth, and it cracked and was consumed; but men marvelled at the reek that went up from it, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days, until slowly it passed into the west."

We've become used to fantasy stories taking the forms of novels: with viewpoint characters, physical descriptions and characters with realistic psychology. Tolkien doesn't write like George R Martin or Stephen Donaldson or even Terry Pratchett: I can see how a certain kind of reader might say "Har-har it sounds like the Bible" and walk away. The normal word order is inverted ("the fire he kindled with wood" as opposed to "he kindled the fire with wood") which might make a different person say "Bah, poetry" and close the book. Some of the language is slightly old fashioned --"kindled" instead of "lit", "hewn" instead of "chopped" and "reek" instead of "stink" -- but no words we don't know the meaning of. You could modernise it, of course, a kind of Good News Silmarillion, but there would be a mismatch between the language and the tone:

"Sauron lit the first fire on the altar with the wood he had chopped from Nimloth; it crackled as it burned away; and everyone was surprised by the bad smell that came from it, which left the country dark for a week, until the smoke slowly drifted westwards."

That's simply not the way this sort of story is told. There are no Hobbits to mediate the narrative, but it's clear from the voice that we are hearing the tale as it was told in days of old by the men of Gondor as they sat round they great log fires.

Could there have been another viewpoint? Could those two words, "men marvelled" have been extended into chapters and paragraphs and entire volumes?

"Call me Isildur. Tomorrow Last Ally Gil Galad and I will go to war with Sauron, and it is entirely possible that he will pass into darkness and I shall encounter some kind of Bane. But I still recall that fateful morning in my youth when I opened the shutter of my father's house and noticed that the suin had not risen and the whole land smelt like...." 

Like what? Do they have public loos and rubbish dumps and tanneries in the blissful realm? And what do we call them to avoid breaking the mood? 

"'It bain't be natural, that be it not'" said the landlord of the Leaky Chalice as he poured foaming nut-brown ale into his artisanal cup 'There ain't been no sun for nigh on a week and I don't know why, unless it be from all that smoke that Master Sauron, gor bless him, 'as been making in that sodding big church, for reasons which I am sure are good...'"

The impact of the paragraph depends on its being embedded in history. We are shocked that Sauron has burned Nimloth; because we know what Nimloth is, and indeed, why the West is important. It's meaning stretches back into the first pages of the Silmarillion, and its story will continue into the final pages of Lord of the Rings: the narrator can only explain it in terms of other stories:

"And a seedling they brought of Celeborn, the White Tree that grew in the midst of Eressëa; and that was in its turn a seedling of Galathilion the Tree of Túna, the image of Telperion that Yavanna gave to the Eldar in the Blessed Realm. And the tree grew and blossomed in the courts of the King in Armenelos; Nimloth it was named, and flowered in the evening, and the shadows of night it filled with its fragrance."

There are other ways of telling a story: Tolkien could have taken the Miltonic or Homeric route, given us the Saga of Isildur and gradually brought us up to speed via epic flashbacks.

And to the white tree Nimloth did
Isildur the reckless son of Elendil boldly creep 
That same tree of whose sire in Valinor
Before the rising of the first sun stood,
When Yavanna, gentle spouse of mighty Aule
Who in defiance of the One first forged the dwarves
Upon the hill in the Far West did stand
And to the serried ranks of Valar pure
Who in the primal music made the world
Did speak....

But he didn't.




But Tolkien did make an attempt to cast part of the story of Numenor into a more naturalistic form. Sibley includes a chapter from Tolkien's unfinished novel the Lost Road, which is related to an earlier, unfinished novel called the Notion Club Papers. He puts it in an Appendix because it doesn't really fit into the chronology. It was going to be part of a sprawling epic about reincarnation, in which a contemporary father and son have a vision quest through history from the contemporary era to Anglo Saxon times and ultimately to Atlantis-Numenor, where they would turn out to be reincarnations of Elendil and Isildur. It was part of the famous literary pact with CS Lewis: Lewis would write a space travel story if Tolkien would write a time travel story. Lewis's entry was straight out of HG Wells; Tolkien's, not so much. Tolkien hasn't finalised the story at this point: indeed the characters are called Elendil and Herendil. The tiny little fragment which survives takes the form of a conversation between father and son. Sauron has been living in Numenor for nearly fifty years; he has corrupted the king and instigated the worship of Morgoth; and promised to make the King lord of the whole world. Herendil/Isildur has grown up with this, and regards it as a normal state of affairs. He's rather shocked that his father doesn't think that lordship of middle-earth and worship of Morgoth is the birthright of Numenorean kings. He fears that his father will be accused of treason. "Even to dispraise Sauron is held rebellious". But Dad is clear where his loyalties lie:

"'I would not break faith with the king, nor do I purpose anything to his hurt. The house of Earendel hath my allegiance while I live. But if I must choose between Sauron and Manwe, then all else must come after. I will not bow unto Sauron, nor to his master.'"

It's a fascinating text in many ways. Elendil's summary of the first age and the fall of Melkor is subtly different from the one in the Silmarillion, and it gives us a sense of how the people of Numenor percieved the old gods. And we get a dramatic description of Sauron's first arrival on the island. It seems that the waves virtually spit his boat out and deposit him on dry land:

"He stood upon a rock and said 'This is done as a sign of my power. For I am Sauron the mighty, servant of the Strong...I have come. Be glad, men of Numenor, for I shall take thy king to be my king and the world shall be given into his hand.'"

But it is easy to see why Tolkien abandoned the book. On the one hand, Sauron the Mighty is a demonic figure; second in command to literal Satan, and Elendil knows it. But at the same time, he is an evil councillor to a mortal king, and the language is that, if not of the House of Commons lobby, then at any rate of Henry V's council chamber. An older dude and a younger dude are talking politics in a nice villa by the sea; but the politics they are talking about involves Voids and Far Wests and Deathless Ones. And this leads to a mismatch of tone, which teeters on the edge of being unintentionally comic. Tolkien has decided they are going to talk in thees-and-thous: I don't know whether to emphasise the familiarity of father and son or just to make it sound old fashioned. 

In places, it comes out sounding clumsy:

"Do not ask. And do not speak so loud. Thou knowest it is dangerous -- to us all. Whatever he be, Sauron is mighty, and hath ears. I fear the dungeons.."

In other places it sounds merely ridiculous:

"How thou dost grow..." 

"Why dost thou mock me? Thou knowest I am dark, and smaller than most others of my year. And that is a trouble to me. I stand barely to the shoulder of Amariel, whose hair is of shining gold, and she is a maiden, and of my own age."

It is as if a perfectly normal conversation, that might have taken place round any 1950s breakfast table, has been translated back into fantasy-speak. Hast thou read the parchments of news upon this morning, my spouse? It seemeth that the cost of fish in the market riseth, and our nation faireth poorly in the ball games at the forum. Please, pass unto to me the orange condiment with the picture of a southron child upon the label. (It doesn't help that Tolkien mentions that Helendil has been bathing, and is naked during the conversation.) Ordinary talk sounds silly in High Speech; but mythology sounds silly in ordinary language. It is ironic that this is precisely the rock which the Rings of Power wrecks itself on. It doesn't work for Isildur to talk like a teenager and Galadriel to talk like a military officer; but it doesn't work for them to talk like anything else. It seems Tolkien himself couldn't get this quite right.

Everything in Tolkien, with the exception of the Lord of the Rings, is unfinished; trapped in the transition between two states, and the Fall of Numenor is necessarily artificial, even synthetic. But the new book does a very good job of making the jumble of material accessible. The First Age stories are much more confused and confusing, but can one hope for a Forging of the Jewels or Flight of the Noldor volume in the not-too-remote future?

Hi,

I'm Andrew.

I am trying very hard to be a semi-professional writer and have taken the leap of faith of down-sizing my day job.


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