Over the course of the extended Christmas break that turned into my current, erm, self-determined vacation from regular employ, I traveled the back roads of Middle Earth with a group of gents that I didn't care much for. I hate to admit such jadedness, but perhaps the charms of an innocent, rollicking, dragon-infused children's story are lost on a thirty year old man.
When I saw the first installment of the Hobbit film trilogy with Matt and other friends, I admitted afterwards that I found a hard time sympathizing with a single character in the story. Whereas Frodo (in LOTR) is set up as a hero against the odds, his predecessor Bilbo is, seemingly, a put-upon creature of habit whose longest-lived lament is that he finds himself without pocket handkerchiefs. (Oh, woeful are we...)
My respect for J.R.R. Tolkein's achievements is boundless, but I'm afraid that I have to write off The Hobbit as a work by a younger man of fewer fiery literary talents than the man he would become during the slightly later composition of the Ring saga.
The tale contained within my volume's rich green faux-leatherette covers is enjoyable enough, but it lacks the scope, the pacing, and, yes, the depth of the Ring. While the latter product is far longer, true, The Hobbit felt over-full with repeated episodes of "Oh no, we're in a pinch" followed by "BOOM! Deus ex machina saves us!"
Again, this could be the disillusionment of an adult reading a children's tale. When I picked up The Catcher in the Rye over the summer for the first time since 1997, I read five pages and quit. Across the span of fifteen years, Holden Caulfield had become an insipid, vacuous, insolent teenager. I guess the more salient point is that when one is insipid, vacuous, and insolent (read: a teenager) the character - as mirror of self - is of more interest.
The following two paragraphs contain potential spoilers. If you've not read the novel and plan to, please do your best to ignore them...
I think what gave me the deepest displeasure was that Bilbo was not the character who slayed the fearful dragon, Smaug. For well over two hundred pages, our short, hairy protagonist grows more and more into the role of the hero as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of the Dwarf group, becomes anti-heroic. And then, when the moment comes for the dragon to die, some random person gets the kill.
Truly, this disturbed me. It would be as if Romeo and Juliet were spiraling towards their inevitable doom and then - BLAMMO - they got shot in a drive-by. I think the dragon deserved better. There should have been a (forgive me) scorching battle in which, against odds, the timid Hobbit destroys this embodiment of evil. Instead, the poor fellow is felled by a man who is, at best, peripheral to the book.
Back to business, as it were.
I don't regret reading the book in the slightest. I purchased it eight years ago in eager anticipation of devouring it before a film adaptation could be made, but was constrained by academic work and returning to my classes for the spring semester. It made sense that in this time of freedom I'd make the grand attempt. I just wish that I could lend a flags-flying positive endorsement of the text as a must-read.
- Bill
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