By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
Peter Jackson is teasing his Internet stalkers unmercifully. It's probably the only thing to do when you've got tens of thousands of them spying on you, criticizing you, questioning your judgment, threatening you with dire consequences if you mess around with the elves or the dwarves or the hobbits.
Jackson is directing the new three-movie version of The Lord of the Rings, one of the most beloved books of the century. With a $360 million budget it's the second-largest production ever. Think that's scary? The online fanbase is ravening for information and input. With all that's at stake, playing coy with the Net is like sticking a hand in the lion's cage.
You might remember The Lord Of The Rings from its late '60s-early '70s vogue-a sweeping epic of heroism and battle and so forth, interspersed with the quest of the hobbit Frodo Baggins to destroy the extraordinarily evil One Ring. On the other hand, you might remember it because you fell in and never came out.
Plenty of folks did. The Lord of the Rings is considered the wellspring whence most modern fantasy literature derives. The trilogy has a curious way of knocking around inside your head-as adventure, as religious parable, as a place that should have been and seems like, maybe, was. Or so speak the faithful, who congregated online when the fickle finger of fashion moved on.
Written by J.R.R. Tolkien, an Oxford philologist with a sweeping knowledge of ancient myth and a great distrust of both flower power and soulless mechanization, The Lord of the Rings has been embraced twice since its publication in the mid-'50s-first by the hippies who scribbled "Frodo Lives!" on campus graffiti walls, later by the sci-fi/geek/Society of Creative Anachronism crowd that, yes, built the Internet. When the culture forgot, the Net remembered.
In the absence of pop-culture dilution, the world of Middle-Earth became the shared hallucination of the Net, analyzed like a religious text (and occasionally viewed less as myth than as history) and immortalized-even expanded on-everywhere from Web sites to server names. Now Hollywood's back, after wringing the last life out of the Star Trek franchise and revivifying (with mixed results) the Star Wars saga, the other two great Net cultural touchstones. And the natives who have kept the torch burning all these years are feeling empowered-no, entitled-to dictate how the flame will be kept.
Director Peter Jackson has a tough three years ahead. As director and co-screenwriter, Jackson has to accomplish the following: adapt a beloved tale from thousands of pages of primary and secondary texts, making it comprehensible to the general public, appealing to the faithful and acceptable to the license-holders; manage a cast of hundreds (some of whom must be shrunk down digitally to half-size, and one of whom is entirely computer-generated), convincing his principals to spend two years or more in New Zealand; stay within one of the biggest budgets ever granted for a movie project; and fit the whole thing into three two-hourish movies.
And keep every Tolkien fanatic with a modem happy. Oh, that.
Cyberspace Above, Middle-Earth Below
The cult of Tolkien never died online; it was a major geek-culture shibboleth throughout the 1970s and '80s and continues online in thousands of Web pages and Usenet discussions every year. MUDs (multi-user chat areas) simulate life in the Shire, adventurers skirmish against Orcs (or, as Orcs, against elves and dwarves and men), academics dissect, artists sketch, fiction-writers revisit the characters again and again. Serious Usenet participants take on the text with the gravitas of Talmud scholars, dissecting both the books as books (that is, three books created and written by a particular person in the first half of the 20th century) and as...something else.
For many online fans, Tolkien's books are a frustratingly small window into another world-a world that exists, in a sense, just beyond the veil, a world that must be teased out of the hints and intimations in the trilogy and its attendant materials, which (from The Hobbit on through the 13-volume collection of drafts and notes known as the History of Middle Earth) exist in a hierarchy of canonical veracity, which is itself debated. The debates mean nothing to the outsider, but to Peter Jackson, they mean public deliberations over whether a particular character (with no lines and 11/2 pages of play) has wings or not. These are not people likely to be content with six hours' worth of movies-though they are, in fact, likely to voice their discontent as they stand in line at the box office again and again and again.
Lights, Camera, Internet
There's a good case to be made that Peter Jackson-known best for the 1994 kind-of-surreal, kind-of-brilliant, kind-of-historical drama Heavenly Creatures-is the ideal captain for the first fantasy epic to run aground in cyberspace. His movies, which also include The Frighteners and Meet The Feebles, have a wonderful otherness; even when they're grounded in actual events, they teeter on the edge of going completely weird-like Terry Gilliam (a director long wishfully mentioned online in the dark days when no studio would touch the books) but without the sense that the world is coming down around your ears at any minute. (Others have attempted to film the trilogy, true-most notably animation master Ralph Bakshi in the late '70s. Let us never speak of it again.)