Peter Jackson will have owned six years of my life by the time it is all said and done.
And that’s just one person.
That is a form of enslavement, surely, and is illegal.
For six years I will have agonized over the unfolding of first The Lord of the Rings and then The Hobbit, which he broke into three golram parts instead of making it just one movie.
After watching The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug this past weekend and realizing, somewhere around the time of the molten gold scene, that he was going to leave us on a cruel and unusual cliffhanger, I felt a wave of frustration. 12 more months to see the end?! Are you kidding?! You’re gonna leave us like that?
The second movie of a trilogy is always the worst. You don’t have the anchor of the introductory action, and you don’t have the denouement to slow the racing heart. Instead, you just have crescendo and intrigue and thickened plots and action that goes unresolved and drives you to use statins and nitroglycerin tablets.
This means that not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES I have to battle the crowds to get in first.
FIRST INTO THE THEATER FOR THE HOBBIT! 2nd year in a row! Took some chess moves to pull it off. I'm exhausted.
— Julie R. Neidlinger (@julesvern97) December 22, 2013
Yes, have to.
Three times I will have had to suffer skinny-jeaned hipsters “debating” the veracity of the books and the movie before, during, and after the movie as if they and their mustaches were the only generation that had ever read them.
My dad still hasn’t seen past “The Two Towers” from LOTR, because I won’t tell him whether or not Legolas dies and he refuses to watch the elf die. He’d rather not watch the final installment than possibly see Legolas die. In some ways, I’m as cruel as Peter Jackson.
And also, speaking of Peter Jackson, I have some really big news.
Come back next year when I finish this blog post.