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Oh, those rickety biplanes, all canvas and wood and held together by spit and a prayer, come taxiing out of the early morning fog and there’s the sad tin whistle music and the eager young men jumping to get up in the air and get themselves killed, and I’m a basket case from the get-go, all tears and sobby and having just the best time I can have at the movies: I. Am. Moved.
Is it ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ or ‘Highlander 2: The Quickening’?
I still can’t get my head around how profoundly awed and moved and overwhelmed and terrorized and rejuvenated I am by this movie.
Damn you, Joss Whedon, you *hwoon dahn*! Damn you and your honesty and integrity and unwillingness to succumb to Hollywood bullshit and–
Here’s what you have to do in order to survive *The Star Wars Holiday Special*: Don’t watch it. If you must, then 1) Have alcohol or some other inebriating substance close to hand — a rock to bang against your skull will do in a pinch. And 2) Remember that your tender 10-year-old self probably witnessed this atrocity the one time it aired on TV to unsuspecting, nay, *eager* audiences, and suffered such psychological trauma that your brain blocked off the memory in order to spare you further harm; know that you may suddenly experience violent flashbacks to Christmas 1978 as that mental wound is viciously reopened.
That teaser trailer — you know the one I’m talking about — with the fat old ex-superhero struggling to get into his spandex costume? It left such a bad taste in my mouth whenever I contemplated the film that must go with it. I imagined a gang of former masked crusaders called out of happy retirement, reluctantly huffing and puffing their way back into action, replete with very unfunny cracks about getting fat and old, and probably with an even more unfunny getting-into-shape-a-la-*Rocky* sequence thrown in for good measure.
The words I keep coming back to, the ones that seem to fit this most astonishing of films best, are ‘terrible’ and ‘awful.’ The old-fashioned senses of the words are what I’m talking about: Peter Jackson has given us a grandly eloquent film that inspires more terror and more awe than anything I’ve seen in a long time. I can compare my reaction to it only with the moviegoing experiences of my childhood, when the hugeness, the all-encompassing-ness of movies in all ways — emotionally, viscerally, visually, aurally — first astounded me, when ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ and Darth Vader’s stormtroopers horrified me to such a degree that I can still feel it.
A moviegoing pal of mine calls it ‘Disney goosebumps,’ the awestruck, think-I’m-gonna-cry feeling evoked when the alchemy works and image and music fuse with your imagination and longing to transport you to another world.
Other critics have already dragged out the $10 words to describe this film — some of the ones I’d chose myself are ‘seductive,’ ‘masterful,’ ‘majestic,’ and ‘elegant’ — and you must believe what they say because they say True Things. But the one thing that strikes me most about LOTR: FOTR, besides its seductively masterful and majestic elegance, is simply how utterly right it is.
Please don’t write into tell me how sophisticated Halloween actually is, because that’s a symptom of my third point, which is that I suspect the Halloween movies are like the Star Wars movies, in that the most fun thing about them isn’t what’s actually onscreen but the fannish discussions that happen offscreen about the interrelations between characters and the interconnections between events that loop through the entire series of films.
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