The Hobbit: A Film Review

Revisiting the magical world of Middle-earth, Peter Jackson takes us into the past in a twofold manner; the distant past of the story's characters and the recent past of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Many shots, actors, and locations return in this new epic trilogy. One could, perhaps, justify this, as The Hobbit, being a shorter and less substantial text, left Jackson needing to draw on all available resources to expand the story to an epic trilogy. It would seem that the more childish nature of the story works against a reproduction of the gravitas of The Lord of the Rings, but Tolkien's works are full of mythology and metaphor, which enriches even the most basic of plots.

The Hobbit tells the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, a well-off conservative man, who is unconcerned by the world around him. He joins a company of dwarves, who are on a quest to reclaim their kingdom from an evil dragon. Their patriarchal society, which seems completely devoid of women, had become immensely prosperous, and upon such prosperity, the foreign dragon entered their homeland (which, we are constantly reminded, belongs exclusively and inherently to the dwarves), caused trouble for the residents, and lived amid the vast wealth he hadn't earned. The foreign dragon (which, incidentally, is a symbol of China) makes living in the kingdom impossible, and eventually leads to more foreigners invading the kingdom and trying to freeload off the hard work of the natives.

The Teutonic elves, who are as perfect as they are white, refuse to aid the dwarves in their time of need. They are so enriched with culture, beauty, spiritualism, knowledge, and outstanding physical abilities that it would be ludicrous for them to risk their lives for the sake of the laborious, grubby dwarves. Later, we are reminded that they live in a paradise that is heavily gated and protected from the outside world. Given heir multiple gifts, they rightly possess an authority over the rest of the world, even if they hardly ever visit it.

Ian McKellen reprises his role as Gandalf, a wizard grounded in reality, living among the people and creatures of Middle-earth. His more academic counterpart, Saruman, makes an appearance, only to show us their parting views on the nature of goodness. Saruman believes it comes from power, which presumably means sweeping social reform. However, he lives in a gigantic tower, far from people and their problems, where idealism is his only company. He cannot see, as Gandalf can see, that his reformist ideas are no match for the small, simple gestures of good, conservative people like Bilbo Baggins.

Among the many villains this time are the malevolent orcs, and grimy, working-class goblins. Our heroes almost get eaten by trolls at one stage, the horror intensified by the prospect of being consumed by someone with such a cacophonous street accent. Fortunately, those of a lower station are not blessed with intelligence (No wonder they're so badly off!), and the company of dwarves and hobbit easily outsmart them. Andy Serkis returns and brings Gollum to the screen once again. As he is also a Hobbit, he offers a contrast to Bilbo. Instead of wasting his life on drugs and blaming the world for his problems, Bilbo pulled himself up by his boot strings, and now lives a happy and comfortable life. It reminds us that there's plenty of room at the top for those who are willing to work hard.

As I give my (work-hardened) thumbs up to this wonderful, edifying film, I hope you take notice of the wisdom it wishes to share. Middle-earth holds up a mirror to our own world, showing us the great values of the established order of things. Please, don't try to cause trouble; instead look at yourself and accept that you are probably where you are because of your own mistakes (especially that working-class accent of yours and your lack of culture).

A gratuitous sexy picture to attract more subscribers - "They're elvish abs!"

A Christmas Message

As it's Christmas, I'll spare you a rant about stuffing your piggy face with any old sentimental turd that characterises love as some profound lightening strike or tells you that there is only one person who is truly for you. I'll save you from tirades about the insidious affirmation of the Anglo-American 'special relationship', or the achy, X-Factor-styled drone of the sexualised prepubescent, or the foppishness of nearly all the male characters. I'll even forgo pontificating about the revolting ooze of middle-class, consumerist fantasy that seeps out of every pore of the film or the fact I keep thinking it stars Stephen Fry when it actually doesn't. I'll be nice and tell you a story instead.

A funny thing happened to me the other night. My wife's best friend called to the door and announced her undying love for me. It was, perhaps, the intricate, pre-meditated nature of the declaration that startled me the most. She boldly called over when my wife was at home, and cunningly played a CD of carol singers to deceive my wife, who was at the back of the house, into believing that nothing was going on. She then used a series of placards to explain what she was doing and how she was profoundly in love with me. I knew she was delusional from the beginning, as she told me that I was perfect. Nobody is perfect, and if you think you love someone because they are perfect, then you're wrong — you're in love with an idealised version of them, and any relationship with that person is likely to end in disillusionment and resentment for failing to live up to expectations. She then spoke without irony about her 'wasted heart', an act of melodrama that confirmed my suspicions about her psychosis. The severe discomfort I felt at her reckless audacity was compounded by her unmitigated adoration of me, which made me feel like an object rather than a person. As she began to slowly walk into the night, I was surprised to find myself chasing her down the street, staring deeply into her eyes, and giving her an encouraging peck on the lips. It was the least I could do for all her efforts (As it transpired, she had even edited together a worship video of me, made from clips from my wedding day). Well, I suppose I'll accept her, as she is gorgeous. It would be creepy otherwise, right?

Irish History X, Vol. 4

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations, before crying into our knees, looks back and tries to figure out how the fuck we got here. 

The Orange Order

For this edition, The Fair Observations hit the road and headed north to Belfast. We arranged to meet some Orange Order representatives to talk about history, the changing times, and that sartorial savviness that has made the Order legendary.
I was met at the Grand Orange Lodge by Irene, a 25-year-old intern, who greeted me kindly and proceeded to guide me around the facility. I expressed my surprise — but not without charm — that a woman was escorting me around. After all, I admitted, the Orange Order had always seemed chauvinistically male. She informed me, with a terseness that was as cute as it was efficient, that the Orange Order was "a changing organisation" and that Orange Women had marched for quite some time (though not with the men). "Does that mean they'll be admitting Catholics in the near future?", I inquired with a wry smile. "I doubt that's on the cards", she said with tactful grace. "But", she admitted encouragingly, "I'm personally open to admissions."

Unexpectedly, our foreordained antagonism turned into a playful game politico-historical teasing. She corrected me on the organisation's name, letting me know it was now officially the Orange Institution. "We don't want to conjure up old images of domination and subjugation." "Don't we?", I piped in, with a raised eyebrow Roger Moore would be proud to call his own. Coyly avoiding my sideswipe, she fed me a line about the 'Institution' now focussing on celebrating heritage and culture. I asked her about the disproportionate cultural celebration of the Williamites beating the Irish Jacobites over three hundred years ago. After a little bit of historical wrangling, we both agreed that freedom from Papal tyranny was a good thing. She was particularly convincing when she argued that Catholics wasted a great opportunity to join in the celebration of heritage when the Orange Lodges marched right through their neighbourhood. The look in her eye and tactile contact further persuaded me that she was right. 

LOL

Any disagreements between us soon melted away when began to discuss the marching clothing of the Queen's loyal servants. "The Institution has a had a long tradition of plain fabrics", Irene explained. "They are back in fashion now, but I felt they never fell out of fashion in the first place.The neat cut of the shirts and suits make our members look polished. The dapper white gloves project cleanliness, and the bowler hat makes the whole outfit very chic. The blazing orange sash makes a daring contrast." "As daring as William III's usurpation of the crown", I interjected playfully. Unfazed, she continued: "All you need do is add a skinny tie to complete the look. They're all the rage now, and they hark back to the good old days" [when Catholics didn't have full voting rights or equal access to secondary education]. 

"Would you like to try it on?", she asked me, taking me aback. I eagerly admitted that I would, and soon found myself dressed in the fine attire of an Orange Man. The feelings of stylish triumphalism were intoxicating, and I could soon see the appeal of accompanying large, loud drums down the streets where my (badly dressed) enemies live. As I was leaving, I felt a cheerful, more hopeful mood descent upon me. I considered sending a letter to the 'Institute' asking them to consider admissions from all races, creeds, sexes, and sexualities. I dreamed of a bright variegation of people clad in orange sashes, marching to a Lambeg drum and flute version of Vanessa Amorosi's 'Absolutely Everybody'. I told concerned members of staff I knew nothing about the cries of "give it to me, you sectarian, fundie psycho" heard fifteen minutes previously, and then scarpered out the door.

Irish History X, Vol. 3

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations looks back and tries to give a fair and balanced account of what happened before us.

The Great Famine

The Great Famine occurred in Ireland between 1845 and 1852. It was caused by a blight which wiped out much of the staple food of the majority of people in Ireland, the potato. Too poor to buy other types of food, hundred of thousands of people starved to death or died of diseases. About one million people emigrated, and Ireland's population sank by 20-25% over the course of a decade. Some, in a desperation comparable to being severely defeated by the soccer world champions, were forced to stoop to stealing Sir Charles Trevelyan's corn.
The blight occurred in other European countries, but Ireland was the only one to continue exporting food throughout the famine years. Leaders at the time justified this by asserting that Ireland's strength came through being an export economy. Citing statistics, they demonstrated how export figures had begun to climb again, and the resulting economic benefits would surely generate jobs and lift people out of poverty. 'Looking forward', they stated, 'this is the only plan guaranteed to get us back on track'. Even when this was translated into Irish, none of the peasants had the remotest idea what this actually meant.
Despite all the evidence of increased economic activity, the benefits were not felt in people's lives. Opponents of the policy objected to the necessity placed on Ireland, which needed food, to give food to those who had it in abundance. The leaders argued that poverty and starvation had damaged Ireland's reputation abroad, and we needed to continue exporting food in order to rebuild our good reputation.
Our aforementioned reputation, though often negative, varied from nation to nation. Prussian aristocrats, and the population at large — many of whom were unhappy with the support the German state was giving Ireland — held the impression that Ireland's woes were caused by the laziness and irresponsibility of its people, and we were the architects of our own destruction. The British made mocking comments about how adamantly we were pushing for independence, yet asked for assistance within a decade of Catholic Emancipation. Other European countries made similar assumptions, though many of them feared contagion. The potato blight was widespread in Europe, but other countries had closed their ports and kept their food within their boarders. It was feared that if Ireland closed its ports, there would be a crisis of confidence in food across Europe, which would adversity affect food distribution.
Some people suggested that the government introduce a scheme of food sharing, where wealthy aristocrats handed over some of their surplus. This was ignored, and the gentry open reviled such a scheme, reminding the peasants that they had worked hard to earn their surplus, and it was outrageous to suggest that the government would take it from them only to distribute it freely among those who hadn't earned it.
A break in the crisis finally came when the peasants began referring to government ministers as 'that shower' and demanded they be stripped of their entitlements. The outpouring of bile for government officials, and the frequent incantations of 'Táimid fucíocht, buachaillí ' and 'bhfuil an tír seo a shithailíocht' ¹ finally stemmed the tide of starvation and doom.

^{1. 'We're fucked, lads.' and 'This country's a shithole.'↩}