“As I lay in prison, Sam, I tried to remember the Brandywine, and Woody End, and The Water running through the mill at Hobbiton. But I can’t see them now.”
By Simona Zaunius
Elijah Wood as Frodo Baggins in The Return of the King (2003) / photo: New Line Cinema
The Lord of the Rings was often touted as “impossible to adapt”, so for Peter Jackson’s films to be so universally loved is no small feat. It’s not difficult to see why; they are technically impressive, visually stunning, emotional pictures that are pretty much firing on all cylinders. They’ve cemented a place in cinematic history and in countless household traditions (even becoming a holiday must-watch!). I was about 10 when my parents decided to indoctrinate me into the world of Middle Earth by showing me all three movies. I was enamored, and as the credits rolled, resolved to try to read the novels. Emphasis on try – which I did, about four times before I was able to get through all six volumes. When I finally reached the end of Return of the King’s appendices last year, my life had been profoundly changed. I thought I’d known The Lord of the Rings. But Peter Jackson’s films fail to capture Frodo Baggins’s deep personal struggle, and as a result, the intense despair and humanity at the heart of the story.
Frodo, the ring bearer, is the protagonist in the films only by name. The films instead strive for equal screen time between the members of the dynamic and varied Fellowship. Character work is not Tolkein’s strong suit; One of the strong points of the adaptations is how flat characters on the page (particularly Legolas and Gimli) come to life on screen, bolstered by incredible chemistry between the actors. Aragorn even blooms into an iconic protagonist in his own right! The world that enchanted readers on page comes to life on screen as Merry and Pippin lead the Ents to destroy Isengard, as Aragorn leads an army of dead kings into battle. For the most part, The Lord of the Rings lends itself particularly well to film adaptation because its characters don’t experience complex internal journeys – except for Frodo. In the novels, Frodo stands out as the primary character in which we get a sense of internal struggle, of mixed motivations, of change. While characters such as Pippin and Sam take on the POV mantle at times, the focus is consistently on our leading man. Portraying Frodo’s complex internal journey on screen proved to be a difficult task for The Lord of the Rings.
From the moment Frodo puts the chain with The Ring around his neck in the novels, we feel his burden along with him. As we read, we feel the burden grow, feel it impact everything he does, feel the eventual despair along with him. The eternal struggle of any book to film adaptation is turning pages of intricately written prose into scenes relying heavily on the visual. How can a look from Elijah Wood, talent that he is, convey pages of Frodo’s thoughts?
I recently, out of boredom, pressed play on Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ, adapted from Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel. Willem Dafoe’s Jesus writhes on the ground as he experiences horrible visions which only he can see. When he began to engage in dialogue with Judas, I had to stop the movie. The dialogue was so prosaic and beautiful, I could only imagine what had been left unsaid as a result of the visual medium. Something told me that this story was worth reading, not watching. Imagine my surprise when I opened my grandfather’s copy of Kazantzakis’s The Last Temptation of Christ to be met with a dream sequence, one which I could see as clearly as Jesus. A fiery red haired man ascending mountains with a group of barbarians, addressing me and Jesus alike, yelling,“We’re coming for you”. The next five hundred pages were a blending of visions, of dreams, of reality; they were painfully human, captivating, even world changing. Jesus pleads to an unresponsive God in his head, he struggles with lust for Magdalene, he attempts to make sense of visions he cannot comprehend. As much as Dafoe and Scorsese try, the impact of Jesus’ journey is so reliant on being inside his head that it cannot be portrayed onscreen. Both The Last Temptation of Christ and The Lord of the Rings, though excellent from a filmmaking standpoint, are ultimately unable to portray the internal journey of their characters by virtue of being films.
Frodo is The Lord of the Rings’ own Christ figure, constantly reckoning with sacrificing himself for a world he will never be able to enjoy. In the novels, Frodo is Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, trying not to collapse. In the films, the constant heaviness in Frodo is replaced with corruption. Film Frodo constantly struggles to not give in to the evil presence in the Ring. Frodo twitches, he glares, he’ll have an outburst at Sam; all easy things to portray on screen. The Ring is a devil around his neck, constantly whispering to him to betray his friends, to trust no one. It’s a distinct departure from the tone of the book. The films even go so far as to dispel the despair that colors Frodo’s journey. Return of the King has a few instances in which one hobbit will bring up the fact that they “might not make it back”, only to be quelled immediately by the other. A sweet rendition of “Concerning Hobbits” plays in the background. Though book Frodo deals with the lack of hope in the darkest of places, the film makes sure to never quite let it get to that point. For film Frodo and Sam, there’s always hope.
Frodo glares distrustfully at Sam in the Return of the King / photo: New Line Cinemas
For film Gollum? Not much at all. The tonal change of Frodo’s journey, from one of hopelessness and heaviness to one of fear and corruption, eliminates one of the most interesting relationships in the book; that between Frodo and Gollum. They are bound, irrevocably, as a result of The Eye. In the films, the Eye must be given a face, so to speak. A physical, fiery Eye of Sauron can be seen atop its menacing tower for miles. In the novels, The Eye only appears to the Ringbearer, and as such has only tormented Frodo and Gollum. Frodo’s relationship with Gollum is one borne out of pity, yes, out of need, yes, but also out of understanding. Though discouraged by Sam every step of the way, his kindness and empathy move Gollum in the direction of rehabilitation.
“Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over his lean hungry face... For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, and old starved pitiable thing.” — The Lord of the Rings book 4
Frodo’s compassion to Gollum, as well as stemming from genuine kindness, is a desperate attempt to avoid his own fate. If he can help this thing so seemingly beyond repair, he will be able to save himself. Gollum is Frodo’s hope. But the films opt for an antagonistic relationship with Gollum; Sam as the angel on Frodo’s shoulder and Gollum as the devil. Gollum even convinces Frodo to betray Sam. In the films Sam hates Gollum, and Frodo is blind to Gollum’s evil. In the books, Sam is the blind one – to Frodo’s connection and deep empathy for Gollum. When film Gollum perishes in the fires of Mount Doom, we feel relief. But in the books, it’s haunting. Gollum was never able to escape the Ring. And we know Frodo won’t either.
Sam, Frodo, and Gollum in the Two Towers (2002) / photo: New Line Cinemas
The Lord of the Rings films, in changing character dynamics and narrative events to provide a more engaging visual story, cannot properly convey the internal suffering of its main character. Sam and Frodo’s painful crawl through Mordor could be argued as unnecessary in a movie that already has so much Battle to show. But gone with that drudgery and struggle is the very effect it has on Frodo, Sam, and us as viewers. How does one consciously decide to omit the sadness of Sam and Frodo leaving more and more of their belongings behind as they walk further into Mordor knowing they won’t be coming back? Or the Ring robbing Frodo of not just his physical strength, but of his memory?
“‘Do you remember that bit of rabbit, Mr Frodo?’ He said. ‘And our place under the warm bank in Captain Faramir’s country, the day I saw an oliphaunt?’
‘No, I am afraid not, Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘At least, I know that such things happened, but I cannot see them. No taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower, no image of moon or star are left to me. I am naked in the dark, Sam, and there is no vale between me and the wheel of fire. I begin to see it even with my waking eyes, and all else fades.’” — The Lord of the Rings book 6
2003’s Return of the King opts for a triumphant, if bittersweet, finish. Frodo’s farewell is glazed in yellow light as he says his goodbyes, the music swells; one is witnessing the departure of a hero who has been bestowed a great honor. In the novels, Frodo goes out with but a murmur. When Frodo returns to the Shire, it is empty of any comfort. “I am wounded…wounded; it will never really heal,” he reflects. Frodo crosses the Great Sea because it’s too painful to continue to exist after what’s been done to him. And so ends his tragedy.
Frodo is the bleeding heart of Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings, in all his despair and suffering. The Lord of the Rings films, having to portray a visually engaging narrative, warp his story into something that grows to be unrecognizable. Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings are undoubtedly iconic pieces of cinematic history, and I will never say no to a viewing. In the same breath, however, I cannot forgive them. When Frodo returns to the Shire in the last volume of the book, “Few people knew or wanted to know about his deeds and adventures…”, hailing instead war heroes Merry and Pippin. In the Shire, and Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings, what is remembered is the battles, the magic, the grandeur; not one small hobbit’s immense, unimaginable sacrifice.
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