The ongoing series of writers paying tribute to their easiest rewatches continues with an arduous yet immensely satisfying journey
W
hen the autumn mists descend and the trees turn from leafy green to russet brown, some people defrost the Gilmore Girls: I defrost Gimli son of Glóin (and the lads). The world needs saving again and I know just the nine capable sets of hands – well, eight if you discount a fool of a Took – to get it done.
I have a friend who is loth to watch The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring because she feels bad about setting those noble hobbits off on their journey to Mordor again, knowing the peril and horrors that lie ahead of them. Not me. I love to send them off on their quest two, maybe three times a year, and I rarely let them finish it: not because I yearn for the suffering of tiny little guys, but because I put my own comfort above them. With all due respect to mists and mellow fruitfulness, Fellowship is autumn to me: as cosy and comforting as snuggling into a blanket with a hot chocolate.
Most people I know agree that Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy is as close as we will ever get to cinematic perfection. Even on the small screen, the sweeping grandeur of the scenery is breathtaking and the emotional undercurrent that drives every scene pulls you out of your living room and into Middle-Earth. But no one can quite agree on which of the three is the best. Every man I’ve ever been on a date with has put forth passionate arguments for The Two Towers supremacy based mainly on the Battle of Helm’s Deep. My most sensitive friends like Return of the King and the general concept of narrative closure. But I personally don’t think you can beat Fellowship: a bunch of new pals getting together and agreeing to Do the Good and Noble Thing is as close as you can get to a utopian society in my opinion, even if I only ever let them get a third of the way through the mission.
