Why I hated The Hobbit movie

So, we went to see The Hobbit – ostensibly as my birthday ‘treat’. I stocked up on drinks, popcorn and sweets and stuffed them in my bag (cos, seriously, who can afford to pay the prices they charge at cinemas?)  And James and I got stuck in pretty much as soon as we sat down (oh, okay, before we even got to our seats) and Adrian got cross with all the rustling.  But, hey, you gotta rustle in the cinema, right?

I confess I was doubtful, even before it started.  As I said in my earlier post, I was never a huge fan of The Hobbit (no Aragorn, too many dwarves, etc etc) but the trailer had looked pretty awesome.  But then, I wondered, were they really, truly, honest to godly stretching it out into three parts – each three hours’ long?  Jesus, that’s nine hours’ of cinema for one pretty skinny book.  It seemed a bit unfair.  LOTR got that and it was – what? – seven times longer?

What can I say? I hated it.  In fact, I fell asleep and slept through the most part of it out of sheer disappointment.  Or maybe I was just terribly tired.  I don’t know.

And it got me thinking…why? Why did I dislike it so much?  I don’t read reviews but I know people have said it shouldn’t have been split into three parts, that it was over long and yes, absolutely.  It felt…stretched.  Every scene pulled and tugged until it nearly snapped. 

But it was more than that.  Somehow, it felt as if the very ‘ being’ of the book had been fundamentally changed, pulled out of alignment.  It felt…glossy.  Too glossy.  It felt…epic.  Too epic.  And sexy.  I mean, I seriously don’t remember cute, photogenic, shaggable dwarves in the book.

Be honest - was this how you saw Thorin?

It was like someone sat round the table in Hollywood or wherever, said, ‘Look, we haven’t got Aragorn or Boromir or Faramir or even Legolas, FFS, so what are we doing to do? Who’s gonna be the pin-up?’  Cos, let’s be honest, Bilbo and Gandalf aren’t lust material.  So someone came up with the idea of giving a few of the dwarves a glossy makeover. So they don't actually look like dwarves.  Kinda sad, huh?

Or Kili???

And, ahem, what was with the cutesy big-eyed hedgehog stuff?  That was total utter pure Disney.  Don't get me wrong - I like Disney but in its rightful place, and its rightful place is not, not, not in Tolkien. 

And then all the massive big action movie style moments – the giants slugging bits of mountain; the fights with goblins and wotnot.  In the book they were just – exciting things that happened.  But someone decided that wasn’t enough – they needed to be turned into something bigger, longer, wilder, madder.  It was like they were thinking, ‘Hey, how would this scene be in the game of the movie of the book?’ or ‘What about when it gets turned into a ride at Disney?’  And I guess that’s fine but it brings me onto my last thought…and the major one.

It simply wasn’t representative of the book.  It didn’t capture the ‘soul’ of the book, its essence.  The Hobbit is a small book – one with big adventures and a wide landscape for sure, but its major focus is small, a microcosm – it’s a one man (or hobbit) tale of how Bilbo leaves the safety of the Shire and goes out into the big world to discover…himself. 

And that is what gets lost almost entirely in this movie.  They’ve turned it into a generic action adventure film – it’s Die Hard with sexy dwarves instead of Bruce Willis and with added dragons, orcs and goblins (and, weirdly, a reanimated hedgehog).  And I figure that’s a shame. 

Will I be watching the next two tranches?  Unlikely. 

Now, next question?  If I felt that strongly about the movie of a book I wasn’t even that wild about, should I really go see Cloud Atlas and Life of Pi? 

Special K turn me into a billboard

New Year means diets, right?  Well, not for me (I don’t really believe in diets and I really don’t think that this is the best time of year to be launching into starvation mode anyhow) but I know a lot of you are doing the diet thing.  So, get this, apparently if you want to lose weight, you need to cut out the negative ‘fat talk.’

My old friends at Special K have found that women (in particular) are starting off with a mindset destined for failure, slating themselves as ‘fat’, ‘chubby’ or ‘heavy’.  Only a third of women actually start diets  believing they will lose weight and three-quarters of women have daily negative thoughts about their bodies.  Poor bodies. 

Life coach Janet Thomson, who specialises in weight loss, says: ‘What women don’t realise is that this sort of negativity can become a self fulfilling prophecy.’ Spot on, Janet!  Thought is creative.  Keep focusing on being fat and, lo and behold, your mind will instruct your body to do its level best to keep you fat.  Seriously, it’s mind-body interface 101.

So Special K are trying to encourage women to focus on positive feelings when losing weight – pinning down what they will gain, rather than what they will lose.  Sophie Colling from Special K says: ‘The message is clear, the key to weight loss success is having a positive attitude and cutting out the fat talk.’

And, to push home the message, they are inviting people to go and get a makeover at Westfield in London’s Shepherd’s Bush, to think about what you would like to gain if you had the body you’ve always wanted.

So there we were - ten of us bloggers sitting around on the plush red sofas and looking at the words surrounding us.  Freedom. Dazzle. Sparkle. Shine. Energy. Confidence. Oomph.

‘What do you want to gain?’ asked a woman with a clipboard. 

‘Umm.  Money?’ I said hopefully.  ‘A lot of money?’

She frowned slightly.  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have that on my list.’

‘How about wild success?  A publishing deal?  A Porsche 911? A cabin in the woods?’  She frowned.  ‘Ah, sorry,’ I said. ‘Am I aiming too high? How about a pair of Fly London knee-high boots? A big bag of Jo Malone?  A hair cut? A fringe?’

‘Sorry.’ She shook her head and I perused the list of acceptable words and the acceptable phraseology and got into a long debate about how most of them didn’t fit – grammatically speaking – into the format. 

‘I mean…’ I said.  ‘You can’t say ‘I want to gain sparkle’, can you?  And even if you could, you can’t go anywhere with it. I mean…I want to gain sparkle to what?’

‘You’re a writer, right?’ she said with a sigh.  I shrugged.  ‘Sorry.’

We finally decided that I wanted to gain the freedom to sparkle and shine. I felt a bit like an ad for glittery sanitary towels but never mind.  It was done.  She heaved a sigh of relief and handed me over to Nicoll who was going to fix my hair and makeup. 

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Whatever you like,’ I said.  ‘You’re the expert.’ Cos, really, what’s the point of telling someone who Knows What They’re Doing what to do? I don’t get that.

‘Right ho,’ said Nicoll. 

A whole flurry of hair spray and backcombing and straightening ensued (yes, more straightening) and when I looked in the mirror I seriously didn’t recognize myself. 

Then came the bit I’d conveniently forgotten about. 

‘Hi, I’m Joel Anderson.  I’ve photographed…’ and he rolled off a list of famous and beautiful people.

‘And now us?’ I piped up from the sofa. ‘What a come down, huh?’

He smiled vaguely with a little frown of confusion.  Anyhow, it was painless and swift, a bit like tooth extraction under general anaesthetic and I thought that was it.  Finished.  We were sitting around chatting and debating what would be the best thing for Jayne to eat at the Thai restaurant given she’d never eaten Thai before, and then up came a shriek. ‘OMG! Look! There’s Alice! Up there!’

Holy shit.  Our pics had been turned into adverts and were being beamed onto those huge shifting billboards.  The girls looked amazing – one and all – absolutely stunning.  Dazzle and sparkle and shine and oomph indeed. 

But it was odd.  I could see it was me but it didn’t look or feel like me.  Not remotely.  Maybe I need to grow into the new sparkly shiny me, eh? 

NOTE:  Today, Monday January 7^th , has been designated as “Gains Day” and Special K are asking women to share their positive feelings on twitter at #IWantToGain and also at www.myspecialk.co.uk – the idea being it will help you focus on the positives and achieve your slimming goals. Go for it! 

Lovely Nicoll usually specialises in makeup and hair for weddings - do check out her website.  www.bynicoll.com 

In which the teens shrink my skull and give me instant Botox and...a ridge?

I’ve had two makeovers in almost as many days.  I’m beginning to forget what I look like normally. 

Oh yes...a bit like this...

First up, Rachel and the teens took me in hand.  They stuffed my hair in a streaking cap and yanked bits of it out with a crochet hook. 

‘Is that okay?’ said Rachel.  ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Course not,’ I said. ‘It’s absolutely fine. I have a very high pain threshold. ‘

And it was fine – for the first five minutes.  Then the cap started pressing in on my scalp.

‘Ow,’ I said plaintively.

‘Don’t be a wimp,’ said Rachel.  ‘We’re almost done with the yanking.’

‘It’s not the yanking,’ I said. ‘It’s the bloody cap. Is it a child size or something? It’s compressing my scalp.’

‘Ah.’ It transpired that it belonged to Rachel’s mother and Rachel’s mother has a very small head.  I, on the other hand (head?) have a large one (head).  And a hell of a lot of hair.

‘Ow ow.’ I moaned quietly.

‘Shut up!’ chorused Rachel, R (15) and H (13).  My godson (7) frowned a little and went back to writing his horror story.  Charlie peered over his laptop and rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t know why you women put yourselves through all this,’ he said in that irritatingly superior way men affect when talking about women’s beauty rituals.

I wasn’t entirely sure either at this point.  It had seemed like such a good idea.  Now it just hurt. 

‘Ow, ow, ow.’

‘Get a grip!’

 ‘Oooh, it’s going orange,’ said R. 

‘Great. Time to take it off, huh?’

‘Oooh no.  It needs to go really really blonde.’

And then they all just upped and left me. 

‘Er, excuse me,’ I said, having plundered their DVD library and made myself a cup of tea and whimpered a bit more.  ‘What kind of salon do you call this?  You can’t just wander off and leave your clients mid-agony with one vast wet dog and two ninja fighting cats for company.’

‘Oh sorry, ‘ said Rachel. ‘Where are you going on holiday this year?’

I glared at her and she shrugged.  ‘Okay, that was below the belt.’

And so it went on.  They finally deemed it was ‘cooked’ and took off the cap.

‘Bloody hell,’ said R, a look of wonder on her face.  ‘It really was tight.’

‘It’s sort of given you instant Botox,’ said Rachel, peering.

‘Well, that’s okay, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Well, yes…except for the bit where it’s given you a big ridge over your eyebrows.’

Great. 

So they washed it off, stuck on what they said was ‘copper’ and let that do its thing. Then washed that off and chucked in ‘lowlights’ (bright red).  And then washed it again and conditioned it.  No wonder I don’t do this hair malarkey – it takes way too long.  I could have written a novella in the time it all took.

‘You do condition your hair, don’t you?’ said R, fixing me with the beady look of a school teacher.

I shook my head. 

‘No wonder it’s a wild frizz.’

What could I say?  Guilty as charged.

Then they sprayed it with something or other and then R got out the hairdryer and started beating me round the head with it. And then out came the straighteners.

‘Your parting’s in the wrong place,’ said R, yanking it over to one side.  ‘Ah, that’s better. Now you just need a fringe.’

‘I do?’

‘Absolutely. And I absolutely know how to do it. I’ve watched people do this.  You just…’

‘No.’  Rachel  gave her The Look. 

‘But…’

‘No.’

‘No?’ (me)

‘Absolutely not.’ (Rachel)

‘But…’

‘No buts. We have maimed Jane’s head. That’s enough.’

So she did my nails instead, with some kind of clever magnetic thing that made them look like blue snakeskin. 

sort of like this...

And I drove off, absolutely hours later, with hair about four inches longer than I’d gone in with (when did it get so long?), wild slapper nails and the remains of a compression headache.  But really, it was very good fun indeed. And my hair is very very shiny.

Except... no way is that copper.  J

 And yeah...I know.  But really it DOES look different.  A bit.  

All good things are wild and free

So, I sat by the fire and read The Snow Child.  It had been nudging me for quite some time, unsurprising really, given the cabin in the woods and the snow thing that’s been going on for the last few months.

It’s rather lovely - a deceptively simple tale of a couple trying to forge a life in the harsh Alaskan wilderness. Their one child was stillborn and now they are too old to have children of their own.  One day they build a child out of snow and give it mittens and a scarf.  The next day the clothes have gone and the snow girl has also vanished.  And then a child appears.

Is she real?  Is she a creature of snow and ice?  There is a blissful ambiguity about the book; it is never entirely pinned down.  And yet the characters in the book try to pin down the girl, they try to tame her, to domesticate her, to pull her into their ordered world.  They know, they are sure, they are certain, what should be done, how she should be.  They try to help her out of love and caring but their control suffocates her; it is anathema to her, it is death.   You can never tame a wild thing, nor should you try. 

And it got me thinking along a pathway that I often think, when I think.  That some things, many things, are ruined if you try to pin them down.  That it is a mistake, particularly when it comes to things of the heart and soul, to seek to trap and bind and trammel and dictate.  But it is hard.  We humans love to impose our will – on everything and everyone.  We like certainty; we like to know what’s what. 

Ah but then, oh then, maybe the mystery, the beauty, the wildness is lost.  For some things, many things, should  not be pinned down; they should be left to breathe, to live their own life; to do their own thing.  To be wild and free.  When the wild flower is picked it wilts and dies. When the wild animal is brought in from the forest its eyes go dull, the fire leaves its belly.   And, truly, we cannot ever own anything, not really.  We can make contracts, we can sign papers, we can put our signatures to documents; or we can bind by ties and strings and snares of emotion - of love and hate and fear and guilt and duty.  But nothing is ever really ours.  Everything changes, everything is ultimately ephemeral. 

They say that if you truly love something you should let it go.  Or rather allow it the freedom to come and go as it pleases. Yet we cling, how we cling. 

Sorry.  Just thoughts floating round my mind like a flurry of snow. 

The cabin in the woods

Carol Oberg Riley

Sometimes the soul speaks in images or music or metaphors.  There is no rhyme or reason, there is no logic.  The picture or the sound just tugs and pulls and whistles, and you trip trap after it into the forest, or away and up the track, apart from everything known. You follow its footsteps in the snow, stumbling blind.

Snow.  How strange, how very strange that I, who feel the cold so fiercely, am so entranced by snow.

Not tame snow. Not back garden snow. Not snowman snow. Wilderness. Vastness. Emptiness. Deserts of snow. 

And, somewhere, hidden in the forest, by the flanks of mountains, by a fast-running river frozen to ice atop, while below the water slows its heartbeat, there is a cabin. A glowing.  Simple. Plain. Snug. Fire. A log pile. An axe. Furs. Candlelight. 

It’s not real.  It’s very real.  It’s nothing.  It’s everything. 

Hibernation and teenage makeovers

The SP and I have hibernated.  We have been going to bed earlier and earlier each night and getting up later and later.  We lie, side by side, like medieval effigies, under two duvets, and occasionally an extra blanket.  Outside the rain falls steadily and inside, well, the rain falls steadily too.  What do we do, the SP and I?  Well, I can’t speak for the SP but I just lie there, not exactly thinking.  Not exactly meditating. Sort of freeform musing really.  Vagueing.  Suspended animation.  I’m not depressed; not sad even. Just… hibernating.  On ice. 

Eventually, of course, I have to get up and do what needs to be done.  And then, when that's sorted, the SP and I snuggle up on the sofa in my office, swathed in blankets, with the possible addition of a hot water bottle. Occasionally (see pic) Asbo joins us. I try to write but it’s kinda tough when there’s a small pseudo beagle on one’s lap.  And then, as soon as it can be justified, I light a fire in the Oak Room and we transfer operations to there. I’ve pulled the armchair that usually sits in the window to the fire (my arse was getting numb on the stone bench in the inglenook).  And the SP looks expectantly and, as soon as I’m ensconced, he jumps on my lap and we settle down to watch the flames.  At some point James will wander in and then we’ll all curl up on the sofa instead, under a blanket, and watch crap movies.  Or, occasionally, a good movie. 

Am I reading? Not much. Am I listening to music? Not much.  There’s just the soundtrack of my head and the soft whup whup of the flames. 

But it will have to end.  Much as one may think nothing changes, it does, drip by drip.  And I will have to wake up and rejoin the world.  And then I suppose I really ought to get my act together and try to make myself look vaguely presentable.  At some point over Christmas we went over to see my friend Rachel and her family for lunch.  It was lovely; it always is.  My godson was his usual edible self and his sisters begged me to be their quasi godmother and I said I’d think about it, because being a godmother is an expensive business (cash-wise, not soul-wise). And they made me laugh a lot and I admired their hair and nails and stuff, the way you do, and they said, ‘Hey, we could do your hair and nails.’ And their mother looked slightly alarmed but I said, ‘Cool.’ 

‘We could give you blue streaks,’ said R (15).

‘No,’ said Rachel. 

‘Maroon?’ said R.

'We're good at dipping,' said H (13).

'What about ombre?' I said. 

I think they have this in mind. :-)

'Oh God,' said Rachel.

'We haven't done ombre before,' said R.

‘Whatever,’ I said.  ‘I’ve got to go to London soon for some filming thing – you could give me a makeover. I’m in your hands.’

Rachel’s mouth formed a perfect O of horror.

‘Maroon then, and copper, and maybe a bit of blue and…oooh, and crackle glaze for the nails.  And we could do a face pack – those 99p chocolate ones.’

Rachel shook her head violently from side to side, mouthing urgently at me..

H picked up a clump of my hair (now cascading alarmingly down past my shoulders).  ‘It could do with a cut.’

‘Go for it,’ I said.

Rachel quietly and repeatedly banged her head on the table. 

If Christmas suddenly blindsides you...

Funny how one thing can set up a chain reaction of emotions, eh?  This afternoon I was looking through old photos, trying to find the worst of the worst for the post before.  And I kept stumbling over the past, tripping over memories, falling headlong into old emotions and thoughts.  Christmasses past.  People no longer here. 

And then I was talking to someone who is spending Christmas in hospital, with his mother who is dying.  And it got me thinking back to four Christmasses ago, when my own mum was dying in hospital.  And then James yelled at me that The Snowman and the Snowdog was coming on TV any minute.  And so I went through and I said to him, ‘Is this really a wise idea?  Let’s face it; I cried my eyes out when we watched the trailer.’  And he said, ‘It’ll be fine, Mum.’

But pretty much two seconds into it, I started crying and, let’s be very honest here, I haven’t stopped since.  Which is ridiculous, cos I always thought the original was well schmaltzy. 

But hey...I guess I was looking for an excuse cos crying is a release, isn’t it?  Like laughing.  And I’ve been grinning so damn hard lately that my jaw is seriously aching from the effort. 

So. There you go.  And really, it’s fine.  Of course it’s fine.  It’s just life.  Sometimes you stop pushing everything away and…wallow.  Just for a bit.

And I guess I’m saying that it’s very easy to watch everyone having a fantastic time, or what you perceive to be a fantastic time, and somehow feel a bit…rubbish…if you’re not all Deck the Halls and Fa-la-la-la-la.

But it’s okay.  It’s okay to feel a bit rubbish at Christmas.  Nobody can tell you how to feel.  Not nobody.  J

Just…if you’re moaning about family or obligations or whatever…just maybe…you know?  Or not.  J

Me?  I’m fine.  How could I not be?   I’m going to finish off the bottle of Cointreau and take myself off to Midnight Mass.  Alone?  Sure.  My family don’t go in for that kind of malarkey.  And that’s equally cool.

So. My love and blessings to all of you, readers dear…at this strange and special time.  Whatever your belief, or lack of belief…  

Just…all my love.  xxx

NOTE

PS - if you're not fine...and, who knows, some person reading this might not be remotely fine... my online pal, Kellie (@BigFashionista) asked people to post up her list of helpline numbers.  So...here it is. Just in case. 

MIND
www.mind.org.uk
0300 123 3393

Samaritans
www.samaritans.org
08457 90 90 90

Alcoholics Anonymous
www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk/newcomers
0845 769 7555

Stonewall
www.stonewall.org.uk
Info line 08000 50 20 20 

London Lesbian and Gay Switchboard
0207 837 7324

SANELine
www.sane.org.uk
0845 767 8000

Preventing young suicide
www.papyrus-uk.org 

For people in Northern Ireland
www.lifeline.info
0808 808 8000

Childline
www.childline.org.uk 
0800 1111

Depressionalliance
www.depressionalliance.org

Refuge
www.refuge.org.uk
0808 2000 247

Eating Disorders Association
www.edauk.com 
0845 634 1414

Shelter
www.shelter.org.uk
0808 800 4444

NHS Direct
www.nhsdirect.nhs.uk 
0845 4647

No Panic
www.no-panic.co.uk
0808 808 0545

Cruse Bereavement Care
www.crusebereavementcare.org.uk