Dear Peter Jackson, kindly head forth and fuck yourself one more time, please.
Oddly enough, I lost the battle of the five Stupskis a few weeks ago, and found myself staring at the screen in utter disbelief for three hours, once again, trying to figure out just how you managed to turn the shortest book in a series into the longest trilogy of all time. Seriously, WTF??!!
At least there was popcorn. And the soothing sounds of the morbidly obese couple to my right struggling to force both oxygen AND nachos past their strained thoracic diaphragms in one shot, creating a subtle (yet soothing and nearly hypnotic) low, whistling-meets-gurgling cacophony that grew to nearly orchestral in arrangement at one point. It was a magical journey, and I soon found myself imagining that I was shrunk down, all Fantastic Voyage -like (OK, the mental picture was a lot more Dennis Quaid in Innerspace, but humor me), riding one of the chips on a sea of cheese and other things, to discover that the guy’s stomach was probably like that of a shark, containing boots, a sofa, and perhaps a tire or two, judging by the bouquet emitted as he belched, yet I digress.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s something to be said for stretching the living shit out of a story… but damn, man, you really took some liberties. It opens the door for others to do likewise, which is fantastic news for those of us waiting patiently to see Stanley Kubrick’s eleven-part adaptation of Judy Blume’s immortal work Superfudge. I can hardly wait for the part about Superman and the Transformers as they battle on Endor. Oh, that wasn’t in the book? Who gives a flying fuck? It’ll sure as shit be in the second part. Why not?
I’d imagine that the first creative direction meetings would go a lot like this:
“Hey, this book is only 190 pages long. It barely warrants a shitty animated version that we can stretch to 45 minutes.”
“We can add a battle scene. And a sub-plot about two characters you could give a shit about falling in love. A lot like ‘Titanic’, but this ship will sink a lot slower. We’ll have Oprah reprise her role as that sun-burned, obese meth addict that crashes though walls.”
“I think you’ll find that Rosie O’Donnell played the Kool Aid pitcher.”
“Good call. If she’s unavailable, we can just get the fat kid from Superbad, and deepen his voice in post.”
“Are there any parts that we can market to theme parks as a ride?”
“I’ll whip-up something that can work as a log flume or roller coaster, but using a shopping cart.”
If you haven’t yet seen this third-in-a-trilogy of time wasting, by all means, bring closure, and sit idly by as your brain is turned to goo through poor dialogue and phoned-in-at-best acting. The visuals are great, for the most part, but again, did we need THREE MOVIES, reaching nearly EIGHT HOURS (7.9, to be exact) ?! No… no we did not. Eliminate the second movie entirely, squeeze in the attack on the town and subsequent death of the fucking dragon to the first three minutes of the third helping of Hobbit droppings, and presto! I save $8.50 a head and three hours. Or, if you’re going to elaborate and make shit up, present me with some mystery, something to take home and ruminate over. Let my brain work as it was designed… not be lulled into near slumber with the fat guy next to me.
And THAT FACT ALONE would have brought me back to see another Jackson film. Instead, well, I believe it’s time for Peter and his dragon to piss off. I may forgive my clan for involving me in having seen this slop, but rest assured, on my death bed, my final words will be “…and I hated those movies. You know that, right? Oh yeah… ‘Rosebud.’”