What a busy few weeks. It’s good to have a little time just to be at home.
We decided to go see The Hobbit movie. Last year about this time the lad started his first read through the book, and in the last year he’s read it through on his own three or four times, memorized some of the songs, and turned the book into a well-worn commonplace around the table, the living room, and his pillows and blankets.
We made it through a shade less than half the movie. It was the lad who wanted to leave. By the time the hippie Radaghast taking a toke from Gandalf’s pipe-weed came to abuse his confidence, he had had enough.
What a wasted opportunity! I won’t go into detailed criticism (in a word, it’s the same cheapness of the other movies, which even a six-year-old can sniff out), but as we were walking to the car, thus:
I: They sure added a lot. I thought if they were going to make nine hours worth of cinema they would include more from the book, but they just added a bunch of extraneous fight scenes. The songs were great—why did they cut 8 of the 10 verses?
LAD: Yeah, it was way different from the book. It had way more pictures. The movie was just…like…one big moving picture all the time.
You see, world? You’re wrong. Kids don’t want to become addicted to garbage entertainment any more than they want to become addicted to garbage food, and the diseases of the fast-food-fed children of the common have their reflections—and reactions—in the imaginations of the same poisoned generation.
And you think restricting access to one type of weapon will save you? When we train our children to cup their hands at violence and cruelty poured out from the source of culture?
But the historians of the longue durée are also wrong. Heroes exist and we need them.
Merry Christmas, dear reader, should you ever find me.