I was in second grade when I read The Hobbit for the first time. Since my previous literary jaunts had consisted of the Magic Tree House series and some bland stories about children playing baseball, The Hobbit was more of a revelation than a good children's book. My first copy was a ragged paperback with a cover of the Company in the eyrie of the Great Eagles. The stubby little book was an epiphany. Nothing was more thrilling than Bilbo taunting oversized arachnids in the forests of Mirkwood or Gandalf outwitting a trio of trolls, and my seven-year-old mind had dimly realized that this is what writing was about. I quoted Tolkien's opening passage in a subsequent book report, something that had never crossed my mind to do before because nothing before had ever been worth quoting. The Hobbit was my true introduction to reading and writing, one that I will not forget.
Not long after finishing The Hobbit my dad took it upon himself to read me The Lord of the Rings, a decision which is probably looked back upon by him with a twinge of regret, because all I would do for the next four years of my life was pepper him with questions about Tolkien's lore, inconveniently not reading The Silmarillion until sixth or seventh grade. I have read a lot of Tolkien, from his Unfinished Tales to Smith of Wootton Major. The Hobbit remains my absolute favorite, a book that I have read at least thirty (yes thirty, I had a lot of free time and evidently no sense of repetiveness as a little kid) times, and I did not wish to see it demolished on screen, even though I knew the project was in the hands of the steady Peter Jackson. Early reviews of the film did not inject me with confidence, and I walked into the theatre with two friends, nervous but optimistic.
It was great. Not great compared to the LOTR films and not really an outstanding standalone film, but it was one that made me see the scenes I had previously only pictured in my mind, and I could not ask for anything more. Sure, the damn thing was at least 45 minutes too long, and yeah, the plot had been fiddled with quite a bit, but images would flash across that beautiful New Zealand landscape and I could only be grateful. Usually, reading books incurs mental pictures of the action, setting, etc. Now I was seeing my childhood book on screen and these pictures were hitting me with lines of remembered text. I can't say that it was a special movie for everybody, but it was for me.
*Note-From here on out it is especially helpful if you have seen the movie and read the book, otherwise you may find some references confusing.
Now for the griping, which is inevitable and probably not enjoyed by anyone, but since I found the movie far from perfect, gripes must be had. The introductory segment of Bilbo's house and visiting dwarves is a handful of pages in the book and it feels screechingly long in the movie. Radagast the Brown seemed like an unwieldy character, one that was not needed to bring up the Necromancer, as in the book Gandalf mentions that he found Thrain crazed in the prisons of Dul Guldur, the stronghold of the Necromancer. Azog worked, but that didn't mean I had to like his insertion into the story, and I would have preferred if the malicious plot-pushing orc was Bolg instead. Complaints aside, this movie accomplished what is really important, which is presenting a beloved children's book in a well-done film that captures the essence of Tolkien's storytelling and imagery. Though I have grown from hobbit-sized child to ungainly man, my love for this fantastic story remains undiminished, and I can only offer thanks to the people who made the movie and in turn made me back into a second-grader again, if only for a little while.
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