Three stars. Rated PG-13, for war violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 5.10.19
Aside from outliers such as Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King, most writers lead rather ordinary lives.
And what they do — crafting humble words into mesmerizing stories, generally in isolation — is hardly the stuff of engaging cinema.
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| Surrounded by the notes and illutrations that he feverishly sketches while playfully creating entirely new languages, John Tolkien (Nicholas Hoult) nonetheless cannot shake the feeling of not really belonging in his highbrow Oxford surroundings. |
That said, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien’s back-story is more provocative than most.
Director Dome Karukoski’s Tolkien hits the myriad heartbreaking high points of Tolkien’s youth and young adulthood, and star Nicholas Hoult persuasively conveys the curiosity, intelligence, facility with languages, and almost magical gift for storytelling that later would inform his literary career.
David Gleeson and Stephen Beresford’s sensitive script clearly is well-intentioned, and Karukoski’s touch is sincere.
And yet…
The pace is dreadfully slow, and the decision to employ Tolkien’s horrific World War I experiences as a framing device is questionable, to say the least. We’re apparently expected to recognize that this is the devastating Battle of the Somme; context for this portion of the film is utterly absent. Every so often, Karukoski drags us back for another grim interlude, as Tolkien wanders through the body-strewn trenches in a daze, under the watchful gaze of a young private (Craig Roberts) who worries that his companion is about to drop dead.
The apparent point of these sequences is that the disoriented Tolkien — suffering from an acute case of debilitating trench fever — hallucinates the battle carnage into symbolic smoke- and shadow-laden warriors and monsters that later will inform the mythic creatures he concocts for The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.
Well … no.
It’s a clumsy, contrived device that simply becomes tedious as the film proceeds. It’s also superfluous; we’ve already seen that young Tolkien was inspired by his mother, Mabel (Laura Donnelly), who — as a means of distracting her two young sons from their “impecunious” existence — excels at spinning fantastical narrative adventures with the aid of a slowly spinning shadow lamp festooned with magical patterns. This sequence is far more magical — and persuasively credible — than the repeated bounces back to the trenches.
By this point, young John (played by Harry Gilby, during the first act) — born in South Africa and then, at age 3, brought with his younger brother Hilary and mother to visit her family in England — already has lost his father, who died of rheumatic fever before he could join them. Now stuck in England with no income, Mabel has relied on the kindness of family and the Catholic Church, while moving her sons as necessity and meager opportunity dictate.
She, too, is not long for this world; John and his brother return home one day to find that she has simply expired. (Again, this film maddeningly offers no details. Mabel died of acute diabetes at the age of 34, decades prior to the discovery of insulin.) Fully aware of her illness, Mabel had assigned guardianship of her sons to Father Francis Xavier Morgan (Colm Meaney); he, in turn, arranges for the boys to attend King Edward’s School in Birmingham, and secures lodging for them at a boarding house run by the mildly imperious Mrs. Faulkner (Pam Ferris).
Gleeson and Beresford wisely devote the bulk of what follows to the two sets of relationships that clearly do inform Tolkien’s artistic development. At King Edwards, the shy young boy — deeply self-conscious about his poor circumstances, amid so many privileged peers — is befriended by Rob Gilson (Albie Marber), Geoffrey Bache Smith (Adam Bregman) and Christopher Wiseman (Ty Tennant). The four become inseparable, forming an arts-oriented “secret fellowship” — hint, hint — that they dub the Tea Club and Barrovian Society (TCBS), after their habit of taking tea at the Barrow’s Store near the school.
These rowdy, rambunctious gatherings are warm and delightful, the boys ambitiously debating issues far beyond their years, with the enthusiasm of kindred spirits not yet dimmed by the grim world outside their cozy tea nook. All four young actors are endearingly high-spirited, and the group dynamic feels authentic; more crucially, it encourages John to emerge from his self-protective shell.
Back at the boarding house, John also becomes entranced by the lone female tenant: Edith Bratt (Mimi Keene), three years his senior, and studying to become a concert pianist. They become inseparable, albeit clandestinely; neither Father Francis nor Mrs. Faulkner would approve of such liaisons.
Several years pass in an eye blink, by which point John (now Hoult) and Edith (Lily Collins) have fallen in love. But she also has become something of a muse: a free spirit occasionally granted a silhouetted, almost other-worldly radiance by cinematographer Lasse Frank Johannessen.
One of their most touching moments comes during high tea at some fancy establishment, when Edith insists that John define a word that he has just fabricated — pronounced selador — by assigning it the context of a story. He does so, haltingly, and quite endearingly, while she baits him with amused devotion.
But here’s the thing: Karukoski dilutes the power of this sequence by cutting back and forth between extreme close-ups of the two actors. Hoult says something — cut — Collins reacts — cut — Hoult adds another sentence — cut — Collins reacts. It’s almost like they’re not even in the same room; at no time do we get a far more satisfying two-shot, which would allow us to observe the warmth of Edith’s evolving response to each syllable that emerges hesitantly from John’s mouth.
This is typical of Karukoski’s touch throughout; he simply doesn’t connect with this material. He doesn’t have the feel for it.
Time passes; the members of the TCBS — now played by Patrick Gibson (Gilson), Anthony Boyle (Smith) and Tom Glynn-Carney (Wiseman) — have, along with John, moved on to Oxford and Cambridge. A few fresh narrative setbacks intrude; we know that, eventually, the story will catch up with its framing device.
Derek Jacobi pops up in the third act, as Oxford’s Prof. Joseph Wright, a celebrated philologist who also plays an important role in Tolkien’s eventual career. Jacobi is every inch the alert and inquisitive academic, instinctively attuned to a young scholar who — although visibly uncomfortable in this rarefied university environment — has a rather fascinating facility for language.
Meaney makes Father Francis firm but caring: a protector who takes his responsibility quite seriously. (And goodness, but John and Hilary were lucky to have him in their corner.) Owen Teale is appropriately imperious as King Edwards’ headmaster, who also happens to be Robert Gilson’s father, and very disapproving of his son’s desire to become a painter.
Collins’ Edith often seems amused, as though privy to some delightful secret she’s not quite willing to share. But she’s equally sensitive to John’s shy awkwardness, encouraging him with mischievous laughter that’s always supportive, and never at his expense. That said, there’s no question that Collins has been directed to make Edith somewhat larger than life: something of an iconic ideal for the elven princesses Tolkien eventually would concoct.
But the film belongs to Hoult, who layers his performance with deep angst and endearing explosions of giddy intellectual passion.
Alas, as a final indication of this film’s clumsiness, an abrupt epilog jumps another 15 (?) years, to the moment when Tolkien sits at a desk and — with immaculately precise penmanship — scripts the iconic opening sentence: “In a hole in the ground … there lived a hobbit.” Longtime fans can’t help feeling a chill of anticipation, but Karukoski hasn’t done enough to earn the triumphant frisson that this moment truly deserves.
JRR Tolkien’s family and estate have made a point of distancing themselves from this film, with which they had no involvement. I’m not surprised; good intentions notwithstanding, Karukoski’s effort simply isn’t very satisfying.
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