There’s a moment in The Hobbit 3 that I’m going to spoil for you, because nothing else that happens in The Hobbit 3 really matters.
It’s a moment of crisis for Thorin Oakenshield. “Who is Thorin Oakenshield?” is something you might be asking, even if you’ve seen the first two Hobbit movies. It’s hard to keep track of names in these Hobbit movies, even though half the dialogue is just people saying names.
Which is strange. Because when Jackson and co-writers Philippa Boyens and Fran Walsh adapted The Lord of the Rings, they found a way to sharpen J.R.R. Tolkien’s dense prose into thrill-drunk poetry. One thinks of Tolkien in fussy terms. The Oxford don. The professor writing fantasy novels as a faux-linguistics delivery system. The oldest and most British of old British fellows, with a perpetual pipe, who always thought his translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was more important than anything he ever wrote about rings and hobbits and wise wizened wizards.