The Exquisite Queerness of The Hobbit
From the outset, Peter Jackson’s trilogy holds its queerness high.
By THOMAS J. WEST III
It’s no secret we queers have always had an appreciation for J.R.R. Tolkien’s work. The richness with which he paints relationships between men — especially that between Sam and Frodo (above) as they make their way to Mount Doom — almost inevitably strike a chord with young queer readers.
In his screen adaptations of Tolkien, director Peter Jackson similarly heightens these male relationships — which opens up more avenues for queer reading and appropriation. Let me explain…
Queer Performances
From the outset, Jackson’s Hobbit trilogy holds its queerness high. See, for example, Ian McKellan and Barry Humphries. Openly gay, McKellan relishes in delivering his lines as the rascally Gandalf the Grey. Likewise, as the Great Goblin, Barry Humphries’ performance is decidedly over-the-top, much like his alter-ego Dame Edna Everage.
Yes, for those who delight in the affected and the gaudy (read: many queer readers), what made the first film a chore for some reviewers serves as a source of pleasure for others.
Perhaps no character in Jackson’s trilogy typifies this queer aesthetic as much as Thranduil, portrayed by Lee Pace.
Some have referred to Pace’s acting as scenery-chewing (see here, here, and here). But it’s precisely this exaggeration that renders Thranduil such a sinfully queer character, much like Jeremy Irons’ villainous Scar in The Lion King.
Other fans have also picked up on Thranduil’s queer qualities, as we can see in this meme, which juxtaposes Thranduil (labeled as “Bitch King”) with the Witch-king of Angmar from Jackson’s other trilogy, Lord of the Rings (2001–03).
What’s resonant about this pairing is the way it manages to capitalize on the elements of camp that suffuse Lee’s performance of Thranduil. He is at once the idol of our adulation and a subject of fun. He is a powerful king in his own right yet possesses flaws that will eventually come back to haunt him.
As importantly, Thranduil — as well as other notable characters in Jackson’s trilogy — embodies elements of physical beauty many gay men fetishize and adore. For example…
Desire, Hunger, and Eye Candy
For a straight director, Peter Jackson has a remarkable penchant for casting “eye candy” and dishy leading men. Perhaps he’s conscious that women and gay men (and maybe even some straight men) find male beauty fascinating? Nonetheless, fans have responded, finding in these beautiful male figures objects to desire, identify with, and objectify.
Additionally, some fans on social media name Jackson’s leading men and then post these memes/gifs, suggesting the desires evoked by the films. The image of Lurtz’s grisly visage is at once horrifying and funny as it blurs the lines between sexual desire for the pretty onscreen men and literal hunger (the Uruk-hai love eating humans).
Tolkien’s fan community has also embraced the queerness of Jackson’s iteration of The Hobbit with an enthusiasm that rivals “shippers” of The Lord of the Rings. Who could forget the legions of fan fictions and fan art that pairs Aragorn/Legolas, Pippin/Merry and Frodo/Sam?
While the “Dwarfcest” theme hasn’t caught on just yet — surely I’m not the only one detecting on-screen chemistry between Dean O’Gorman (Fili) and Aidan Turner (Kili)? — there is an invested fan-following around “Baggenshield.” This is the inevitable pairing of hobbit Bilbo Baggins (Martin Freeman) and dwarf Thorin Oakenshield (Richard Armitage).
Twitter is nearly bursting with memes, gifs, and images celebrating the bond between Hobbit and Dwarf. Fans embrace the chemistry between Freeman and Armitage as well as the bond that develops between the two characters over the course of the three films.
In fact, I have seen Bilbo referred to as Thorin’s “wife,” a particular reading that has “queer” written all over it. One does not have to look far in the film to see glimmers of this. For instance, Bilbo hesitates twice when he tries to define his relationship with Thorin: once in his last conversation with Balin and, later, when the auctioneer asks him who Thorin was.
An Overtly Queer Send-Up
Even in the campiest and most excessive moments, Peter Jackson’s Hobbit trilogy possesses a certain ludic queerness. Largely eschewing the operatic grandness of The Lord of the Rings — though there are moments of that — this trilogy never takes itself too seriously.
Rather it emphasizes the power of pleasure and play — of refusing to play by the rules others have established and lavishing attention on appearances. In doing so, it offers itself up as a more overtly queer send-up response to its predecessor. And who better than (some) queers to take pleasure in the ridiculous and the pretentious, the ludic and the ludicrous?
Some might call my analysis of Jackson’s The Hobbit trilogy “over-reading,” or seeking out something in the text that “isn’t really there.” But the late queer scholar Alexander Doty would remind us that texts are always layered with queer potential — and that finding, exploiting, and enjoying those potentials is just as valid as the straight readings the mainstream so enjoys and attempts to enshrine as the norm.
A version of this was originally published at Queerly Different.
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