In a previous post, I stepped out of my comfort zone and spoke about the new Amazon series, Rings of Power (ROP). I explained my reasons, namely, that I wished to level some criticisms that were unlikely to find a voice. I would like to offer a second round of criticisms, and then I promise to return to philosophy and theology proper. This round of criticisms is occasioned by a Tolkien scholar who acknowledged that ROP diverges from Tolkien and admits he’s unlikely to enjoy the series but suggests that one cannot deny that episode 3 is objectively good. In what follows, I’ll explain why he’s wrong.
By way of context, the loudest critiques of ROP tend to focus on how it diverges from Tolkien’s lore and inserts ideology he would have opposed. Such criticisms are well deserved. Other popular criticisms highlight the cringy dialogue of the show, and indeed, there is ample cringe. Still other criticisms focus on the utter unlikability of Morfydd Clark (Galadriel), who has dethroned Brie Larson for most unpleasant actress — also fair. I myself echoed a few of these critiques and added more philosophical complaints in the previous post. However, since the objective quality of the show sans Tolkien has come into play, I would like to focus here. In what follows, I will ignore questions of ideology and faithfulness to Tolkien and highlight only those aspects of the show that demonstrate it is poorly constructed.
Before jumping in, I’d like to offer two notes by way of prelude, one on the current discussion and the second on my credentials. Regarding the former, those who have not followed the ROP saga may be surprised to hear that a war has broken out between the Tolkien fandom and Amazon. The forces of fandom are so outraged by the molestation of Tolkien that from the moment they caught of whiff of it, they united against Amazon, making their contempt known by ratioing every Amazon post, flooding the comments section, posting scathing podcasts, and so on. Amazon, in turn, has attacked the fandom as toxic, bigoted, racist, et cetera, et cetera.
When dialogue becomes over heated, hyperbole becomes common. Some fandom is so outraged by what Amazon has done to their beloved Tolkien that they exaggerate the problems with the show, criticizing every shot and every word. Such impassioned critiques are suspect in their objectivity. Thus arises “voices of reason,” who try to acknowledge valid criticisms but give credit where credit is due. Such is our well-meaning Tolkien scholar. But these “reasonable responses” are often an over correction because they concede too much. Episode 3 is not well constructed. If we set aside all that the show has done to Tolkien and even set aside the sorts of worldview criticisms I leveled, we are still left with a poorly executed show.
This brings me to my credentials. I expect that most of my readers know me as a scholar of philosophy and religion, which I am. But some readers may not realize that I stepped away from full-time work in academia to pursue film. If you look me up on IMDB, you’ll find that I wrote and directed two features, one narrative and one documentary. What IMDB will not tell you is that I have since signed a first look deal with a subsidiary of a major Hollywood studio, and I’m currently in full-time development on three shows and three movies. I mention this to say that I know something about film making, story telling, and scene construction; I’m not a novice offering a drive-by opinion. In what follows, I will highlight some examples of how the show is objectively bad in its construction.
(1) The majority of scenes in ROP fail to “turn.” A well crafted scene requires a shift from one note to another, an emotional shift, a revelation, an event, something that marks a “turn” in the scene. Without this, the scene fails to engage the viewer. Even if something happens, it occurs in a bland, one-note manner. One-note scenes are simply poorly crafted scenes. And such is the majority of scenes in ROP.
(2) Scenes that do turn barely turn. What I mean is this. Contrast is important when constructing a compelling scene. If the main event of a scene — its turn — is that a monster attacks, the most effective turn is one where the scene begins with a very different tone, where the shift from one note to another is stark and dramatic. If our group of characters are in high spirits and jovial when the monster suddenly bursts onto the scene, the event is jarring and unexpected. The drama of the event is all the more stark because we were in a completely different emotional space moments ago. If, by contrast, the group is on edge, expecting a monster to attack, the scene may turn, but the event is expected.
To illustrate, I’ll take an example of a well-crafted turn from season 4 of Cobra Kai. By way of background, seasons 1-3 introduce us to Miguel, a teenage boy who never knew his father. He’s bullied at school, and he ropes Johnny Lawrence into teaching him karate. Johnny’s life is going nowhere, but his decision to teach Miguel evolves into him launching a dojo and finding purpose. Johnny becomes a mentor to Miguel and even a father figure. A romance between Johnny and Miguel’s (single) mom begins to blossom, and although things get awkward between Miguel and Johnny for a time, the trajectory looks positive. We, the viewer, like Miguel; we like Johnny; we want this to work out and for Johnny to become to Miguel the father he never had. One further bit of background: Johnny is estranged from his own son, Robby, who he has failed for years, and Robby has just told Miguel that Johnny doesn’t really care about him; all of this is about Johnny trying to make up for his failings with Robby. This brings us to the well-crafted scene. (SPOILER) One night, things go sideways for Johnny, and Miguel finds him in his apartment drunk. Miguel helps Johnny to his bed. As they talk, Miguel gets vulnerable and tells Johnny he loves him. Miguel tears up; Johnny tears up; we tear up. Then the turn: Johnny admits that he loves Miguel too, but the words come out, “I love you too, Robby,” and he rolls over and passes out. Miguel is devastated, as are we. We’ve just been whipped from the height of emotional bliss as we see this fatherless young man connect with his would-be dad, and then comes the devastating misstep that takes all of that away, confirming Miguel’s greatest fear that all of this is about Robby. Now that’s a turn.
As I said, ROP consistently writes one-note scenes that simply do not turn. Yet, even when a scene does turn and a new note is played, the shift from one note to another is so mild that it is utterly ineffective, carrying hardly any impact. In fact, the turn is so slight that it is a sheer act of charity to count it as a turn in the scene. I can find the turn because I’m watching for it. But the turn could easily slip past the viewer, landing as a one-note scene. A well-crafted scene does not require the viewer to watch for the turn; the turn is there to impact the viewer. If it can slip past, the scene is poorly constructed. Probably ninety percent of scenes in ROP are either one note scenes or scenes with a nearly unnoticeable turn. In other words, ninety percent of scenes are poorly written scenes.
(3) So what about the remaining ten percent? Some scenes in ROP do make an earnest attempt at a real turn. Such a turn requires not only contrast, as explained above, but also high stakes that we, the audience, care about. In those few scenes that attempt this, the scenes fail on two fronts.
I’ll begin with the “high stakes.” When ROP does introduce such stakes, which is exceedingly rare, they are often so artificial as to be unbelievable. By way of example, the hobbits — I mean, harfoots — apparently migrate.1 One harfoot family, the Brandyfoots, who are central to the story, face a problem. Father’s foot is broken (because not-Gandalph apparently got too worked up with his voodoo and snapped the poor guy’s ankle for some unexplained reason). As a result, it’s going to be tough for mom and daughter to move the wagon quick enough to keep up with the caravan. Why are these high stakes, you ask? Well, apparently, if one of the harfoots falls behind during the migration, the others leave them for dead! But don’t worry, they’ll read your name at an annual ritual and smile and laugh about what a good fellow he was — you know, that guy we left for dead last year. (No, I'm not making that up.) Okay, we have our high stakes: Death. Such is the setup for an attempt at a turn. But there’s a couple of problems with this setup.
The first problem is it’s hard to internalize these stakes because they are absurd. These kindly, good-hearted, neighborly, communal creatures just leave their companions for dead if they fall behind? Really? The second problem is this. Even if we get past this oddity, I don’t believe it. I do not believe that lagging behind the group results in death. Why should I expect that hobbits — dang it! I did it again — harfoots who are accustomed to living off the land cannot survive off the land without the larger community? Why should I believe that just because the group gets way ahead of them in the migration that they can’t eventually catch up? I don’t believe it. So, when the family is lagging behind the group, death supposedly looms overhead (high stakes), and the turn happens (SPOILER) as not-Gandalf shows up to pull the cart. But the turn is utterly ineffective. Why? Because we don’t believe the stakes. The threat of death to the Brandyfoots is utterly contrived. There is no plausible danger, which means we feel no relief in the turn.
I will also add here that even this attempt at a high-stakes turn works against itself. In the pilot, (SPOILER) one of the members of this family, Nori Brandyfoot, finds not-Gandalf and cares for him, but she hides this from the community because she knows they fear outsiders. Before the migration, not-Gandalf wanders into camp and Nori’s secret is revealed. This revelation risks the Brandyfoot’s exile from the community. Notice that these stakes are plausible, having the makings of an okay setup for a turn. It’s entirely possible that an isolationist community would have strict laws about outsiders, laws with severe consequences. Yet, the writers immediately cut their own legs out from under themselves. Upon discovering Nori’s secret and noting the prospect of exile, the leadership immediately decides to go easy on the Brandyfoots; they can still join the migration, but they need to be at the back of the line. So, we have here a plausible setup with high stakes, but rather than holding that tension and using those stakes, the writers immediately undermine those stakes. In their stead, we get the go-to-the-back-of-the-line bit, which is meant to impact the viewer with the threat of death, but no reasonable viewer could possibly think being at the back of the line will result in death. Hence, the writers forego plausible stakes for implausible ones. This is simply bad writing.
(We may also note the extremely problematic head scratcher that the presence of not-Gandalf nearly got the Brandyfoots expelled from the community. But it’s now okay for him to join the migration and pull the Brandyfoot’s wagon?)
Okay, so ROP is terrible at constructing high stakes. But there’s a second problem. ROP never earns the turn. If you consider the sample turn I outlined from Cobra Kai, you’ll notice a great deal of work making us care. The stakes are high in that scene because we care about Miguel; we care about Johnny; we want good for both of them, so the flowering of that relationship hits us hard, as does the damage to that relationship in the turn. They earned that turn. ROP, by contrast, is like an entitled child. It presumes you should care; it never does the work to make you care. A great deal of criticism has gone out online about how unlikeable Clark’s Galadriel is, a point I’ve echoed. Needless to say, when the viewer dislikes a character, it becomes hard to root for that character. The stakes felt by that character are unlikely to resonate. The audience must like the character, care about the character, want good for the character, and resonate with the character for his stakes to become their stakes. But when the audience dislikes a character and aches for him to get off screen, any turn that involves that character’s wants is unlikely to be effective.
Now, even if we set aside the dislike factor, there is another problem. As I argued in my previous post, Clark’s Galadriel is vicious; she is not virtuous. It is possible to pull an audience into a character’s journey who is vicious because they are so charismatic — an anti-hero. It is also possible to pull an audience into an uncharismatic character’s journey because the audience resonates with the character’s wants or mission. But when you have a vicious character who is also unlikable, the audience has nothing to cling to. Galadriel is such a character. Her stakes fall flat because the writers have not made us care. They have given us neither virtuous aims nor a likeable heroine. They merely presume we care because it’s Galadriel; she’s the “good guy,” and so, you, the viewer, will care, right? Wrong.
A different species of the same genus of problem occurs with the harfoots — got it that time! (SPOILER) Nori has found not-Gandalf who fell out of the sky. For some reason she feels it’s fate, that she’s supposed to help him get somewhere, to some constellation. Here we have the advantage that Nori is likeable. But several problems emerge, despite her likability. First, I’m not sure what it means to get not-Gandolf to a constellation. Second, why am I supposed to think she is right that this is fate? I need to in order to resonate with her mission. Third, why do I care? I have no idea who this guy is (other than a Walmart knock off Gandalf, not-Gandalf, or maybe-Gandalf) or his importance to the story or what hangs in the balance or what happens if she fails or what happens if she succeeds. Incidentally, the portrayal of not-Gandalf doesn’t even make clear that he’s a good guy. So unless I presume that not-Gandalf is Gandalf, why should I presume that what not-Gandalf wants is what I should want? In short, this is presumptuous, bad writing.
(4) ROP regularly offers mysteries that are no mystery at all. Unfolding mysteries are only engaging for an audience if they are mysteries to the audience. An effective mystery is one where we undergo the journey of discovery with the character. Yet, if we know more than the characters but must wait for the characters to learn what we already know, we’re bored. We know all this. We’re just waiting for them to catch up so we can get on with the story. Such is bad story telling. ROP suffers tremendously from this flaw. One of the “great mysteries” of season 1 is whether Sauron is going to reemerge. We know he will. Any casual reader or even viewer of The Lord of the Rings knows this. There is no mystery here. There is only the long, tedious slog of waiting for the characters to discover what we already know.
This flaw intersects with the previous one about unsuccessful turns. One further example of unsuccessful turn in episdode 3 is when Galadriel is shocked to discover parchment that confirms her suspicion that Sauron has returned! Yeah, we know. Yawn.
(5) This brings us to another oddity in the show, namely, contrived plot points. I’ve already mentioned one above — that harfoots (I’m getting the hang of it!) leave their kin for dead if they’re slow. I wish this were the only ridiculous plot point. But there’s more. The grand confirmation to Galadriel that she’s right and Sauron has returned is that she discovers a parchment with his mark on it and sees the same mark on a map. Now, this is silly at best. Why, you ask? Well, the mark is formed by a mountain range. I presume those mountains have been there for a while and Sauron did not construct them. Were I looking for someone — we’ll call him Waldo — and I happened to see on a map a mountain range that looks like a W, I wouldn’t take that to mean Waldo is there — unless he’s a cheeky bastard who enjoys thumbing his nose at people while hiding in plain sight. But as far as strategy for a stealth operation goes, it seems a poor one to go to the one place marked with your initials. Also, is this where Sauron hung out previously? I mean, that’s where his mark is. If so, why does noticing the ironic mountain range mean he’s back? Are these new mountains? Is this a new map of the newly surveyed mountains? Needless to say, this is about as lame a plot point as one might contrive.
(6) The show has a lot of plot armor. Granted, many a show suffers from this flaw but it never ceases to be a distraction. For those unfamiliar with the term, plot armor means a character is protected from great dangers because he is important to the plot. Everyone around him can die, but he’s protected so the story can happen. An example of this is when Arondir (SPOILER) finds himself in a work camp run by orcs. He and his elf companions attempt a breakout. The orcs relentlessly kill the rebels, but not Arondir. A knife is placed at his throat, and then comes the fateful, “Wait, take him to so and so.” Why? No explanation. And this is far from the only example. Galadriel can wander into a cave with a cave troll and watch all of her nameless elf companions get walloped until she jumps into action to dispatch it single handedly. (Wait, didn’t killing a cave troll previously require the entire fellowship?) A sea monster can take out a raft full of inconsequential characters, leaving the only two important to the plot. You get the idea. Not only does this sort of device prompt an eyeroll for implausibility, it also signals that the writers won’t kill important characters, so dangers are no real danger at all (cough, Stranger Things). Remember that point about high stakes?
(7) I’ll close with the point that the writers often introduce unmotivated action. I offered an example above. Why do the orcs not kill Arondir? Answer: They want to end the episode by introducing an out-of-focus character in the last shot to try to get us to tune in next week. No, no, I mean what motivates the orcs to do this? Oh, there’s no good answer to that question. (As for the out-of-focus character, remember that thing about presumptuous writing? This would be another example, since the writers have given us no reason to care who so and so is; they just presume we’ll care, despite giving us no reason to.) Unmotivated action is a consistent problem with ROP. Characters move from A to B because that’s what the story needs them to do, not because there are clear motives driving the characters forward. This is lazy writing.
In short, one could put aside all of the criticisms about Tolkien and assess ROP as a generic fantasy series, and the result would be that it still fails. For all the money poured into sets, costumes, and CGI, the show is poorly constructed. Tolkien or no Tolkien, episode 3 was not good, nor were episodes 1 or 2. Bottom line: ROP is bad story telling.
My running bit about hobbits pokes fun at Amazon’s rather comical attempt to sneak by IP infringement. Amazon’s rights do not extend to hobbits, so they have instead introduced harfoots, a type of hobbit in Tolkien’s lore. But Amazon has played dumb about the fact that harfoots are hobbits, suggesting harfoots are wholly different species. IP problem solved.