"There and Back Again."

Long before Peter Jackson unleashed his cinematic behemoth, I was already familiar with the work of renowned author J.R.R. Tolkien. As a toddler, when it came time for bed, my mother would read The Hobbit to me. While other moms were probably reading simplistic little fairy tales involving men in tights and maidens fair, I was getting blasted in my infantile cortex with images of goblins, wizards, wargs, dragons, elves, giant spiders, trolls and of course… hobbits. I loved it!

A record.

Being a fan of the story herself, my mother had purchased a record version of the book as well. (A long time ago, before the cassette or 8-track and long before the MP3 or the CD, there were these things called records or LPs where people would get their music from.) It was a four-record set which told the amazing story in fantastic detail using talented voice actors and wondrous sound effects to bring the tale to life. It also came with a picture book that added a new level of detail to Middle-Earth. It was one of my favorite things. She had bought the album for herself but it soon became... mine. My own. My precious. I listened to it over and over till the vinyl scratched and warped. I knew every line by heart.

Years later, while cruising through a video store which my mother had recently become a member of, I saw something all too familiar. It was a picture of Bilbo Baggins! It was just like the one from my record set! “Holy poop!” I said. I was nine. I wasn’t allowed to say “shit” yet. “It’s a movie?... MOM!” It was exactly the same as the record! (Technically the album was a copy of the film.) Who cared?! I could see the story in motion! Gollum was creepier than ever and Smaug was epic! This… was… awesome…

As I grew older I took it upon myself to read the Lord of Rings. It wasn’t an easy read but by the time I was finished I knew I had just been part of something extraordinary.

While living in Connecticut, already a grown man with an actual job and stuff, I found myself reading a newspaper outside one of the local coffee shops. The entertainment section mentioned something about some guy named Peter Jackson who was going to direct the entire Ring trilogy. Wait… he’s the Frighteners director. Elijah Wood… from Flipper!? Viggo Whats-his-face and Ian Macwho? “Ah shit!” I belched. I was old enough to say it now.

See? Creepy.

Needless to say Peter Jackson shut me the hell up. Three times in a row.

He is now poised to direct The Hobbit itself. I would trust no other person to take on the daunting task of translating this childhood treasure of mine to film. Yet regardless of what he does or how he does it, that first little cartoon will remain one of my favorite films of all time while The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings books continue to be some of the greatest stories ever told.

Arc PART 1: "You must choose..."

When I was a boy of about nine or ten my mother and I would take trips to Old San Juan every Saturday. We would hop the trolley and ride up and down the cobblestone streets every weekend like clockwork. I never grew tired of it. We would have breakfast at La Bombonera where I would order the fried eggs and bacon special with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. We would then walk into the different shops looking for nothing in particular. It had become our own little family tradition.

On one such day she asked me a question that would alter my personality and help shape my life for better or worse.

My parents had gotten divorced when I was about seven years old. My mom and I returned to Puerto Rico immediately after. My father, it seemed, had been sucked into an alternate dimension to fight off the evil dark lord Garbanzo the Wicked from the 7^th Realm of Chaos. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t hear from him for many years.

While my mother was quite excellent at the whole “raising” and “educating” thing, there was only so much a mom could do for her son. There were things only a father could teach. Even though there were some decent men in our family, most of them were out dated Puerto Rican male clichés. She didn’t want me becoming that kind of man…  beer in one hand wearing a “wife-beater” shirt with my other hand permanently secured to my crotch. She also didn’t want me growing up into a prissy little mama’s boy either. What to do... what to do?

She knew of my interest in movies and could see that it was more than just a hobby for me. It was growing into something quite personal. She saw the opportunity. Film… film was the key! So, bouncing around in a bright green trolley going at an outrageous two miles-per-hour down the unleveled cobblestone streets of Old San Juan surrounded by Spanish architecture and 20^th century noises, she asked…

“Who is your favorite movie hero?”

What kind of a question was that?! There were too many to choose from! I mean… Superman, Luke Skywalker, Perseus, Dar the Beastmaster, Captain Kirk and James Bond to name just a few. This is the kind of question that would take days… nay, years to ponder. Each character offered a myriad of admirable qualities that had to be taken into consideration and…

 Oh f**k it. It took me about two seconds

“Indiana Jones!”

Duh.

She didn’t seem surprised. In fact I think she already knew. Aside from the movies themselves, she remembered how, as a little boy living in Greece, I would watch the archeologists digging up the ancient ruins in search of some hint to the mysteries of the past. When we got home I would run out back intent on discovering my own underground secrets. I would begin digging for treasure or perhaps a long lost civilization… in our backyard… with a teaspoon. Indy was the perfect choice! She then proceeded to tell me to pay close attention to the intrepid archeologist and follow his lead. So I watched his every move, studied his every word, copied his every gesture and learned what it took to be a man. Courage, honor, confidence, an understanding of art and history, a leather jacket, a half shaven face, a sense of humor, a respect for the ladies even while acting like a complete prick, a cadre of loyal friends and a big ass whip for good measure. I would fight the forces of evil. I would stand up for the weak. I would be… the hero.

Tool of archeology

The first two films and a couple of cheap Indy novels kept me going for a few years but, as does often happen, children grow up and life throws things at you that you could not possibly be prepared for.

I was thirteen or thereabout. I was staying at my grandmother’s house. I had already gone to bed when I heard the phone ring in her room next door. It was one of those old rotary phones that made a massive ding-o-ling sound potent enough to raise the dead. I could hear her talking and while it was only a collection of muffled hums, I knew she was excited about something. She came into my room and said in a hysterical whisper… “It’s your father!”

TO BE CONTINUED…