How Do You Envision Middle-Earth? - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Bill Ferny · 01-17-2003, 11:37 PM

Saucepan Man, great link. I really liked Joan Wyatt’s Rivendell… absolutely stunning! I really liked The Hall of Edoras, The Siege of Helm's Deep, and Gandalf Confronts the Lord of the Nazgûl (the mound of dead bodies was brilliant). But how did those flying saucers get into the Mallorn Tree in The Fellowship ascends the Great Mallorn? And Minas Tirith looks like the space station. [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img] Also, her ents uncomfortably remind me of things I used to mindlessly kill, one after the other, in the Hibernian frontier in that game I’m rather ashamed to admit I played, Dark Age of Camelot.

Manwe, I’m curious… how did you picture Edoras and Caras Galadhon?

After thinking about it, I think that what was so similar in the movies to what I had before imagined about Middle-Earth was the landscape. New Zealand was a great choice! Of course, I may have been unconsciously biased by having watched, and loved (despite George Lucas), Willow that was also filmed in New Zealand. Architecture in the move, especially because Alan Lee was involved, seemed to fit what I had imagined as well.

However, there were things that were completely different. Some of them were understandable because of various personal factors involved in my reading of the novels, especially in regard to costuming. Others, however, I don’t understand. Though I think it was great to use “real” people as hobbits (no offense intended toward actors of small stature, who by the way were absolutely great in Willow), PJ’s hobbits were very different from what I had imagined. Most prevalent in my mind is how they run through the woods like a pack of elephants through a mall. They are described in the books as being quiet, almost silent, and even Strider in comparison is loud and clumsy.

In regard to weapons and armor, I found WETA’s depiction to be aesthetically pleasing, but not what I had imagined at all (with the possible exception of the Riders of Rohan). I was more impacted by Tolkien’s world in the re-reading, especially when I re-read Tolkien in High School and my early college days. At this time my other huge interest (which in many ways has remained) was the history of the Crusades. Because of this mixture, I have always had a tendency to imagine elements of Middle-Earth, especially Gondor, in terms of the era and atmosphere of the Crusades (circa. AD 1190-1280).

To demonstrate what I’m talking about, I’ve decided to post something I wrote a long time ago. I wrote it purely for exercise back in college (seems like ages ago). Its a eulogy for Lord Tarciryan of Lebennin, a character that I made up.

----------------------------------------
I remember well that day, when behind my noble lord, Tarciryan of Lebennin, we first looked upon the horror of Pelennor Fields, witnessed the press of the Rohirrim, and set our eyes on the beleaguered in the white city. Redfist, my lord’s charger, chopping at the bit for having endured the long voyage on the Corsair’s filthy barge, leapt over the boat’s bulwark with but a slight command from Lord Tarciryan’s spur. It was all I could to do to keep up with my lord, riding but a palfrey, so I could replace, one after the other, my lord’s broken shields and lances. Furious was his charge in the sight of the king’s standard, that glorious white tree, seven diadems, and crown. Honor and glory, my lord, Tarciryan of Lebennin, won that day in the king’s service. His lance, sword and axe was the doom of many an Easterling, Haradrum, Variag, Southron and vile orc and troll. In his fury, my lord’s vengeance was finally spent on those who had threatened the rightful heirs of our golden Lebennin. And with the shout of “To Gondor and the White Tree!” he was mortally wounded by a black arrow fired in fear by a spawn of Khand who dared not approach my lord in honorable contest. In sadness have I went ever after, through all the doubt and victory that followed in those days, mourning for my lord’s life too brief.

My lord, for whom I was but a humble shield bearer, was always a noble man, fair and just and kind. He had no serf on his lands, but all his people were free, though he tolerated not a lazy or willful servant, or one who would beat his wife or children. His halls were renowned for their just judgement and right rule, and Lord Tarciryan was just as fair and virtuous to the stranger and traveler, as long as they were not pledged to the darkness out of the east. He was quick to give shelter to pilgrims to and from the white city, and he too went and paid his homage as is right for the people of Gondor. However, from this last pilgrimage he shall not return, but only his broken sword and a tattered shield, and a single bloodstained banner so that history will remember his deeds and honor will be due his house.

His duty to his pledges he always kept, and never have the Counts of Linhir or the Stewards of Gondor had a better vassal, nor I’ll wage would ever have had the king. His castle was warmed by a hundred fires, his feasts were daily, and his potage rich and hearty. Beer and honey mead were in abundance, as well as pipe weed from lands unknown to the north. Spiced and salted meats, cinnamon, ginger, rice, figs, raisins, pepper, saffron, cloves, mace as well as coffee and teas and herbs of all sorts were plenty and shared even with the peasants who worked the fields. The songs of old were not forgotten in his halls. The lays of days gone by, in which were sung the glory of Númenor, the woe of her fall, and of her heirs in Middle-Earth filled these halls and kept his men brave. Sad now will be the songs in those halls upon my return, and never will the fare of that table seem so rich again.

He was skilled in courtesy, manners, and all the practices that make a man noble and true. He would always abide by the western silence before the evening meal, and he would weep when he faced west and remembered Númenor that was, the land of Valinor that is, and what lies beyond that will ever be. Though he could neither read nor write, he disparaged not such skills in others, even those of lesser rank. He often provided means for his craftsmen and peasants to learn the art of letters if the time could be afforded, and insisted that his wife above all others be versed in the skill. Though she never reached the proper age of consummation, he cared for his wife deeply and saw particularly to her well being and education, but he respected her with compassion as though she were a woman full grown. How she will weep when she hears news of her benefactor’s death, and my heart aches that she should be a widow at such a tender age.

Skilled at falconry, spear, and hound, my lord was able at the hunt, but never would his party trample the fields of the peasants, nor would they leave their dead quarry for the buzzards. He would hunt a boar with only a sword, shunning the spear with cross bar as for men of lesser stature. He would stand before the hunted boar, in front of the creature’s very den, and challenge it forth until it came with a frightening charge. But he made no move, though the beast came on bearing its razor sharp teeth and tusks, until, at the very last moment, he would spring to one side, and with his sword sever the head from the poor beast’s shoulders. Many a young squire attempted to emulate their lord’s daring, and many a young squire won for their trouble the funeral pyre.

He kept his hair short and the back of his head shaved as all respectable men of noble birth keep their hair, and his beard was kept close most of the time. He wore but the humblest of woolen clothes, though made well and sturdy by the seamstresses. Satin and silk seldom brushed his skin, but he remembered his dress when entertaining those greater than he. He was practical in dress as his honor and duty took him often out of doors. He daily visited the peasants in his employ while they labored for his and his family’s behalf, and he was given to long rides in the wilds to inspect the borders of his lands. Many a bandit and man of the east who came to raid and kill the innocent found instead a more cunning and deadly adversary in peasant’s clothing.

But not until witnessed in battle array, astride his destrier, did my lord, the warrior of the south, the scourge of the Corsairs, appear in all his nobility and warlike virtue. His spurs were of mithril silver, a gift from Durin’s Folk to his family so many generations ago that the giving and its ceremony is no longer remembered. His legs were girt in maille chausses and hardened leather greaves over his shins, decorated by skillful hands with the likeness of vines and grapes. Over his quilted and embroidered gambeson he wore a sleeved hauberk of the same strong maille that hung to his knees and had a coif with ventail that he wore over a thickly padded arming cap to protect his blessed head. Over his hauberk he wore one of the few garments of silk in his wardrobe, an embroidered surcoat bearing the red and green of his house and lineage, the dancing lion and the falcon, and the badge of Gondor, the white tree, upon his breast. And over his head he wore a great helm, painted red and green, bearing both the lion and the falcon on either side, and about the eye slot and the breathes a tree scribed in white, the only vision the doomed enemy would have of Lord Tarciryan’s face. On his left arm he bore a shield of linden wood that displayed the heraldry of his family. In a green scabbard, from a belt richly made, was sheathed the sword of Tarciryan’s family, handed down for three generations, polished and oiled and ready for war; its one edge to protect the weak from tyranny, and its other edge to protect Gondor from all her enemies.

It was thus he rode to battle against the invaders, and it was thus that he spurred Redfist to the side of his future king, though all other men hid in fear at the sight of the king’s grim company. It was thus that he rode to victory against the Southron and Corsair in the company of the lord of the dwarves and the prince of the elves. It was thus that he charged the Fields of Pelennor, and many will be the songs of his courage and might. He told me many times that never was a lord at home but among his comrade’s courageous shouts and the painful groans of those wounded and dying on the field of battle, but in quiet times during those dark days he often mused: “I miss the waters of the Gilrain; better to be at home and hearth, peacefully managing the affairs of the earth, than laying waste the lives of men.”
--------------------------------------

This picture by August Racinet (whose brilliant historical illustrations can be found here), may help the imagination along.

[ January 18, 2003: Message edited by: Bill Ferny ]

01-17-2003, 11:37 PM	#11
Bill Ferny Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Aug 2002 Location: Bree Posts: 390	Saucepan Man, great link. I really liked Joan Wyatt’s Rivendell… absolutely stunning! I really liked The Hall of Edoras, The Siege of Helm's Deep, and Gandalf Confronts the Lord of the Nazgûl (the mound of dead bodies was brilliant). But how did those flying saucers get into the Mallorn Tree in The Fellowship ascends the Great Mallorn? And Minas Tirith looks like the space station. [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img] Also, her ents uncomfortably remind me of things I used to mindlessly kill, one after the other, in the Hibernian frontier in that game I’m rather ashamed to admit I played, Dark Age of Camelot. Manwe, I’m curious… how did you picture Edoras and Caras Galadhon? After thinking about it, I think that what was so similar in the movies to what I had before imagined about Middle-Earth was the landscape. New Zealand was a great choice! Of course, I may have been unconsciously biased by having watched, and loved (despite George Lucas), Willow that was also filmed in New Zealand. Architecture in the move, especially because Alan Lee was involved, seemed to fit what I had imagined as well. However, there were things that were completely different. Some of them were understandable because of various personal factors involved in my reading of the novels, especially in regard to costuming. Others, however, I don’t understand. Though I think it was great to use “real” people as hobbits (no offense intended toward actors of small stature, who by the way were absolutely great in Willow), PJ’s hobbits were very different from what I had imagined. Most prevalent in my mind is how they run through the woods like a pack of elephants through a mall. They are described in the books as being quiet, almost silent, and even Strider in comparison is loud and clumsy. In regard to weapons and armor, I found WETA’s depiction to be aesthetically pleasing, but not what I had imagined at all (with the possible exception of the Riders of Rohan). I was more impacted by Tolkien’s world in the re-reading, especially when I re-read Tolkien in High School and my early college days. At this time my other huge interest (which in many ways has remained) was the history of the Crusades. Because of this mixture, I have always had a tendency to imagine elements of Middle-Earth, especially Gondor, in terms of the era and atmosphere of the Crusades (circa. AD 1190-1280). To demonstrate what I’m talking about, I’ve decided to post something I wrote a long time ago. I wrote it purely for exercise back in college (seems like ages ago). Its a eulogy for Lord Tarciryan of Lebennin, a character that I made up. ---------------------------------------- I remember well that day, when behind my noble lord, Tarciryan of Lebennin, we first looked upon the horror of Pelennor Fields, witnessed the press of the Rohirrim, and set our eyes on the beleaguered in the white city. Redfist, my lord’s charger, chopping at the bit for having endured the long voyage on the Corsair’s filthy barge, leapt over the boat’s bulwark with but a slight command from Lord Tarciryan’s spur. It was all I could to do to keep up with my lord, riding but a palfrey, so I could replace, one after the other, my lord’s broken shields and lances. Furious was his charge in the sight of the king’s standard, that glorious white tree, seven diadems, and crown. Honor and glory, my lord, Tarciryan of Lebennin, won that day in the king’s service. His lance, sword and axe was the doom of many an Easterling, Haradrum, Variag, Southron and vile orc and troll. In his fury, my lord’s vengeance was finally spent on those who had threatened the rightful heirs of our golden Lebennin. And with the shout of “To Gondor and the White Tree!” he was mortally wounded by a black arrow fired in fear by a spawn of Khand who dared not approach my lord in honorable contest. In sadness have I went ever after, through all the doubt and victory that followed in those days, mourning for my lord’s life too brief. My lord, for whom I was but a humble shield bearer, was always a noble man, fair and just and kind. He had no serf on his lands, but all his people were free, though he tolerated not a lazy or willful servant, or one who would beat his wife or children. His halls were renowned for their just judgement and right rule, and Lord Tarciryan was just as fair and virtuous to the stranger and traveler, as long as they were not pledged to the darkness out of the east. He was quick to give shelter to pilgrims to and from the white city, and he too went and paid his homage as is right for the people of Gondor. However, from this last pilgrimage he shall not return, but only his broken sword and a tattered shield, and a single bloodstained banner so that history will remember his deeds and honor will be due his house. His duty to his pledges he always kept, and never have the Counts of Linhir or the Stewards of Gondor had a better vassal, nor I’ll wage would ever have had the king. His castle was warmed by a hundred fires, his feasts were daily, and his potage rich and hearty. Beer and honey mead were in abundance, as well as pipe weed from lands unknown to the north. Spiced and salted meats, cinnamon, ginger, rice, figs, raisins, pepper, saffron, cloves, mace as well as coffee and teas and herbs of all sorts were plenty and shared even with the peasants who worked the fields. The songs of old were not forgotten in his halls. The lays of days gone by, in which were sung the glory of Númenor, the woe of her fall, and of her heirs in Middle-Earth filled these halls and kept his men brave. Sad now will be the songs in those halls upon my return, and never will the fare of that table seem so rich again. He was skilled in courtesy, manners, and all the practices that make a man noble and true. He would always abide by the western silence before the evening meal, and he would weep when he faced west and remembered Númenor that was, the land of Valinor that is, and what lies beyond that will ever be. Though he could neither read nor write, he disparaged not such skills in others, even those of lesser rank. He often provided means for his craftsmen and peasants to learn the art of letters if the time could be afforded, and insisted that his wife above all others be versed in the skill. Though she never reached the proper age of consummation, he cared for his wife deeply and saw particularly to her well being and education, but he respected her with compassion as though she were a woman full grown. How she will weep when she hears news of her benefactor’s death, and my heart aches that she should be a widow at such a tender age. Skilled at falconry, spear, and hound, my lord was able at the hunt, but never would his party trample the fields of the peasants, nor would they leave their dead quarry for the buzzards. He would hunt a boar with only a sword, shunning the spear with cross bar as for men of lesser stature. He would stand before the hunted boar, in front of the creature’s very den, and challenge it forth until it came with a frightening charge. But he made no move, though the beast came on bearing its razor sharp teeth and tusks, until, at the very last moment, he would spring to one side, and with his sword sever the head from the poor beast’s shoulders. Many a young squire attempted to emulate their lord’s daring, and many a young squire won for their trouble the funeral pyre. He kept his hair short and the back of his head shaved as all respectable men of noble birth keep their hair, and his beard was kept close most of the time. He wore but the humblest of woolen clothes, though made well and sturdy by the seamstresses. Satin and silk seldom brushed his skin, but he remembered his dress when entertaining those greater than he. He was practical in dress as his honor and duty took him often out of doors. He daily visited the peasants in his employ while they labored for his and his family’s behalf, and he was given to long rides in the wilds to inspect the borders of his lands. Many a bandit and man of the east who came to raid and kill the innocent found instead a more cunning and deadly adversary in peasant’s clothing. But not until witnessed in battle array, astride his destrier, did my lord, the warrior of the south, the scourge of the Corsairs, appear in all his nobility and warlike virtue. His spurs were of mithril silver, a gift from Durin’s Folk to his family so many generations ago that the giving and its ceremony is no longer remembered. His legs were girt in maille chausses and hardened leather greaves over his shins, decorated by skillful hands with the likeness of vines and grapes. Over his quilted and embroidered gambeson he wore a sleeved hauberk of the same strong maille that hung to his knees and had a coif with ventail that he wore over a thickly padded arming cap to protect his blessed head. Over his hauberk he wore one of the few garments of silk in his wardrobe, an embroidered surcoat bearing the red and green of his house and lineage, the dancing lion and the falcon, and the badge of Gondor, the white tree, upon his breast. And over his head he wore a great helm, painted red and green, bearing both the lion and the falcon on either side, and about the eye slot and the breathes a tree scribed in white, the only vision the doomed enemy would have of Lord Tarciryan’s face. On his left arm he bore a shield of linden wood that displayed the heraldry of his family. In a green scabbard, from a belt richly made, was sheathed the sword of Tarciryan’s family, handed down for three generations, polished and oiled and ready for war; its one edge to protect the weak from tyranny, and its other edge to protect Gondor from all her enemies. It was thus he rode to battle against the invaders, and it was thus that he spurred Redfist to the side of his future king, though all other men hid in fear at the sight of the king’s grim company. It was thus that he rode to victory against the Southron and Corsair in the company of the lord of the dwarves and the prince of the elves. It was thus that he charged the Fields of Pelennor, and many will be the songs of his courage and might. He told me many times that never was a lord at home but among his comrade’s courageous shouts and the painful groans of those wounded and dying on the field of battle, but in quiet times during those dark days he often mused: “I miss the waters of the Gilrain; better to be at home and hearth, peacefully managing the affairs of the earth, than laying waste the lives of men.” -------------------------------------- This picture by August Racinet (whose brilliant historical illustrations can be found here), may help the imagination along. [ January 18, 2003: Message edited by: Bill Ferny ] __________________ I prefer Gillaume d’Férny, connoisseur of fine fruit.