För de som tycker att Peter Jackson varit dålig på att hålla sig till originalet kan det kanske vara intressant att höra att regissören John Boorman (senare känd för
Excalibur) på 70-talet var aktuell med en filmatisering av LotR, vars manus minst sagt avviker mer fån boken än vad Jackson gör i sina mest extrema stunder. Jag skulle gärna ha sett den här filmen också, men kanske inte som en filmatisering av Tolkien...
Här är lite information (hämtad
härifrån):
In spite of his grave doubts about the suitability of The Lord of the Rings for the movies, Tolkien sold the film and merchandise rights to United Artists in 1969 for just over £104,000 (Harlow and Dobson 16). In 1970, the studio asked John Boorman, later known as the director of Excalibur and The Emerald Forest, to make The Lord of the Rings. With his collaborator Rospo Pallenberg, he condensed the work into a single two and a half hour script which he felt was “fresh and cinematic, yet carried the spirit of Tolkien” (Boorman 20). Boorman says he received a letter from Tolkien during the writing process, asking how he planned to make the film, and wrote back reassuring him that he planned a live action version. However, by the time Boorman had finished the script, the executive who had asked him to take on the project was gone, and the new management was unfamiliar with the book. Boorman said, “They were baffled by a script that, for most of them, was their first contact with Middle Earth [sic],” and rejected it (Boorman 21). He tried taking the script to other studios, including Disney, but with no luck. Boorman eventually used some of the special-effects techniques and locations developed for The Lord of the Rings in other films, most notably Excalibur in 1981.
But there is another side to the story. Ralph Bakshi, in a recent interview, talks about taking on the project several years later, and clearly exaggerates a bit for effect:
And here comes the horror story, right? … Boorman handed in this 700-page script … [The studio executives said] ‘[H]e’s changed a lot of the characters, and he’s added characters. He’s got some sneakers he’s merchandising in the middle. … [W]e don’t understand a word Boorman wrote. We never read the books.’ (Robinson 4)
It was only 176 pages, and there weren’t any sneakers, but it wouldn’t have helped to have read the books, because Boorman took off in his own direction quite early in his treatment.
To put it bluntly, Boorman’s script has only the vaguest connection to Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Considering Tolkien’s appalled reaction to the much lesser liberties taken by Zimmerman, it is unlikely he would have appreciated Boorman’s script at all. Characters, events, locations, themes, all are changed freely with no regard for the author’s original intent. Situations are sexualized or plumbed for psychological kinks that simply do not exist in the book. (Tolkien would not have approved of Frodo’s seduction by Galadriel, for example, and Aragon’s battlefield healing of Éowyn is so blatantly sexual it’s not surprising Boorman marries them immediately.) Ideas that later worked brilliantly in Excalibur, Boorman’s retelling of the King Arthur legend, are here as out of place as a dwarf in Lothlórien.
Boorman was simply too full of his own creative spark to limit himself to what was in Tolkien’s book. For example, consider this strange sequence of events. After the destruction of the Ringwraiths at the Fords of Bruinen, Frodo is carried into the sparkling palace of Rivendell, where in a vast amphitheatre full of chanting elves he is laid naked on a crystal table and covered with green leaves. A thirteen-year-old Arwen surgically removes the Morgul-blade fragment from his shoulder with a red-hot knife under the threatening axe of Gimli, while Gandalf dares Boromir to try to take the Ring (Boorman and Pallenberg 28-32).
Sound familiar? How about this sequence outside the Gates of Moria? Gandalf leads Gimli through a primitive rebirthing ritual, making him dig a hole and crawl into it, covering him with a cloak and violently beating and verbally abusing him, until he springs forth with recovered memories of his forgotten ancestral language and speaks the Dwarvish words needed to open the doors (Boorman and Pallenberg 59-60).
To give Boorman his due, parts of the script have a compelling brilliance, though they are still unlike anything Tolkien wrote. The sober exposition of the Council of Elrond is recast as a fantastic medieval masque representing the history of the Rings. This highly stylized sequence combines elements of Kabuki theater, rock opera, and circus performance, and could almost be imagined as a later retelling of the legend by a tribe of decadent Dark Elves. It is strangely effective, and gets the necessary back-story across, but it is definitely not a straightforward adaptation of Tolkien’s work.
And that is where the key problem lies. At this point Tolkien was still alive, and as he insists in his introduction to the first authorized American paperback edition of The Lord of the Rings, a certain courtesy (at least) is due to living authors (Hammond 105). This is what he says in response to the changes in the Zimmerman script:
…I am not Rider Haggard. I am not comparing myself with that master of Romance, except in this: I am not dead, yet. When the film of K.S. Mines was made it had already passed, one might say, into the public property of the imagination. The Lord of the Rings … is still the vivid concern of a living person, and is nobody’s toy to play with. (Tolkien, Letter to Ackerman and Others, Draft)
Boorman’s abundant creativity, inspired by Tolkien’s work, needed another outlet than the straitjacket of adapting a living author’s writings. Eventually he found it in Excalibur, returning to the Merlin-centered project he had been working on before he was offered The Lord of the Rings (Boorman 20). Boorman’s imaginative remaking of the story of King Arthur worked because the Matter of Britain is undeniably part of the “public property of the imagination.” He could get away with combining the characters of Morgause, Nimue, and Morgan le Fay, for example, because other artists had taken similar liberties over the centuries. Some might consider Tolkien’s stories “public property of the imagination” now, close to fifty years after their initial publication, but at that time they were relatively fresh from his pen, and he could legitimately claim they were his alone to play with.
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oj oj oj! det hade jag gett mycket för att se!
