Here:
News from Bree
Fans of the movie, The Fellowship of the Ring, have been eagerly anticipating the release of the movie on DVD and Video. Today the great day arrived, and the eager anticipation, the breathless longing, turned to bitterness and despair.
The DVD’s and Videotapes are all Blank. Instead the long dreamed of introduction, the familiar beloved scene of Gandalf driving his cart into Hobbiton, the music, the gentle Hobbits hopping about—just blank blackness.
Horrified fans, some collapsing into tears, mobbed the various outlets, demanding to know what was going on. Mr. Peter Jackson, when reached at his palatial home in New Zealand, was as puzzled and aghast as all the regular people, the little people, the ones who had made his movie the success it was.
“Don’t worry, “ he assured the weeping throngs, the droves of disappointed lovers of Middle Earth, “don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise!” Mr. Jackson hurried off to his studio, to set the wheels of investigation in motion, and this reporter followed in the great mob of reporters from all over the world. This is one of the big stories to come out of the entertainment business in some time, and was held to be so important that reporters as renowned as Kathie Lee Gifford and Barbara Walters were there with film crews.
The scene at the studio was pandemonium. Uniformed police guarded the gates and Mr. Jackson was whisked through and the rest of us stood looking, rather forlornly, at the receding taillights of his car. But only a half hour later Mr. Jackson returned, and as he stepped up onto the hood of his car and prepared to address the crowd, it was easy to see that he had not solved the puzzle. His genial face was a mask of despair. “I am at a loss, ladies and gentlemen! But there may be an answer here, in this videotape that was left on my desk. I am taking it now to the studios of New Zealand broadcasting, as the note that was left with it instructs. We intend to follow these instructions to the letter, and my advice to you is to return quietly to your homes and hotel rooms and watch for the broadcast.”
Well, of course we did. This reporter was fortunate enough to hitch a ride into the city with Peter Jennings and Morley Safer and I must say, as an aside, that these two gents made this rather obscure reporter welcome. The bottle of Jack Daniels I always carry in my purse may have made me more welcome, of course, but be that as it may, I was able to get into the main lounge of the hotel with these two VIP’s, and so had a very close look at what happened next.
NZBC interrupted its regular programming with a surge of classical music and the BBC trained voice of Nigel Newsreader spoke, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our regular programming for the following special announcement. Coronation Street will be seen at its usual time tomorrow.”
There then followed a few moments of blank screen and then, faintly at first, but becoming brighter, there appeared a logo. A great Red Eye. The Eye faded, then a black clad form, wearing some kind of chimney pot where its head would presumably be, appeared. Towers of some sort loomed in the background, and ugly, peculiar looking bird-like creatures were swooping about in a dark sky. The black clad form stood very still.
Around me the room was tensely silent, silently tense. I sipped my Jack Daniels.
“So,” the black clad form said.
At least, there was nowhere else the voice could have been coming from, but it was hard to be sure at first.
“So,” the voice said. “You thought you’d leave Sauron out of your plans, eh? Well, you pathetic fools, Sauron hasn’t left you out of HIS plans!”
Gasps and cries of horror burst out of nearly every throat. “Sauron!” some poor woman cried, and then she screamed a long ululating scream.
“Now we come to it,” this Sauron being said. “Now we come to it indeed! Mr. Peter Jackson, you cannot leave the Dark Lord out. No residuals for Sauron? No share of the profits for Sauron? No merchandising deals for Sauron? Then, no movie! With my powers, I have erased them all!” Then he laughed.
All around me, strong men and lovely women wept and tore their hair, beat their breasts. The shrieks of outraged fans could be heard all over the land, even over the seas.
The blackest day in the history of movies has just ended. What will happen next? Who knows, who knows indeed. Millions of unhappy fans have cried themselves to sleep before their silent TV sets. Peter Jackson has hired the best lawyer money can buy. This reporter is like everyone else—waiting and wondering.
Sauron's Blog
And here:
More News from Bree:
It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that the DVD’s and Videotapes have had their images miraculously restored. This reporter was there when Mr. Peter Jackson and Sauron, Dark Lord of Mordor, made their “secret” deal, and happiness was restored to the world of FOTR Fandom.
You might remember that this reporter left you waiting and wondering after Sauron’s broadcast message. The whole world was waiting and wondering.
Now, the story can be told.
Some twelve hours after the broadcast, when Mr. Peter Jackson had fallen into an exhausted sleep, he was shaken rudely awake and upon opening his eyes was horrified to find that Sauron himself was seated on the edge of his bed.
“How in blazes did you get in here?” he expostulated. “Security is going to have to answer for this!”
Sauron waved a dismissive hand. “Your security people are no match for me, Pete. May I call you Pete?”
Jackson wondered what would happen if he said no. But he didn’t. He nodded. “What do you want, Sauron?”
“Just Sauron? No, my Lord? No, your Horribleness?” Sauron said, somewhat crankily.
Peter Jackson sighed. “Look, Sauron. You may frighten some people, but think about it! I know you inside and out! I know you from the ground up, from your chimney-pot hat down. I’m not going to call my own creation My Lord.”
“Your own creation? Hah! What about Mr. J. R. R. Tolkien? Didn’t he have something to do with creating me?” Sauron sneered.
“Well, yes of course he did. But I gave his creation form! I drew you, Sauron! With a felt pen, at that very drawing board over there!” Peter Jackson got up and pulled on a sumptuous dressing gown. “Look, here are some of the earlier sketches, see?”
“That—that monstrosity is supposed to be ME?” Sauron’s voice rose to a shriek. “That? Why, that looks like something out of the X-Files! Not the Dark Lord of Mordor!”
“Well, it’s not the version we went with. But we could have. You should be grateful I made you so….Majestic. So…..Imposing.”
“Looking at these sketches, I can see that you have a point. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m here to make a deal with you,” Sauron said, his voice becoming brisk, his manner suddenly businesslike. “What do you think about my little trick? Erasing all your movies?”
“I think it sucks, Sauron, if you must know. I suppose there’s no use appealing to your better nature?” Jackson asked, looking hopefully up into the faceless face.
“My what?” Sauron laughed. He laughed long and heartily but it was a mean, sneering laugh, suitable for a villain such as he.
How do I know? Because, dear reader, I had followed Sauron, I had crept along in his wake, and I was crouching at the open window of Mr. Peter Jackson’s private chamber! You don’t get the story sitting on your tuchas in a hotel lounge, drinking whiskey and playing poker with reporters too lazy to get out and hustle!
“OK, OK, I get the picture,” Peter Jackson said. “So, what about this Deal?”
Sauron sat, and crossed his fleshless legs, one empty pant leg folded over the other. It was odd to see, but strangely interesting. He clasped his hands, or rather he clasped what would have been his hands if he had hands. This gets very confusing. “I have something you want, and you have something I want,” Sauron said. “I think we can do business together.”
“I hope so,” Jackson said, his voice showing his weariness and his frustration. “I just want my movies back, so all the fans, the little people who made this movie a hit, the real, ordinary people who saved their pittances so they could buy—“
“Put a cork in it, Pete,” Sauron said rudely. “I don’t give a tinkers about the little people, the ordinary people! It was one of those little people who chucked my ring into—“ he stopped. “I guess that’s a spoiler, right?”
“Yes, it is,” Jackson said. “Now, what is it that I have that you want?”
“It’s not a thing,” Sauron said. “Like, it’s not a precious ring, or anything.” He fidgeted. “The truth is, Pete, that I’m lonely.”
Taken aback, Peter Jackson sat heavily on the edge of his bed. “Lonely?” He frowned. “What are you driving at?”
“I would like some companionship, Pete. Mordor is cold, and bare. It lacks the woman’s touch, Pete. I’d like, well, the truth is, I’d like a date, Pete.”
“A date?”
I thought Peter Jackson was stalling, unsure of his ground he was trying for time. “A date? With who? Whom?”
“That Tyler girl seems nice,” Sauron said.
“You want a date with Liv Tyler?” Peter Jackson squeaked.
“Why shouldn’t I? Do you think I can’t appreciate female charms?” Sauron asked defensively.
“Oh, I’m sure you can, but, but, well, Liv Tyler has a boyfriend already, you see.”
“That’s easily mended,” Sauron said. “He could be made to vanish.”
“Well, that would hardly make you attractive to her, Sauron, if you disappeared her boyfriend. What about—oh, say, Goldberry?”
“Goldberry? She’s not in the movie! And what about Bombadil?” Sauron asked.
“He’s, ah, well, he didn’t take too well to being left out. He’s off on a bender, and I understand that Goldberry likes tall, dark men….beings….wraiths…you know what I mean.”
At this point I climbed in the window. Both Peter Jackson and Sauron, Dark Lord of Mordor, stared at me in surprise. Well, I can’t say for sure about Sauron, but the Lidless Eye seemed to hold an expression of surprise.
“Hi,” I said. “Listen, I think I can help you guys out of your predicament.”
Some little time later, the images miraculously reappeared on all the blank DVD’s and Videotapes all over the world. Peter Jackson went back to bed and slept the innocent, restful sleep of the happy man.
And Sauron and I went to the airport and boarded a jet for Fiji. We’re doing the Blue Lagoon Tour, then we’re heading back to Mordor, and we’ll spend the winter redecorating. He’s a little cranky at times, and his hygiene is somewhat lacking, not surprising in a bodiless wraith. He is tall, dark, and might once have been handsome. As they say, all cats are black at night.
It is not the ideal relationship, but then, how many are?
More News from Bree:
It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that the DVD’s and Videotapes have had their images miraculously restored. This reporter was there when Mr. Peter Jackson and Sauron, Dark Lord of Mordor, made their “secret” deal, and happiness was restored to the world of FOTR Fandom.
You might remember that this reporter left you waiting and wondering after Sauron’s broadcast message. The whole world was waiting and wondering.
Now, the story can be told.
Some twelve hours after the broadcast, when Mr. Peter Jackson had fallen into an exhausted sleep, he was shaken rudely awake and upon opening his eyes was horrified to find that Sauron himself was seated on the edge of his bed.
“How in blazes did you get in here?” he expostulated. “Security is going to have to answer for this!”
Sauron waved a dismissive hand. “Your security people are no match for me, Pete. May I call you Pete?”
Jackson wondered what would happen if he said no. But he didn’t. He nodded. “What do you want, Sauron?”
“Just Sauron? No, my Lord? No, your Horribleness?” Sauron said, somewhat crankily.
Peter Jackson sighed. “Look, Sauron. You may frighten some people, but think about it! I know you inside and out! I know you from the ground up, from your chimney-pot hat down. I’m not going to call my own creation My Lord.”
“Your own creation? Hah! What about Mr. J. R. R. Tolkien? Didn’t he have something to do with creating me?” Sauron sneered.
“Well, yes of course he did. But I gave his creation form! I drew you, Sauron! With a felt pen, at that very drawing board over there!” Peter Jackson got up and pulled on a sumptuous dressing gown. “Look, here are some of the earlier sketches, see?”
“That—that monstrosity is supposed to be ME?” Sauron’s voice rose to a shriek. “That? Why, that looks like something out of the X-Files! Not the Dark Lord of Mordor!”
“Well, it’s not the version we went with. But we could have. You should be grateful I made you so….Majestic. So…..Imposing.”
“Looking at these sketches, I can see that you have a point. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m here to make a deal with you,” Sauron said, his voice becoming brisk, his manner suddenly businesslike. “What do you think about my little trick? Erasing all your movies?”
“I think it sucks, Sauron, if you must know. I suppose there’s no use appealing to your better nature?” Jackson asked, looking hopefully up into the faceless face.
“My what?” Sauron laughed. He laughed long and heartily but it was a mean, sneering laugh, suitable for a villain such as he.
How do I know? Because, dear reader, I had followed Sauron, I had crept along in his wake, and I was crouching at the open window of Mr. Peter Jackson’s private chamber! You don’t get the story sitting on your tuchas in a hotel lounge, drinking whiskey and playing poker with reporters too lazy to get out and hustle!
“OK, OK, I get the picture,” Peter Jackson said. “So, what about this Deal?”
Sauron sat, and crossed his fleshless legs, one empty pant leg folded over the other. It was odd to see, but strangely interesting. He clasped his hands, or rather he clasped what would have been his hands if he had hands. This gets very confusing. “I have something you want, and you have something I want,” Sauron said. “I think we can do business together.”
“I hope so,” Jackson said, his voice showing his weariness and his frustration. “I just want my movies back, so all the fans, the little people who made this movie a hit, the real, ordinary people who saved their pittances so they could buy—“
“Put a cork in it, Pete,” Sauron said rudely. “I don’t give a tinkers about the little people, the ordinary people! It was one of those little people who chucked my ring into—“ he stopped. “I guess that’s a spoiler, right?”
“Yes, it is,” Jackson said. “Now, what is it that I have that you want?”
“It’s not a thing,” Sauron said. “Like, it’s not a precious ring, or anything.” He fidgeted. “The truth is, Pete, that I’m lonely.”
Taken aback, Peter Jackson sat heavily on the edge of his bed. “Lonely?” He frowned. “What are you driving at?”
“I would like some companionship, Pete. Mordor is cold, and bare. It lacks the woman’s touch, Pete. I’d like, well, the truth is, I’d like a date, Pete.”
“A date?”
I thought Peter Jackson was stalling, unsure of his ground he was trying for time. “A date? With who? Whom?”
“That Tyler girl seems nice,” Sauron said.
“You want a date with Liv Tyler?” Peter Jackson squeaked.
“Why shouldn’t I? Do you think I can’t appreciate female charms?” Sauron asked defensively.
“Oh, I’m sure you can, but, but, well, Liv Tyler has a boyfriend already, you see.”
“That’s easily mended,” Sauron said. “He could be made to vanish.”
“Well, that would hardly make you attractive to her, Sauron, if you disappeared her boyfriend. What about—oh, say, Goldberry?”
“Goldberry? She’s not in the movie! And what about Bombadil?” Sauron asked.
“He’s, ah, well, he didn’t take too well to being left out. He’s off on a bender, and I understand that Goldberry likes tall, dark men….beings….wraiths…you know what I mean.”
At this point I climbed in the window. Both Peter Jackson and Sauron, Dark Lord of Mordor, stared at me in surprise. Well, I can’t say for sure about Sauron, but the Lidless Eye seemed to hold an expression of surprise.
“Hi,” I said. “Listen, I think I can help you guys out of your predicament.”
Some little time later, the images miraculously reappeared on all the blank DVD’s and Videotapes all over the world. Peter Jackson went back to bed and slept the innocent, restful sleep of the happy man.
And Sauron and I went to the airport and boarded a jet for Fiji. We’re doing the Blue Lagoon Tour, then we’re heading back to Mordor, and we’ll spend the winter redecorating. He’s a little cranky at times, and his hygiene is somewhat lacking, not surprising in a bodiless wraith. He is tall, dark, and might once have been handsome. As they say, all cats are black at night.
It is not the ideal relationship, but then, how many are?
Dig deeper.
And here:
Yet More News from Bree:
It is not only Boromir who likes to blow his own horn. Faithful readers will remember how this reporter saved the VHS and DVD versions of FOTR. Sauron’s foul plans were circumvented, thanks to me.
Life with Sauron has not been a bed of roses, dear readers. But thanks to some lengthy anger management sessions and a great deal of sensitivity training, our relationship is now on track.
One of the problems has been Sauron’s dislike of my career. As if I could give it up, even for The Dark Lord! “No, no,” I tell him. “I have work to do, Saurie dear, and my faithful readers depend on me to give them the skinny on everything to do with The Lord of the Rings.”
And all is not well. Far from it. With the imminent release of The Two Towers, emotions are running high, fragile egos are positively shattering everywhere, and evil plots are coming to light. Just today I had word from an informant close to PJ that he has trouble on his hands.
The Balrog has filed suit, alleging that he deserves higher billing. “I worked like a galley slave in The Fellowship,” Ghash Balrog asserts. “I never cared about overtime, I never cared that I didn’t have my own trailer, I didn’t care that the hairdresser absolutely ruined my hair, but I do care about billing!” He has engaged none other than Johnny Cochrane, and is confident that he will win his case.
The Troll has filed a separate lawsuit, alleging that he was promised a large role in The Two Towers and has just learned that he does not even appear. “I have been snookered,” Thaddeus Troll announced. “I found out yesterday that my girlfriend Toots—I should say, my ex-girlfriend Toots, appears dressed as a male Troll in the fight at Helm’s Deep!” Mr. Troll’s voice broke at this point and I had to give him a few moments to recover his poise. Dear Readers, it was difficult for this reporter to see this hulking giant reduced to such a state! “Yes,” he went on, “Toots! Dressed as me! And why? Because she worked for half the money, that’s why. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. And she has no more idea of how to wield the axe and the club than……than a Hobbit.”
Speaking of Hobbits, all is not well with the diminutive dwellers of the Shire, either. A feud, bitter in the extreme, has arisen between the Maggot and the Gamgee families. It seems that young Martin Maggot is claiming that it was he, Martin Maggot, who was meant to go on the Quest with Mr. Frodo. Samwise was unavailable for comment, but Martin was willing to air his grievances over a pint or two at the Holly Bush. “I dunno why that Sam thinks he’s so hot,” Martin grumbled. “I could do the job, but I never got the chance! He took it off me, he did.”
At this point I had to consider my expense account. My boss always questions these Pub expenses, the cheapskate. But I had to get the story, so I ordered another round. Deep into the fifth pint Martin restated his complaint. “ It shoulda bin me, I tell you! I had a new backpack and all, and that blasted Sam, just ‘cause he allus worked for Mr. Frodo afore, why, they never even thought o’ askin’ me…..it ain’t fair, I tell you, it ain’t fair….” At this point Martin laid his head on his arms and went to sleep, snoring sonorously. I finished my Scotch, and crept away---and left the tab tucked under Martin’s elbow. Always thinking of the old expense account!
It was apparent that Martin’s complaint had more to do with ale than ability, but I was saddened to learn that the two families, formerly friends, have been drawn into the argument. Hours of research later showed me that the feud was long simmering, dating back to the salad days of Mrs. Maggot and Mrs. Gamgee, former bosom buddies and now rival entrepreneurs. Each has opened a Bed and Breakfast establishment, and each advertises herself as the Most Important Matriarch in Middle Earth’s Shire.
So there you have it, dear readers. This reporter dug deep, and got the dirt. What the various outcomes will be, it is not for me to say. I have done my part.
I am rushing back to my rural fastness, where The Dark Lord awaits. I called home last night and was touched at much the poor fellow misses me. He has no minions any more, of course, no hordes of Orcs to do his will. He doesn’t even know how to work the microwave! It has been grand being hot on the trail of a story, dear readers, but I confess these jaunts are beginning to wear me down. I am not as young as I once was.
Sauron and I are going to the Premiere of The Two Towers, of course. Sauron has had a new Iron Suit especially made, and my new Aluminum dress is simply stunning. PJ has arranged a private jet to convey us, and a suite of luxurious rooms have been reserved. One stipulation is always that we have a super-king-sized waterbed in our room. Modesty forbids me from mentioning more, but the imaginative among you may visualize the steams that arise when Sauron and I meet in sweet embrace!
TTFN
There are two more. I'll post them if anyone wants to read them.
Yet More News from Bree:
It is not only Boromir who likes to blow his own horn. Faithful readers will remember how this reporter saved the VHS and DVD versions of FOTR. Sauron’s foul plans were circumvented, thanks to me.
Life with Sauron has not been a bed of roses, dear readers. But thanks to some lengthy anger management sessions and a great deal of sensitivity training, our relationship is now on track.
One of the problems has been Sauron’s dislike of my career. As if I could give it up, even for The Dark Lord! “No, no,” I tell him. “I have work to do, Saurie dear, and my faithful readers depend on me to give them the skinny on everything to do with The Lord of the Rings.”
And all is not well. Far from it. With the imminent release of The Two Towers, emotions are running high, fragile egos are positively shattering everywhere, and evil plots are coming to light. Just today I had word from an informant close to PJ that he has trouble on his hands.
The Balrog has filed suit, alleging that he deserves higher billing. “I worked like a galley slave in The Fellowship,” Ghash Balrog asserts. “I never cared about overtime, I never cared that I didn’t have my own trailer, I didn’t care that the hairdresser absolutely ruined my hair, but I do care about billing!” He has engaged none other than Johnny Cochrane, and is confident that he will win his case.
The Troll has filed a separate lawsuit, alleging that he was promised a large role in The Two Towers and has just learned that he does not even appear. “I have been snookered,” Thaddeus Troll announced. “I found out yesterday that my girlfriend Toots—I should say, my ex-girlfriend Toots, appears dressed as a male Troll in the fight at Helm’s Deep!” Mr. Troll’s voice broke at this point and I had to give him a few moments to recover his poise. Dear Readers, it was difficult for this reporter to see this hulking giant reduced to such a state! “Yes,” he went on, “Toots! Dressed as me! And why? Because she worked for half the money, that’s why. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. And she has no more idea of how to wield the axe and the club than……than a Hobbit.”
Speaking of Hobbits, all is not well with the diminutive dwellers of the Shire, either. A feud, bitter in the extreme, has arisen between the Maggot and the Gamgee families. It seems that young Martin Maggot is claiming that it was he, Martin Maggot, who was meant to go on the Quest with Mr. Frodo. Samwise was unavailable for comment, but Martin was willing to air his grievances over a pint or two at the Holly Bush. “I dunno why that Sam thinks he’s so hot,” Martin grumbled. “I could do the job, but I never got the chance! He took it off me, he did.”
At this point I had to consider my expense account. My boss always questions these Pub expenses, the cheapskate. But I had to get the story, so I ordered another round. Deep into the fifth pint Martin restated his complaint. “ It shoulda bin me, I tell you! I had a new backpack and all, and that blasted Sam, just ‘cause he allus worked for Mr. Frodo afore, why, they never even thought o’ askin’ me…..it ain’t fair, I tell you, it ain’t fair….” At this point Martin laid his head on his arms and went to sleep, snoring sonorously. I finished my Scotch, and crept away---and left the tab tucked under Martin’s elbow. Always thinking of the old expense account!
It was apparent that Martin’s complaint had more to do with ale than ability, but I was saddened to learn that the two families, formerly friends, have been drawn into the argument. Hours of research later showed me that the feud was long simmering, dating back to the salad days of Mrs. Maggot and Mrs. Gamgee, former bosom buddies and now rival entrepreneurs. Each has opened a Bed and Breakfast establishment, and each advertises herself as the Most Important Matriarch in Middle Earth’s Shire.
So there you have it, dear readers. This reporter dug deep, and got the dirt. What the various outcomes will be, it is not for me to say. I have done my part.
I am rushing back to my rural fastness, where The Dark Lord awaits. I called home last night and was touched at much the poor fellow misses me. He has no minions any more, of course, no hordes of Orcs to do his will. He doesn’t even know how to work the microwave! It has been grand being hot on the trail of a story, dear readers, but I confess these jaunts are beginning to wear me down. I am not as young as I once was.
Sauron and I are going to the Premiere of The Two Towers, of course. Sauron has had a new Iron Suit especially made, and my new Aluminum dress is simply stunning. PJ has arranged a private jet to convey us, and a suite of luxurious rooms have been reserved. One stipulation is always that we have a super-king-sized waterbed in our room. Modesty forbids me from mentioning more, but the imaginative among you may visualize the steams that arise when Sauron and I meet in sweet embrace!
TTFN
There are two more. I'll post them if anyone wants to read them.
Dig deeper.
-
Primula Baggins
- Living in hope
- Posts: 40005
- Joined: Mon Nov 21, 2005 1:43 am
- Location: Sailing the luminiferous aether
- Contact:
I'm off to bed, but I'd like to read them! (I haven't read the first ones yet.)
“There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King
