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[from spring 2003]
On "Not Getting" Frodo
While Tolkien was adamant that his writings on Middle-earth should not be taken as allegories, he did want readers to apply them to their lives in their own ways. So any comments I make are purely my own application and not Tolkien's, and don't necessarily have to be yours. But that also means you can apply any of the images and incarnations found in Middle-earth to your own life, in your own way.
That said, I'm going to talk--of course--about Frodo. But I'm going to start with a recent phenomenon regarding the character. Or is it?
Reading what people post on online message boards regarding the current Lord of the Rings movies, it's obvious that some people "get" Frodo, and others don't. "Is Frodo a pansy?" was a hot topic after the first movie came out, and the same discussion continues after the release of the second, although different words are used. Even many of those who "get" Frodo complain that the movies have stripped him of his opportunities for courageous action. His decision to stay and protect his friends from the barrow-wight instead of taking the opportunity to escape alone is completely eliminated, he drops his sword at Weathertop, doesn't get the chance to stand up against the Nazgul at the ford, and gives in far too easily to the Ring on several occasions. There's a fear that, if he's already so disintegrated (literally) physically and psychologically by the end of the second movie, the further weakening he has to go through during the third will completely take him out of the action and movie viewers who haven't read the book won't realize that he is, after all, a hero.
But, you know, a lot of people who have read the book don't realize that, either. Many readers who love the book don't "get" Frodo any more than some movie viewers do. There are some who think better people (that is, with better fighting and/or magical ability) should have been sent on the quest. Not a few think Sam should have been given the job of Ring-bearer, because Frodo obviously wasn't up to it. Tolkien heard from at least one reader who thought Frodo should have been hung as a traitor. These are opinions that were around long before the movies were even dreamed of, so can the movies really be blamed for them? Or did those of us who find ourselves defending Frodo's honor have a secret (even subconscious) hope that the movies might give him "better press" than the book did?
I won't go through a point-by-point analysis here, but in my opinion if you line up events in the movies against events in the book, Frodo has basically the same amount of courage, as well as physical and mental stamina in both (maturity, education, diplomatic ability, etc., are a different story). As just one example, during the passage of the marshes, Frodo is weaker in the book than he is in the movie; things seem to balance out.
So why are so many people who are so sure of Frodo's heroism in the book so worried about it in the movies? Could it have something to do with the way the movies confront us with the kind of hero Frodo is, the way they don't let us evade it by turning the page or skimming over a painful (to us) show of weakness? It's easier to intellectualize what we read in the book than what we see as stark reality on the screen. If we're unhappy with Frodo's very real weaknesses (in book and/or movies), maybe we don't "get" Frodo as much as we think we do. Maybe we don't want to, or are even afraid to, because his type of heroism is so close to our own real fears. We'd be much more comfortable with an action hero whose battles are safely outside our reality.
The crux of Frodo's heroism is that he can't do what he's setting out to do. He knows it, Gandalf knows it, Elrond knows it, everyone at the Council that gives him the task knows it. But they also know that no one else could do it. When they send Frodo off as Ring-bearer, they're not trusting him to get the job done (Tolkien's already shown us by that time that Frodo couldn't perform the necessary action even in his own parlor). They're trusting whoever or whatever power it was that "appointed the task" to him, that decided he was "meant" to have the Ring. In essence, though Tolkien doesn't use the word, they're trusting in Providence, in whatever form that takes in Middle-earth. And I think it's vitally important to understand that's what Frodo is trusting in, too. If he'd been trusting in his own strength or power to do the job, the Ring would have drawn him into its temptations almost from the start. It's his very lack of trust in himself and lack of hope for himself that suit him for the quest--a strange kind of hero, indeed.
Those who do have enough power of their own to give them some reason to trust in it, don't trust themselves with the Ring--at least not the wise ones. Of all the people in Middle-earth who might actually have the power to wield the Ring--besides its Maker--only Saruman has lost the wisdom to know it's precisely those who can wield the Ring who mustn't do so. Boromir doesn't have the power to use the Ring, but he thinks he does--and trusts his own power more than he should. Sending the Ring off with a halfling seems a bit like deciding it's safe to hand a child a gun, because the child doesn't have the strength to pull the trigger. It has to be remembered, though, that children grow, and if a child doesn't grow in wisdom at least as quickly as he grows in strength, the gun becomes a dangerous weapon again. For me, two of the most chilling words in all of LotR come when Frodo and Sam watch the Witch King lead his army from Minas Morgul, and Frodo knows within himself that, even though he carries the Ring, he doesn't have the power to face the Witch King in a battle for supremacy-- "Not yet." No one in Middle-earth is perfect, just as no one (not even Sauron, Tolkien assures us) is totally evil. There's some desire for power in the heart of even "the best hobbit in the Shire." Frodo has to have a great deal of trust to continue on his journey, but he's wise enough not to trust in himself.
Hope is important to Tolkien, although it's always "hope without guarantee." So how could he create a hero devoid of hope? He didn't. Frodo doesn't lack hope--only hope for himself. There's a scene after Frodo and Sam have crossed into Mordor in which Sam sees a star shining above that wasteland, and realizes that goodness and beauty are something far bigger than himself and his master, and that no matter what happens to them, those things will endure. Then he lies down beside Frodo and immediately falls peacefully asleep. Frodo is already asleep; he'd had that same realization long before. It had been part of his consciousness at least since the breaking of the Fellowship, when he told Sam that coming with him to Mordor "would be the death of [him]." But much later than that, Sam is still concerned about having enough food for the return journey - a concept Frodo no longer thinks of.
In order for Frodo to have trust without trusting in himself, and hope without hoping for himself, he also has to have a frighteningly complete openness. A "two-way" openness, you might say. First, to trust in and accept the call from whoever or whatever it was that gave him the task (even though, in Middle-earth during the Third Age there was no clear concept of a personal God, which would make "blind faith" even blinder), and, second, to risk - and then to lose - the totality of his self, in hope that the higher goodness and beauty could be preserved. The heroism this needs has nothing to do with swords or fists, so how much we get to see Frodo use such things is irrelevant.
The complete stripping of identity that Frodo experiences would, in Tolkien's philosophy as I understand it, be worse than death, because even beyond death we remain who we are. And this loss doesn't take place in one "heroic" moment but through a halting, gradual process Frodo has no way of stopping except by giving in to the Ring's evil and abandoning his task, a temptation he faces - and refuses - not once or twice, but with every breath and heartbeat. As his very selfhood is consumed by the Ring - that is, by the power and will of Sauron that the Ring holds - Frodo can only watch as he continues to allow it to happen.
Frodo's agonizingly aware of this gradual loss, at least during the last stage and probably before. What's usually called his "Wheel of Fire Speech" is, I believe, his attempt to describe the indescribable to Sam; he's "naked in the dark" with nothing between him and the fire that grows as he diminishes. (Even the linking of darkness and fire seems to imply that the nature of what he's experiencing is beyond what he can put into words.) That "nothing" is what used to be himself: his identity and, crucial in Tolkien's scheme of things, his will.
The process isn't complete yet when Frodo makes that "speech," but he knows only too well what's happening to him and what the end of that process will be, and yet he continues to doggedly use every bit of will he does have to force his way toward exactly that end, still trusting that he's being led by whoever or whatever it was that called him to the task, and still hoping - without any guarantee - that goodness and beauty will endure even if he can never know them again.
That's the kind of hero he is.
And I think it scares the hell out of us.
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Copyright 2003 by Trudy G. Shaw
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