#50 ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’
Brooding Men, Absent Women, and the Quest to Destroy One (1) Piece of Jewelry
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001) is Peter Jackson’s sweeping, reverent adaptation of Tolkien’s opus about good versus evil, friendship, sacrifice, and the crippling effects of male emotional repression stretched over three volumes and approximately 73 endings. It’s a technical marvel. A fantasy epic. And also, let’s be honest, a high-budget walking tour of toxic responsibility and gender imbalance—featuring men who refuse therapy and one (1) woman who is allowed to speak in full sentences before vanishing into moonlight.
Frodo Baggins (Elijah Wood) is our soft-eyed ring-bearer: a hobbit so pure of heart, so filled with anxious trembling, you wonder if the real villain here isn’t Sauron but the societal pressure to bear everyone’s burdens with a smile. He inherits the One Ring, a seductive symbol of power that corrupts all who touch it—except, conveniently, the right kind of men with strong enough wills and tragic enough backstories. Frodo sets off on a journey to destroy it, accompanied by eight other men and one reluctant immortal with great hair.
Let’s talk about the Fellowship: Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, Boromir, Sam, Merry, Pippin. All men. A full-blown fantasy sausage fest, where the closest thing to emotional intimacy is Sam weeping while packing potatoes. Their banter is noble, their loyalties fierce, and their inner turmoil drenched in mythic masculinity. Aragorn broods. Boromir breaks. Gandalf gaslights. And the hobbits? Mostly they suffer.
Meanwhile, the women—if you can find them—are ethereal set dressing. Galadriel (Cate Blanchett) glows and whispers. Arwen (Liv Tyler) rides a horse in slow motion and promptly disappears for two films. Éowyn hasn’t even shown up yet, because apparently the War of the Ring has a strict “men only” sign taped to its front gate.
The film romanticizes suffering in a way only fantasy can: if you’re in pain, you’re noble. If you isolate yourself, you’re wise. If you die dramatically, even better. There’s no room for softness unless it’s wrapped in duty. No room for women unless they speak in riddles or fall in love on sight. And the few female characters who do appear are coded as either dangerous (Galadriel’s momentary madness) or angelic (Arwen, the prize).
To be clear: the film is gorgeous. The landscapes are breathtaking, the effects hold up, and Howard Shore’s score is nothing short of divine. But all the lush visuals in Middle-earth can’t hide the fact that this is a deeply gendered tale where men are actors, women are oracles, and no one ever asks Frodo if he’s okay before handing him the apocalypse.
3.5 out of 5 Elvish brooches
(One for the production design. One for the score. One for the accidental homoeroticism of Sam and Frodo. Half a star for Cate Blanchett whispering like she’s trying to hex the audience. The rest drowned in Mount Doom alongside the notion that female characters are allowed to carry anything heavier than longing.)
