The Hobbit. The film sensation of the pre-Christmas season. I had dedicated myself to the midnight premier. I planned on dressing up for it, to "Hobbit" out for it, to imbibe much tea, eat many biscuits, and puff much smoke for it. As it turned out, the semester so conspired that I could not attend the premier. I made the best of it and saw it with my best friend––which was probably better anyway.
Later, I saw it again with my family. That was interesting. My parents have been gung-ho against witchcraft and fantasy for quite some time. When witch-hunts were the fad in the late '90s, after Harry Potter was published, my parents were peer-pressured into throwing out certain Disney classics. I was bitter for some years, but I survived it––sneaking in Disney peeks here and there at a friend's house, reading a fantasy book or two on the sly––until I hit college and went full-out fantasy on them. To be honest, they did bend while I was in high school. A hard-headed first born will do that. I was allowed to read Chronicles of Narnia and LOTR by the end of middle school. We had to leave our "good ol' Southern Baptist" church first, but no sweat off my back.
Yet, certain of Mom's old habits and preconceptions have stayed, which made The Hobbit fun to watch with her. She strained in the seat and her mouth turned down at the mention of "black magic." When Radagast the Brown summoned out the Darkness from his pet hedgehog Sebastian, Mom leaned over my shoulder and whispered, "hey, hey, hey, what's he doing? Is that magic? He's doing magic!" with the tone of how-did-my-daughter-come-to-this in her voice. The summit of discomfort on her end was the Necromancer, long a forbidden type of person and topic in the house. I sat in my seat and smiled inwardly. Since I had seen the movie once before, I could relish her convictions with an evil-er sense of rebellion.
My parents have their reasons. They have their convictions, and even I cannot laugh at convictions. However, I can snicker at those who are too timid to look straight at something and assess it correctly. Because of their generation and upbringing, timidity about fantasy was natural. Magic, magic, magyck. It was all bad. White witch, black witch, red fish, blue fish. All were fish, all were witch. I made peace with fantasy long ago. I have no issue with stories that include magic and lore and myth and even magyck, but that is me. I've looked into the topic. Years from now, I may realize I was an idiot. However, knowing myself, it will be many, many years, if ever. I write, and I like to write fantasy and sci-fi. Some magic is implicit in the basics of both.
(I don't let my parents read my stuff. I have my reasons. My stuff might include, among the gore and violence and swearing––Oh, God, no!––and mindless evil, some fairy dust and magic-ness sprinkled in. I don't put it in for titillation and for the sheer use of it. I have reasons for everything I do.)
We left the theatre after the show. Mom, who had been tense through the first half, was quite calm at the end of the movie. She, who had balked at the series because Gandalf was a wizard, confound it! seemed to have enjoyed the run of the film. Amid the fighting and dwarf-songs, the flaring pine cones and spells, despite Ungoliant-breed and glowing swords and anathema creatures (elves, dwarves, wizards, ugly Gollum, and those nasty, thieving Hobbitses), she enjoyed it. If someone as sensitive to the darker side of magic as she could find it well and good enough to watch without too much censuring, any one can.
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