At this point, any filmgoer who plans to spend 161 minutes with director Peter Jackson’s latest sprawling J. R. R. Tolkien adaptation will not be dissuaded by a mere movie review. Conversely, those who have little interest in journeying back to Middle Earth—or at least Jackson’s earnest, opulent, and violent iteration of it-—are probably immune to persuasion on the matter. (This writer is in the former category, for the record. All geeky biases should be on the table.) Jackson’s towering fantasy epics are less critic-proof blockbusters than jillion-dollar wonder cabinets: patrons turn over their dollars to gawk at the sights.
Like An Unexpected Journey, the first chapter in this absurdly expansive three-part adaptation of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, The Desolation of Smaug is somewhat narratively unwieldy. In their efforts to expand a modest novel into eight-plus hours of cinema, Jackson and his co-writers pack the film with bombastic action sequences and original elaborations. Individually, the scenes in Smaug are mostly urgent and gratifying, but as a single king-size movie morsel, it feels shapeless and even aimless at times. Fortunately, the new film boasts far more fresh settings, creatures, and sorcery than its predecessor, which often leaned too heavily on the familiar elements from the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Smaug’s production design is peerless, as viewers should now expect, and the performances are vivid, with Martin Freeman’s Bilbo, Richard Armitage’s Thorin, and Ken Stott’s Balin again stealing the show. (Ian McKellen’s Gandalf is hustled off to follow some B-plot breadcrumbs, giving him little to do but frown fearfully.) On the whole, Smaug offers slightly more pleasures than Journey: its fantasy action is more vigorous and imaginative, and its themes of pride and avarice are potently conveyed. And of course, there is Smaug himself (Benedict Cumberbatch), a vainglorious fiend who somehow slithers despite his mammoth bulk, and who delivers a Christmas gift of hellfire and primeval terror.
