Psimon Posted August 16, 2006 Report Posted August 16, 2006 Te Papa Tongawera, an architectural juggernaut of stone, steel and glass, stands berthed at Wellington’s waterfront, housing the return of the king of exhibitions. I am drawn to it as the Nazgûl are drawn to the Ring of Power, and cannot help but ponder if New Zealand has been permanently colonised by Gondor, Mordor and all the little doors, or if this will all pass into the west, and beyond will lie a far, green country under a swift sunrise. Beneath Te Papa’s jutting outer angles, an elderly woman lurches by wearing more makeup than Lawrence Makoare ever had to endure as Lurtz, the Uruk Hai. One could perhaps be forgiven for presuming the woman is a walking prosthetic; a construct of timber, urethane, fabric and paint escaped from the exhibition or from Weta Studios’ Mirimar fortress. Walking undead notwithstanding, this is a time of family groups – the start of the second week of the school holidays – and everywhere is the invitation, nay, the compulsion for people to part with their money. A clear Perspex donation box at the entrance to the museum ensures everyone can see how generous or cheap you have been with your visit. Fathers stumble past with sons in tow, or vice versa, while mothers waddle with fledgling swans in their wake. A man glances at his watch for the third time as his charges gaze at the Exhibition promo video playing on the carefully branded display monitor. Product placement is everything here. “Can we go in, Dad? Can we? Please…” Dad reaches for his wallet and checks the expiry date on the Platinum Express Card. He didn’t leave home without it, silly man. Four boys with one adult chaperone: Entry tickets, souvenirs, lunch, more souvenirs. Painful. The wheeled-walker women of Wainuiomata arrive and sweep all before them. Looking to blow their pension money on something more than the next blue rinse, their sturdy white plimsolls are going to get a good workout today. “He’s such a sweet boy, isn’t he?” chirps the leader of the pack. “Which one?” enquires her wingman. “Viggo Mortensen.” “Oh, yes. I wouldn’t mind his shoes under my bed.” They roar past with the doppler squeal of rubber-soles on parquet floors. From the ceiling, banners and flags of Gondor and Rohan flutter in the air-conditioned breeze proclaiming New Line Cinema’s claim on New Zealand. In ‘Ye olde’ Gift Shoppe, two young Japanese women with flawless skin and matching Hello Kitty handbags drool over the jewellery cases filled with golden Lesser Rings of Power on tasteful mithril chain necklaces, mentally converting dollars to yen. The Gauntlet of Sauron, which one can only presume comes complete with enclosed Hand of Sauron, can be yours for a mere eleven hundred and ninety nine dollars, including GST. It’s a limited edition – he only had two to donate to the exhibition – and comes with The One Ring. A bargain, really. Twelve hundred dollars gets you all the evil power in Middle Earth. The American-accented host who takes my ticket confides that Peter Jackson gave New Zealand ‘ownership’ of the trilogy by involving so many Kiwis in the production of the films. The exhibition has “come home” and has been expanded. Some two and a half thousand people a day viewed the exhibition in the opening weeks in April. That volume eased back to around eight hundred a day before the start of the school holidays when it jumped back to between twelve and fifteen hundred a day. With a little mental maths one arrives at an average ticket price of around nine dollars (twelve dollars for adults and six dollars fifty cents for children) and that translates to a little under a cool million in ticket sales alone (dollars, not yen) – not including Sauron’s limited edition Gauntlets. Every shade of the geek spectrum is represented in the multitudes that move relentlessly toward the exhibition like massive Mumakils of the Harad on remote control. There are geeks and geek wannabes, closet geeks and ‘outed’ geeks, father-and-son geeks and Dad and Mum geeks. There are some who swim against the current, cutting across and through any half gap that presents itself, while others, lacking the intestinal fortitude to strike out on their own, are swept along. The One Ring rules them all and in the darkness binds them. A bespectacled, One-Ring-shirt-wearing host wanders past clutching the body of a sign, ‘This interactive display is out of order.’ Man down! The king has fallen! Some orc-child has bludgeoned him to death with a grubby little fist. Five minutes later the host returns to his position at the entrance, ready to take tickets from several new entrants, who, despite Gandalf’s repetitive protestations, continue to slip into the exhibition. A family of five, with the melted-wax faces of those who have been captured by the power of Sauron’s Palantir or watched too many episodes of Coro Street, huddle around a twenty-inch monitor playing documentary vignettes, most of which appear to be played directly from the Extended LOTR Trilogy DVD Boxed Set – available in the gift shop for a very reasonable $89.95 – while the movie props stand in glass-encased displays not three feet away. The cases are not entirely devoid of greasy finger and nose prints, though all are at hobbit height. Like Teletubbies on valium, they chant rhythmically “again, again” as the eyes of the toddler in the stroller roll back into his head and drool pools on his Thomas the Tank Engine bomber jacket. The detail of Arwen’s Coronation Gown leaves you a little short of oxygen, with hundreds of glass beads sewn onto hand-dyed silk satin, chiffon and brocade. The design of her Requiem Dress of the bluest-blue, hand-dyed silk velvet under a frock of silk satin, chiffon and brocade, similarly adorned with metallic thread and glass beads, has you down for the count, but at every display, two or three commentaries compete for the auditory attention of the masses. It’s difficult to truly appreciate the beauty of Arwen’s gowns while Peter Jackson and Richard Taylor expound the virtues of Aragorn and their own cleverness, and Ian McKellen screams, “you shall not pass!” for the tenth time. Too late, Ian. I’m already in. A little farther downstream, Boromir in the Boat is a study in how long a man can hold his breath and keep a straight face under the piercing glares of every unabashed geek that stops to state the obvious. “He looks so real!” You can almost hear his waxen ventriloquist response, “I’m supposed to look real, you twit. Dead, but real, or the punters in the Mines of Moria-like theatres would spot it a mile off and cry foul, wouldn’t they? Now, push off. Or push me off and over the falls again.” It’s at about this point that you begin to get the nagging feeling you’ve seen it all before and the people become more interesting than the exhibits. Children chase elven script spiralling across the wall in the abyss of the Ring display room. “Come and watch the movie,” A small Maori hobbit-boy begs. “It’s not on. There’s no picture.” “Well, come and listen to it then.” His mother seems unimpressed. “Nah, I’d watch the movie, but not just listen to it. You should be able to watch the movie for how much we paid to get in here.” Another family pauses on the moulded black-cushioned island seats in the middle of the polished wood sea of the art gallery floor. “It’s 2 o’clock. What do you want to do next?” “What about that other thing?” “Constable?” “Yeah.” “It’s just art. It’s all pictures.” “Oh… Not that one then.” Dad has clearly had enough and makes a move for the door. The heir apparent risks disinheritance, or worse, “Are we going home now, Your Angriness?” Ouch! From the balcony looking down to level four, hung over the rusted corrugated iron Holden, Made in New Zealand screams to all the tourists. The Lord of The Rings is as kiwi as pavlova, Split Enz, and Phar Lap. Can’t wait for the Aussies to try and claim this one! © MikeB 2006
Appy Posted August 16, 2006 Report Posted August 16, 2006 A compelling read and very very funny. Glad to see you back and that you posted this Psimon! I would say here that I hope it was a day to remember, but from the look of it, you will.
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