@10DowningStreet how are those officers not being prosecuted? In the United States we fuck up a lot. But shit. We at least put cops in prison when they murder people.
Turn away, my readers. Return to the pages of the Red Book and the Appendices, where the true Rings were forged in sorrow and in fire. There alone lies the tale worth keeping.
In righteous wrath and undying sorrow,
J.R.R. Tolkien
(Professor of Anglo-Saxon, Emeritus)
@TheRingsofPower@Nerdrotics
The Harfoots—those wandering precursors to my Hobbits—are dragged untimely into the Second Age as quaint rustics full of modern chatter and folksy nonsense, their speech flat and mechanical, full of lines like stones that see only downward or tempests within. No echo of the simple, earthy dignity of the Little People remains; instead we hear the clipped slogans of our own troubled time, as though the Gaffer Gamgee had been schooled by the machines of Isengard. The Elves of Lindon and Eregion, grave and tall and clad in the grace of their kind, are here mingled and altered in ways that mock the ordered Music of the Ainur, their very hair shorn in fashions unbecoming the Firstborn.
This is no adaptation. It is theft and desecration, a billion-dollar insult wrought by those who know not the difference between myth and merchandise. It offers not the beauty of Arda, but a glittering bauble empty of soul, forced into the petty concerns of our day.
Visually it is a blasphemy: landscapes that warp like fever-dreams, palaces rising in vulgar splendour, ships that resemble the ironclads of our wars rather than the proud vessels of Westernesse. The light of the Eldar is cheapened to glitter; the Shadow made mere roaring flame and shrieking noise. All is surface, noise, and haste—no quiet wonder, no sense of ages long and deep.
Worst of all is the tongue in which they speak. Where my Eldar and Edain spoke with measured music, with the high and ancient dignity that stirs the heart, here is only the ceaseless clanging of base metal: “There is a tempest in me!” or other such drivel, repeated as if the audience were dullards in need of hammering. No poetry, no wonder, no depth—only the grinding of the Machine, serving up moralising platitudes about power while stripping the tale of its tragic nobility, its long defeat, and its profound melancholy.
@TheRingsofPower@Nerdrotics
Sauron the Deceiver, whose subtlety ensnared the hearts of the Wise, appears here in mummery and cheap disguises, his slow corruption of Eregion turned into a hasty puppet-show of mystery boxes and sudden unmaskings. The Rings themselves—the very heart of the tale—are forged not in the tragic fire of ambition and deceit, but amid invented feuds over Mithril and dwarven whims, as though the Great Rings were but baubles hammered for the sake of spectacle. The timeline they have crushed into a single frantic age, cramming the long tragedy of Númenor and the fading of the Elves into a gaudy pageant that defies the slow, sorrowful march of years I set down.
@TheRingsofPower@Nerdrotics
Lo! They have taken the bones of my legendarium and clad them in the garish rags of this age. Galadriel, that high and terrible lady of the Noldor, she who walked beneath the light of the Two Trees and whose wisdom outlasted kingdoms, is here rendered a petulant sword-maiden, raging like a barbarian out of some forgotten North, her grief reduced to childish fury and her counsel to the petulance of one denied a plaything. Where once she stood grave and perilous, fair and daunting, they have made her a headstrong girl, ordering the affairs of kings as though she were no more than a vexed child. This is no Galadriel. This is a libel upon the Eldar.
@TheRingsofPower@Nerdrotics
My dear friends,
In this darkening hour of our latter days, when the engines of profit grind without cease and the ancient tales are seized by the hands of those who neither love nor understand them, there hath issued from the forges of Amazon a thing they dare name The Rings of Power. Verily, it is no child of mine. It is a twisted mockery, a shadow cast by flickering screens, born not of sub-creation but of presumption and the lust for coin. I, who laboured through long years in quiet scholarship to weave the true Music of the Ainur into the history of the Elder Days, behold it with wrath and with a sorrow deeper than the roots of the Misty Mountains.
The Bible isn’t just a religious text—it’s one of the most textually preserved documents in human history. With 25,000+ ancient manuscripts, including the Dead Sea Scrolls, its core texts show remarkable consistency across centuries. It’s referenced or corroborated by Roman and Jewish historians like Tacitus and Josephus, and its geography, people, and events are routinely confirmed by archaeology. You don’t have to believe it to acknowledge that, historically speaking, it’s one of the best-attested books ever written.