Bernard
Hill,
who
sadly
passed
away
this
past
weekend,
is
a
part
of
some
of
the
greatest
moments
in
the
Lord
of
the
Rings
movies.
As
Théoden,
his
lines
are
endlessly
quotable,
often
memeable,
and
he
is
given
some
of
the
best
work
in
the
trilogy
tied
to
its
legendary
battles
like
Helm’s
Deep
and
the
charge
of
the
Rohirrim
at
Minas
Tirith.
But
there’s
one
scene
that
perfectly
encapsulates
what
made
Hill’s
performance
so
incredible:
one
with
neither
sound
nor
fury,
but
full
of
Hill’s
humanity.
Shortly after Théoden is roused from being dominated by the will of Saruman and his lackey Grima Wormtounge in The Two Towers, we see him react to the tragic news that his son, Théodred, was killed by orc raiders while Théoden was ensorcelled by Isengard. While the extended edition of the film gave us Théodred’s actual funeral, the original film kept the most important moment of it all in what came after: Gandalf coming across the still-recovering King as he watched over his son’s burial mound.
LOTR The Two Towers - Simbelmynë on the Burial Mounds
Every character in Lord of the Rings, to some extent, speaks with a fantastical, romantic structure to their sentences, just as they did in Tolkien’s original books, but Théoden is especially remembered for his flowery words—in his greatest moments like the legendary speech he gives at Pelennor fields, or as the last of Helm’s Deeps defenders ride out to face the Uruk-Hai. It’s here, in this scene too—“alas that these evil days should be mine... that I should live, to see the last days of my house.” But what always made Hill’s performance shine in these films isn’t just the weight he put into those lyrical words, but the warmth of them. There’s always a risk with such fantastical dialogue that it can come across as stilted, or even cold—dialogue that reads well on the page, but said out loud doesn’t sound like something a person would say. But Hill portrays Théoden in this moment and in countless others with a humanity that gives such emotion to every word: here his tiredness, his grief, his despair for the weight of the world he lives in and his love for his son, lingering in every moment.
But it’s in the plainest line of all—as Théoden reflects on the cruelty of a parent having to bury their child—that he chooses to crumble. There is no great roar, no wail, nothing grand to reflect the great grief he feels. Hill plays the moment, buckling into sobs as he falls to his knees, with a stillness. He’s almost silent—you can barely hear as he gasps for breath between sobs. It falls to Ian McKellan’s Gandalf to pick up the poetry, comforting Théoden with the wise words of the Istari, but Théoden himself? There is no poetic king in this moment, just a man, a father consumed by grief for his fallen son.
For all the layers and airs we often associate with Hill’s performance, it’s this one small moment—one where he barely has to speak—that still reminds us what made Théoden such a compelling character in the first place.
Want more io9 news? Check out when to expect the latest Marvel, Star Wars, and Star Trek releases, what’s next for the DC Universe on film and TV, and everything you need to know about the future of Doctor Who.
When you subscribe to the blog, we will send you an e-mail when there are new updates on the site so you wouldn't miss them.
Comments