The Case for Criticism and "Yucking" the Rings of Power

Confession: I don’t like black licorice. In fact, I can’t stand it.*

But, other people enjoy it. 

Am I therefore not supposed to say I don’t like black licorice? By voicing my displeasure, am I crossing some metaphorical line in the sand? 

Am I, to use the modern vernacular, “yucking someone’s yum?”

Confession 2: I hate the phrase “yucking my yum." Deeply.

If you like black licorice and you’re a reasonably well-formed adult you shouldn’t let my critique bother you. Just shrug and keep eating. 

And you should, because if you’re an adult you should come to understand that criticism—literary and film or any other form of informed critique—is a part of life, and plays a crucial role in how we understand the world.

Let’s move this argument away from suspect candy choices and squarely on the content of this blog.

The Amazon show “The Rings of Power” is visually impressive. The scores, pretty good. The production values, high, especially compared to most TV shows. There are reasons why many watch it … but there is also much in it to criticize. I’m far from the only one to point out its flaws; countless articles and video essays describe these in detail. To summarize a few:

• Its adherence to Tolkienian lore is quite weak, to the point of being generic fantasy with an elf mask. 

• The faux-Shakespearian dialogue ranges from overwrought (“There is a Tempest in Me!”) to howlingly awful (“The Sea is Always Right”). 

• The battle scenes lack gravitas, in no small part because the characters are underdeveloped.

• The recent foray into “shipping” and emphasis on “Hot Sauron” is an obvious pander to fans of romantasy. 

Worse, it doesn’t seem to have respect for Tolkien’s deeper themes. We don’t need to challenge our “long held perceptions of orcs as an evil race.” There are monsters in Middle-earth—and in the real world. Orcs are a cancer, a corruption of healthy, vital life. They can be destroyed without moral quandary.

In short, it’s a show that for many appears to exist to sell Amazon Prime subscriptions through the subversion and exploitation of a beloved author’s works. 

Yep, that’s a hard conclusion, but it’s one many share. More than half of season 1 viewers abandoned the show and fan rankings stand at a “rotten” 48%.

But many still watch, and season 3 rolls on. Jeff Bezos grittily marches into the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. He has a big ego and he paid big money for the rights and I don’t see him quitting. Amazon is wealthy beyond belief and could literally stoke the fires of Mount Doom with $20 bills until it covers the plateau of Gorgoroth with molten lava and still turn a quarterly profit. 

But all the money in the world cannot buy great art. The show writers seem to possess zero understanding of what makes The Lord of the Rings great, nor how to transfer any of Tolkien’s unique vision to the screen. Compromises must be made when we make expensive shows or films that must appeal to a broad audience. But this can be done with care, and thoughtfulness. I love Peter Jackson’s film trilogy. Jackson made changes, which must be done in any book to screen adaptation. But he hewed to Tolkien whenever he could. He respected the source material. In contrast, the Rings of Power veers from Tolkien at every turn; it is bad pastiche, an expensive, overwrought soap opera masquerading as epic. 

Many of its fans don’t want to hear this sort of critique. “If you don’t like it, don’t watch it. You’re yucking my yum!”

I get it. No one likes a critic. True creatives create; critics in the eyes of some are parasites, or frustrated artists.

But I really can’t stand “yucking my yum,” and not just because it’s an annoying phrase. I despite what it stands for: That there is no value or place for criticism. Content is for mindless consumption. Just be quiet and read, or watch, or eat (the candy, not your television). Enjoy what’s being served and shut up.

But I don’t work that way. If you come to understand love Tolkien you come to realize the magnitude of his effort, and stand before it an awe. He spent a lifetime creating his world and no one has equaled his achievement before or since. To quote George R.R. Martin, “Fantasy had existed long before him, yes, but J.R.R. Tolkien took it and made it his own in a way that no writer before him had ever done, a way that no writer will ever do again.” 

How did Tolkien do it? It begs for analysis. 

Enter the critics.

***

Criticism has a long and distinguished tradition because it helps shape our understanding of the world. A good critic demonstrates what is good in art. The artists’ technique and craft. Where a work came from, where it fits in the tradition of what came before. How it succeeds--and when necessary, what is flawed, or how it fails, and why that is so. 

There is an inherent value to this practice. If every published piece of writing or art is the same because of some vague notion of the subjectivity of art and the subjectivity of the individual consuming it, there is little dialogue possible beyond “yay!” 

Here’s something perhaps more controversial to say in our postmodern era: The arts are not purely subjective. This is demonstrably true if you contrast the far ends of the spectrum. If we can agree that paint flung on a canvas by a chimp is not the same as Michaelangelo’s work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, that means we can make finer gradations. Here’s one: Lin Carter’s Thongor is not as good as Robert E. Howard’s Conan. Why? Howard’s prose is better: More propulsive, more poetic. Howard’s barbarian was an original and Carter’s was not. Howard grapples with some deep thematic material including barbarism vs. civilization; Carter does not. Critics point this out not to put Carter down (I’ve extolled Carter as an editor BTW), but to illuminate and facilitate discussion. Knowing that Conan was original and Thongor a pastiche allows us to appreciate the debt the latter owes the former and understand where sword-and-sorcery originated, and therefore why Howard’s achievement is the greater. And along the way we make some sense of the world.

Drawing distinctions doesn’t make someone an edgelord. It makes them a careful reader, or viewer. There is a reason we have the Oscars, why Siskel and Ebert judge films with a “thumbs up” or a “thumbs down,” why people consult Rotten Tomatoes, why Year’s Best anthologies exist. In a world where infinite consumption is possible, curation and good judgement have value. Good criticism points us in the direction of good things and steers us away from the bad—or at least makes us better consider how to spend our finite hours.

There is only so much time in the day. I’d rather spend it on good things, not just more “content."

Does this give you license to cruelly trash properties you don’t like? Of course not. Critique must be informed, and its application, thoughtful and measured. I don’t critique modern country music or jazz, The Beatles, because I’m not invested in them, and I don’t really understand their appeal. I respect the opinion of other critics who tell me Jane Austen is good—I’m not a fan of that genre, but I can recognize her greatness.

But I do care deeply about The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion and Tolkien’s broader literary corpus. I have read him extensively and even a good portion of the sizable body of critical literature that surrounds him. I understand what makes his works tick and makes them uniquely great. I want to see Tolkien handled with love and care. And when it isn’t I speak up. 

I assume the role of critic. 

Here is another (critical) observation: Using the labels of a beloved intellectual property bears some measure of responsibility. And not just to the fans, but the creator. The full name of the Rings of Power is The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power. It is clearly signaling, “this is Tolkien. Those books and movies you loved, by that old British dude? This is more of the same.”

Unfortunately the Rings of Power comes up short on this promise. And beyond the matter of source material fidelity it’s just not a well-written show. 

This is not “yucking your yum.” We are not obligated to silently and passively consume whatever Amazon serves up—especially when it’s a yuck. 

But no need to listen to me, I’m just a critic. If you like Rings of Power, watch it. 

Better yet, craft a well-measured response or defense. Thoughtful engagement, debate, conversation, criticism—we could use more of that.

*It’s the anise. It tastes like cough medicine and poisons everything it touches. I drank my share of Jaegermeister in college, yakked on it a few times, and black licorice is yakked Jaeger. If I’m being charitable, I can understand why it was once popular. Candymaking was in its infancy in the early 20th century; we didn’t know what we were doing or what we were missing. Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers Bars, and Jolly Ranchers have elevated the art form. We’ve come a long way, baby.

Run With The Wolf, Rainbow

This Metal Friday called powerfully for Rainbow. I just finished listening to the audiobook of Rainbow in the Dark: The Autobiography, the memoir of legendary heavy metal vocalist Ronnie James Dio, published posthumously in July 2021. In it you get a whole lot of Dio's days with Rainbow, the band formed by Ritchie Blackmore following his departure from Deep Purple.

I can't recommend Rainbow in the Dark enough. I did not fully and properly appreciate Rainbow's place in the creation/evolution of heavy metal until this book. Rainbow married Blackmore's guitar hero theatrics with the powerful and atmospheric lyrics of Ronnie James Dio, and critically, the medieval/wizardry/fantasy elements that would come to characterize so many subsequent metal bands.

Yeah, Led Zeppelin and other bands did this kind of thing too, but only in spurts, a song here and there. Rainbow leaned into it hard and made it their calling card--at least for Dio's tenure with the band. It's too bad the Dio/Blackmore combo did not last longer. It produced magic, literally and figuratively. 

"Run With the Wolf" is a great example. It's unabashedly about ... a werewolf. Just what is called for this eve of Halloween.

There's a hole in the sky

Something evil's passing by

What's to come?

When the siren calls you go

To run with the wolf

When the world makes a turn

The eyes of one will learn

That a sound just like the wind

Only makes the change begin

By the end of the rain

The feeling's passed again

From the things that snap and bite

An unholy light

Sword & Sorcery's Affinity with Heavy Metal (Rogues in the House podcast)

A couple weeks ago I got the opportunity to join the Rogues in the House podcast to talk about the intersection of heavy metal and sword-and-sorcery, Flame and Crimson, and Growing Up Metal.

It was a great conversation and as usual I had a blast.

That podcast is now out. Check it out on YouTube.

I've written about the symbiotic relationship of sword-and-sorcery and heavy metal before. Many, many metal bands have been influenced by sword-and-sorcery fiction, and we now have heavy metal band members writing S&S fiction. Howie Bentley of Cauldron Born and Jason Tarpey of Eternal Champion a couple chief examples.

Anecdotally, readers of S&S listen to heavy metal in higher proportion than country or rap music. There are reasons for this. The sound of S&S is heavy, and of battle. James Taylor cannot be the soundtrack of “Black Colossus.” 

Metal bands have appropriated sword-and-sorcery imagery wholesale. Dangle Kings of Metal in front of a Robert E. Howard reader and you’ll get a grunt of recognition, if not appreciation, even though they might have never heard of Manowar. Some will go on to sample the music, discover that “Heart of Steel” is really fucking awesome song, and become a metalhead.

(I dangled a copy of Kings of Metal on camera during the show, BTW).

This is not to say if you like one you'll like the other... but you have to be...willfully ignorant? Obtuse? not to see any relationship. When Manilla Road performs "Queen of the Black Coast," or Eternal Champion "YSLSL," subtlety and coded allusions have vacated the premises. They have become the same art.

I also appreciated the chance to talk about Growing Up Metal for the first time in a public forum. I have been blown away by its reception; I've been contacted by several folks I haven't seen since high school 35 years ago who read it, loved it, and wanted to talk to me about it. It's had impact. 

I don't know you, oh reader, but I suspect you'll like the book even if you don't love heavy metal.

Horror Hunters, a review

The 70s paperback tour continues with Horror Hunters, a 1971 anthology edited by Roger Elwood and Vic Ghidalia. 

I own the 1975 Manor Books reissue. Last I checked 1975 was more than 50 years ago (I’m no good at math but I feel confident in this claim). That makes it old… and the stories it contains, even older. The first two were first printed in 1908 and 1910, respectively. Nothing newer than 1956 vintage, now 70 years in the past.

But old is often good, time-tested and true. And this is the time for horror. It’s October and the veil between our world and the spiritual realm, thinned. So, on to the contents.

• “Ancient Sorceries,” Algernon Blackwood

• “The Gateway of the Monster,” William Hope Hodgson

• "The Unnamable" by H. P. Lovecraft

• “The Thing on the Roof,” Robert E. Howard

• "Mr. Ames' Devil,” August Derleth

• "In the X-Ray,” Fritz Leiber

• "One Foot and the Grave,” Theodore Sturgeon

• "I Kiss Your Shadow,” Robert Bloch

Despite the lineup of heavy-hitters I found Horror Hunters a bit more mixed than I hoped. But overall it’s a solid little volume. I love the cover, even if the leering skull seems to portend flesh-eating zombies and a bit more mayhem than we get. Horror Hunters is the stuff of chills and atmosphere, less so murder or gore. 

Blackwood’s “Ancient Sorceries” sets a sedate tone. It’s a very slow burn … that eventually catches fire. I liked it once it got going. The story is about a timid, highly sensitive, conservative Englishman traveling in the Alps who wanders into a town of secretive lycanthropic cat-people. It turns his worldview upside down. It’s really about the fear of losing oneself, our helplessness when confronted with our primitive lusts. The narrator experiences equal measures of self-loathing and shame, and the release of taboo and sexual abandon that accompanies the dropping of his stifling civilized veneer. 

Blackwood wrote a series of stories about a paranormal investigator named John Silence and this is one of them. These were all collected at one point and I probably need to pick them up.

William Hope Hodgson’s “The Gateway of the Monster” was OK, a classic haunted house/haunted room story. Bumps in the night, restless spirits etc. Not a whole lot else to say.

Lovecraft’s story was the one that grabbed me most of all the stories in the volume. I’d read “The Unnamable” before, perhaps a couple times, but it was nice to revisit the moldering old graveyard in Arkham.

I say revisit not merely because it was a re-read but because I've visited the dilapidated 17th century burial ground in Salem/Arkham, aka., the Charter Street Cemetery, that serves as the setting of this story. I’ve seen many such houses Lovecraft describes here, low gambrel rooves nearly touching the ground in the back, and old diamond-paned windows that might have images of their long-dead former tenants burned into them. I have walked alone on the grounds of the abandoned Danvers State Mental Hospital before it was torn down. It is in my blood, the dark history and haunted atmosphere of old New England. 

“The Unnamable” is good stuff.

The Robert E. Howard story is a workmanlike Cthulhu mythos tale… not one of Howard’s best, a bit too paint by numbers pastiche, but I did enjoy the Von Junzt Nameless Cults myth-making. 

The August Derleth story was pretty lame, a ho-hum demon summoning story that read like C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters minus the philosophical insight.

Fritz Leiber’s “In the X-Ray” was excellent. Today, the ending is quite predictable (Stephen King wrote an entire novel about the concept of parasitic twin with The Dark Half), but Leiber’s execution is outstanding. A creepy and convincing depiction of simple hate, how some people are just plain bad—even one’s twin—such that even the grave can’t keep them from coming back to torment their victims.

Theodore Sturgeon invented Sturgeon’s Law, aka. 90% of everything is crap… in an ironic twist I found his story just that. So crap I did something I almost never do: I DNF-d it. It was intolerable … meandering, absent any horror or drama or compelling reason to go on. Not sure what happened here.

Fortunately the volume ends with a solid little shocker by Robert Bloch, a story of love reaching out its spectral arms from beyond the grave.

A book that inspired Growing Up Metal--and another that didn't

Note: This is an excerpt from this week's Arcane Arts, my weekly email newsletter. Sign up, its free. 

When I first heard of Chuck Klosterman’s Fargo Rock City circa 2008, I thought to myself: Finally, someone has written the book I want to read. Suburban nowhere in rural North Dakota + heavy metal, seasoned with youthful nostalgia. A look back at 80s metal and what it all meant.

I read it with avidity. I laughed at Chuck’s shrewd observations even when I disagreed with them, sometimes violently (the dude hates Iron Maiden. WTF). Chuck has a sparkling wit and combines genuine love for some of the material with an unserious, lampooning look at its 80s excesses. Plus, he’s a good writer.

But in the end Fargo Rock City was not the book I wanted, or hoped for. Reasons here.​

This is not the book’s fault, necessarily, even though the back cover copy is a bit misleading (“classic memoir of growing up as a shameless metalhead in Wyndmere, North Dakota”). It’s not really memoir. Fargo Rock City is largely adult Klosterman’s analysis of heavy metal music, the 80s metal scene, the best and worst albums and bands, and the cultural impact of it all. What has made metal last, and what hasn’t aged well.

What it isn’t is his story.

Yes, it has elements of memoir, a few scenes from his childhood, but most of its page count is devoted to adult, half serious, half lampoon analysis of heavy metal. There is very little if any of the details of Chuck’s life, and even less self-examination.

In summary, I believed that the first metal fan’s memoir remained unwritten.

Fast forward 14 years. In 2022 I began to give serious thought to what would become the detailed outline for Growing Up Metal. In preparation I did some deep internet research. And turned up this book:

I bought it, read it, and immediately thought, this is what I’ve been seeking. Here is a blueprint for how I might grapple with my own story. Adventures of a Metalhead Librarian was proof it could be done. It was also a reminder that, like O’Brien’s book, it had to be done with heart, and authenticity, and my interior life on the page.

Adventures of a Metalhead Librarian is wildly different than my book but the arc is the same: The story of a metalhead from high school to adulthood. The transition from a life of relative irresponsibility and freedom, to parenthood and mortgage payments and commitments. O’Brien’s journey is more “metal” than mine; in 1990 at the age of 18 she moved to Los Angeles to live on the Sunset Strip. Metal was at its zenith and her book is full of authentic sex/drugs/rock and roll (sometimes with the band members themselves). She even landed her dream job with Metal Blade Records and saw everything upended with the arrival of grunge. Reading it, I felt some trepidation—my life was not as interesting as hers—but also a measure of relief. Our stories are very different. While hers took her out west (she eventually settled down in Arizona) mine took place on the east coast.

O’Brien’s stories of the strip are compelling and interesting and well-told but that’s not what makes the book excellent IMO. It’s the rawness of the narrative. Memoirs are powerful because they have a messiness and realness and complexity that fiction often lacks. Life is rarely tied up in a nice bow. O’Brien grapples with her demons, including her parents’ divorce and her complicated relationship with her father, a damaged, alcoholic Vietnam War veteran. She was a huge reader in her childhood and sought escape in the pages of stories, a trait I recognize in myself. Metal fans are if nothing else split personas--passionate and plain, rebellious and conformist, loud and quiet, often in the same package. It’s all part of the mystique.

O’Brien does in fact go on to become a librarian.

I admired it so much that it served as a loose model for how I wanted to craft my own memoir. In the end I did not want to write tongue-in-cheek cynicism or artful distanced criticism like Fargo Rock City because I felt neither of these things about metal. Instead, I wanted to write about my passion for the genre and how it accompanied me on my life journey. This is what O’Brien’s book delivers. It is a true look inside the author and the soul of the metal fan.

I hope I’ve managed to capture some of the same magic.

To Walk on Worlds, a review

I dig this nostalgic cover art (Mike Hoffman).

Sword-and-sorcery occupies a small space in writing and publishing and so you probably already know the name Matthew John. He wears many hats. Host of the Rogues in the House podcast. Conan game contributor/designer. Does an Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation that could be taken on the standup comedy circuit.

What about Matthew John the writer?

I set out to find more by picking up his To Walk on Worlds, a 2024 publication of Rogues in the House Presents. It’s a 250-odd page collection of 11 short stories, each of which stand alone but are connected by the land of Pathra, a loose chronology, and through the recurring appearance of a mysterious wizard Maxus who has the power to walk between worlds. As a result, it is something of a fix-up novel, akin to what Ray Bradbury did with The Martian Chronicles or Charles Saunders with Imaro. 

To cut to the chase: I enjoyed To Walk on Worlds. It is a cut above (pun intended) much modern sword-and-sorcery. I’ve heard good things about it, I try to support modern S&S, and I can recommend it.

John shines with his depiction of tough, terse, no-nonsense barbarian warriors and opaque wizards. Lachmannon is Conan like but also reminded me more than a little of Logen Ninefingers, which comes as little surprise given that John’s biggest literary influences are Robert E. Howard and Joe Abercrombie. Maxus cuts an intriguing figure, not evil but not even close to good. He’s self-centered and amoral, a wizard out of the pages of Jack Vance or Merlin pre-Disney moving in mysterious ways.

I like that the collection includes both of these characters in something of equal proportion, which speaks to both sides of the S&S equation: Its brawny, heroic, Robert E. Howard-esque side, and the weird, eldritch, Clark Ashton Smith-ian strain.

S&S (and S&P) fans will recognize its hallmarks. Low gravity leaps and interplanetary travel. Weird towers of green stone of an unknown origin beneath alien, multicolored skies. A page that has both “ziggurat” and “thews” on it (bold choice, Cotton). Another with the famous Abercrombie construction “let it be said that Lachmannon can find the humor in any instance.”

There is a risk here of becoming generic S&S, but what elevates it is John’s style and heart. His writing style is quite visual. He does dialogue well. He uses humor well, a dark and sardonic brand that can make you smile (grimly). A pit is described as “an agreeable pit as far as pits go.” I liked that; I laughed. And in a good way he wears his influences plainly, it makes the stories familiar and resonant. For example “Cries From A Sleeping City” reads like a cross of “Worms of the Earth” and Ridley Scott’s Aliens. It is a fine example of suffocating subterranean horror. “A Fate Worse Than Exile” was perhaps my favorite. It has echoes of both “Red Nails” and Genndy Tartakovsky’s Primal with a persistent “dragon” that has much of a T-rex in him. What makes it work is the interplay of the two protagonists, the Conan-like Manus and the squirrely, loose with the truth rogue Quent. This was particularly well-done. The stories generally are propulsive with very little flab to them.

As with every collection I’ve ever read there were a couple stories that did not land, but these were greatly outweighed by the good. I’m not exactly sure where the broader story is going, I probably could have used a few more details to hook me on vol. 2 of the Maxus Cycle, Within the Weeping Eye. It feels like a bit of a prologue rather than a complete work in and of itself, even though the stories each have a beginning, middle and end, save for the last, which serves as both coda and teaser.

But sword-and-sorcery is supposed to be mysterious. The motivations of wizards are notoriously veiled. Jack Vance’s Dying Earth stories did not need anything connecting them to some grand narrative beyond cool things happening in a cool setting. There are a few hints dropped that lead me to believe Matt has something interesting planned for future volumes and the fate of Maxus.

One final word about the presentation. To Walk on Worlds is graced with great cover art, some neat and unexpected black-and-white interior illustrations, and a throwback pocket-sized format. All of which makes for a nice package (resisting, and failing, the urge to add “that’s what she said”).

Killing The Dragon, Ronnie James Dio

“People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons. From within.”

--Ursula K. Le Guin

Dragons are fire-breathing lizards, the great wyrms confronting the heroes Beowulf and Sigurd. And they can also be something less tangible but no less terrifying or formidable. A conceptual or symbolic evil. A dark philosophy of hard and cold materialism that says we are nothing and to nothing we shall return or a desire for selfish wealth-hoarding above altruism, or love for fellow man. 

In the pivotal scene of Growing Up Metal I confront my dragon. Not those described above, but a very personal struggle of my own making.

What is it? It’s in the book man.

Dio sang about this theme powerfully and beautifully (as if he’s capable of anything but) in 2002’s “Killing the Dragon” off the album of the same name.

This particular song concerns a dark dragon we’re all fighting today: Electronic serfdom. Dopamine leashes, AI slop. Digital overlords selling us paid subscriptions to the world humanity built—not they.

Kneel and behold your new king

Digital dreams

And wonderful things to tease you

Small gods with electrical hearts

Later “killing the dragon” became the rallying cry for Dio’s battle with cancer. As he and his wife Wendy said of  their trips to MD Anderson for chemo treatments, “We’re Killing the Dragon.” 

It’s also of course an absolutely kick-ass song. I love the haunting, spectral intro. I love the powerful chorus, the chugging guitars, and most of all I love the lyrics and the underlying theme for all the reasons mentioned above.

I love it most of all because it’s Dio. He lost his battle with the dragon of cancer but continues to inspire me today.