T H E H O B B I T : A N U N E X P E C T E D C A M E O
In Three Parts.
EXT. DREARY HILLS, DARK WITH TREES. The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves are setting up camp next to the ruins of AN OLD FARMHOUSE.
Thorin: We’ll camp here for the night. Dwarves #12 and #13, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them at all times.
Gandalf: I think it would be wiser to move on. We should go talk to Elrond in Rivendell. He can actually read this map thing we have. I'd say that's kind of important.
Thorin: What? No! I don't need help from elves! A dragon attacked Erebor. The orcs walked all over Moria. What help came from the Elves? From Elrond, from Thranduil Awesome-Hat? Well, I'll tell you. None. They never promised us any help, and then somehow they never delivered any. That, Gandalf, is what I call betrayal!
Gandalf: Thorin? He. Can. Read. The. Fricking. Map. I'd say that ranks pretty high on our list of goddamned quest priorities right now. What is your game plan, anyway? Brood at the mountain until the sheer weight of your dwarf-angst splits it open? Is that your plan? Huh? You're gonna cry at the mountain, Urist McAngrygoth?
Thorin: Well, maybe I'd be willing to go if somebody didn't waste a full third of the movie getting a mascot. What is it with your fetish for hoarding halflings, anyway?
Gandalf: FINE! Let's NOT do this!
Gandalf, being a PARAGON OF MATURITY, storms off in a petty huff, leaving the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves to their own devices. This is a BAD IDEA because the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves have the COMBINED IQ of a SPOON.
EXT. DREARY HILLS, DARK WITH TREES. Night has fallen on the IMPROVISED CAMP, and most of the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves are asleep.
Dwarves #12 and #13: Hey, Baggins. You up?
Arthur Dent Baggins: Let me guess. You completely cocked up the one simple thing you were supposed to do, and now, for some deranged dwarf reason that defies all known logic, you want me to fix it for you.
Dwarf #13: Basically yes. Don't tell Thorin, he'll yell at us. Thing is, we've lost some ponies. You know. The ponies we were supposed to stay with. It didn't work so well. We figured you could help us look for them.
They start looking for the PONIES in the woods, which leads them to stumble on (clatter of DICE)...
EXT. THE TROLLS' CLEARING. We see a messy TROLL CAMPGROUND, where Three Stone Trolls have gathered around a cooking fire. The stolen PONIES have been tied nearby.
Arthur Dent Baggins: It's... a bunch of trolls. For some reason. Huh. Guess Gandalf wasn't kidding about the Random Encounters. I'm also guessing these trolls have stupendous ninja powers, because it seems they managed to sneak up to the ponies, felling entire trees in the process, without you two geniuses ever catching on. How incompetent exactly do you have to be to miss that?
Dwarf #13: ... yes. You know what? I think it'd be wonderful if you went and rescued the ponies now. It'll be okay.
Arthur Dent Baggins gets shoved onto the TROLLS' CLEARING.
Arthur Dent Baggins: Well, shit.
The Three Trolls turn and stare at Arthur Dent Baggins in bemused silence.
Arthur Dent Baggins: Hello there. I'm a burgla--a hob...
A Vicious Troll Inexplicably Named Bert: Yeah, I don't care.
Dwarf #12: Or I guess maybe it won't be okay. Dwarf #13, get the others. I think we need to charge these guys. No worries, though, it'll be easy. A piece of cake.
EXT. THE TROLLS' CLEARING. Having captured Arthur Dent Baggins and the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves, and having tied several of the latter to a GIANT SPIT, the Three Stone Trolls debate the culinary properties of dwarf meat.
A Vicious Troll Inexplicably Named Bert: I was thinking I'd make a Spanish red pepper sauce, like a Canary Islands mojo type thing, and maybe a parsley garnish. I think we need to soak the peppers really well, though, or they won't soften up properly. Should take about twenty minutes for the sauce.
A Hideous Troll Inexplicably Named Tom: What about a nice Chablis to go with it?
An Internet Troll Inexplicably Named William: No, no, that's absurd. A white wine with dwarf? Are you out of your mind?
A Hideous Troll Inexplicably Named Tom: But I like Chardonnay, and we never have any lobster or anything around here. Tell me, when am I ever going to get the chance to sample a Chablis with you two lumbering CGI barbarians? It's always devour a horse this, rip a farmer apart that. It's insufferable. Couldn't we go push over a fishing boat, just once?
Arthur Dent Baggins: Waaait! I know the, uh, best way to prepare dw... no, you know what? You can't eat any of these dwarves. They're diseased, ridden with parasites. It's gruesome. Nightmarish. Insane stuff, directly from Fringe, I tell you. Can't touch any of that succulent dwarf, no sir.
The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves: No! Boo! Traitor! We're not diseased! And we have no parasites!
Arthur Dent Baggins: ... oh, thanks for that. You're a veritable brain trust, guys, an inspiration to the rest of dwarf-kind. Knowing you cannot out-think trolls makes me feel a lot better about being the target of your unmitigated scorn.
The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves: Uhh. We mean we have gigantic parasites! Parasites as large as a barn! Lots of diseases!
Suddenly, the ANNOYING COMEDY ROUTINE is interrupted, as there is a BLINDING FLASH OF LIGHT. Compelled by magic, a nearby PROP ROCK breaks open, letting through the first glimmers of SUNLIGHT. The light immediately turns the Three Stone Trolls into stone statues.
Gandalf: BOO-YAH. Rise and shine, everybody, it's Gandalf-owns-your-ass o'clock! Yeah, baby, that's what I'm talking about.
Thorin: Okay, I call foul. This whole scene makes no sense. And your hobbit is still useless.
Gandalf: At least he had the brains to play for time, unlike the rest of these complete morons. I mean, I did have this whole farcical ventriloquism thing planned out, but it was way too silly to pull off. Figured I'd just shatter the rock instead. With magic. That I can do. Because I'm a great and powerful wizard. Which you dimwits should not forget.
Thorin: He "played for time" for all of three minutes. Half of us were literally on the spit, over the fire, and here were these trolls talking about this elaborate, hours-long cooking procedure when it was clearly already dawn. No, I'm chalking this right up to the trolls being impossibly, fantastically stupid. I don't know what they were even doing this far south.
Gandalf: A-HA, FORESHADOWING!
Thorin: Whatever. Now let's make like adventurers, and loot 'em. There might still be a small chance that this godawful, never-ending scene actually accomplished something.
EXT. THE TROLLS' CLEARING. The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves, having freed themselves, have begun looting the troll camp and the nearby TREASURE CAVE. They are having a great deal of FUN with it.
Gandalf: Oh hey! Look! These trolls had incredibly rare, several millennia old magical elven swords lying around for absolutely no reason! I bet Elrond could cast Identify on these babies for us. Whaddya say? Off to Rivendell?
Gandalf: Oh come on. I thought we had this conversation, and I thought it ended in me saving your smouldering backsides from trolls, thereby proving beyond any reasonable doubt that I'm right and you're wrong.
Arthur Dent Baggins: Hey Gandalf, can I ask you some questions about why I'm still on this asinine quest?
Gandalf: And you. Here, take this short strong sword. It has very belatedly occurred to me you might actually want to be armed. But remember: True courage is not about taking lives, it's knowing when to spare lives. That said, I just unhesitatingly killed a bunch of trolls, and that was exactly the correct thing to do. If we run into any wargs, goblins, or orcs, we should immediately kill them too. In fact, you can't reason with pretty much anything out there. Funny old world.
Arthur Dent Baggins: You're a very strange old man.
Arthur Dent Baggins obtains a SHORT STRONG SWORD.
Thorin: Look out, someone is coming!
EXT. DREARY HILLS, DARK WITH TREES, near the TROLLS' CLEARING. The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves close ranks and draw weapons. Suddenly, a BUNNY SLED rushes through the UNDERGROWTH, piloted by the leaf-covered madman, Radagast of the Comic Relief.
Radagast: GANGWAY! Gandalf! It's me, I'm here!
Gandalf: Oh Jesus no.
The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves: AAAAARGH, IT'S TOM BOMBADIL, KILL IT WITH FIRE BEFORE IT STARTS SINGING!
Gandalf: Hold on, everyone. I'm not proud to admit it, but I know this man. He's Radagast the Fungal, one of the five Wizards. And no, I don't know why he refuses to put wheels on that goddamned thing, so shut up.
Radagast: Gandalf! Thank goodness I've found you! Something is very wrong.
Radagast: Oh, just give me a minute. Oh. Err, I had a thought. Now I’ve lost it. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue! Oh my, it's not a thought at all. It's a silly old...
A STICK INSECT comes out of Radagast's mouth.
Radagast: ... stick insect!
Radagast does a little jig. Everyone else groans in frustration. The AUDIENCE gets ready to physically reach through the screen and dope-slap Radagast.
Gandalf: Listen, Radagast? This whole wall-eyed, covered-in-rabbit-shit slapstick routine you've got going on? It's not working. It's not endearing or charming. It's like if St Francis of Assisi lived under a bridge and huffed paint. I already told these guys you're a wizard, so there's really no point.
Radagast: Oh, for... have it your way, but only for a minute.
Radagast of the Comic Relief gives up his ANNOYING OVER-ACTING for a single solitary minute, entirely so he can EXPOSIT SOME PLOT at Gandalf. The AUDIENCE almost, but not quite, forgives him for being in this movie.
Radagast: The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf. A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows any more, at least nothing good. The air is foul with decay, although I figured that could just be me, given I don't bathe so much. But then some giant spiders horribly carved up Fuzzymurfle, Emperor of Hedgehogs, and not even my super-advanced positive thinking-based aromatherapy could heal the wound! Imagine it!
Gandalf: "Fuzzymurfle, Emperor of Hedgehogs?"
Radagast: Oh, get off my case. He signs just as many decrees as "Shadowfax, Lord of all the Horses."
Gandalf: Fine, whatever. So, you naturally investigated all this, and...
Radagast: I went to Dol Guldur, the forgotten fortress. It is abandoned no more. A dark power dwells there, such as I have never felt before, the shadow of an ancient horror. One that can summon the spirits of the dead. I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness... has come...
Radagast: An angry Benedict Cumberbatch.
Gandalf: Aaaand you've completely lost my interest again.
Radagast: Look, just take this carefully-wrapped plot item so I can bugger off already. Talking to you is giving me hives.
Dwarf #204: AAAH! WARGS! DOZENS OF QUESTIONABLY-ANIMATED CARTOON WARGS!
Gandalf: Figures. Alright, people, we have to scarper!
Dwarf #204: We can't! The ponies have bolted! It's horrible! If only someone had stayed with them at all times!
Arthur Dent Baggins very slowly places his hand flat across his face in the universal gesture of ultimate frustration. Gandalf pockets the PLOT ITEM, and everyone prepares to cheese it.
EXT. A GLOOMY, EMPTY LAND WITH DREARY HILLS AHEAD. The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves are running away from Wargs and Orcs; Radagast is leading some of the latter away on his BUNNY SLED. After quite a bit of RUNNING TO AND FRO the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves find their escape route.
Dwarf #7: Where's Gandalf!?
Gandalf: Quickly, into this carefully-hidden passageway under this tree in the middle of nowhere!
Thorin: Uhh. Does this seem legit to the rest of you?
EXT. THE HIDDEN ELVEN VALLEY OF IMLADRIS, called RIVENDELL in Westron. A magnificent ELVEN OUTPOST rises before the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves. They walk across a BRIDGE and enter it.
Thorin: Gandalf, you absolute dick.
Gandalf: Look, we're here now, let's go say hello. By which I mean I'll say hello. Now that I've managed to drag you here against your will, it's imperative that I also force you into an awkward accommodation with Elrond. Against your will. Because that's how I roll.
Thorin: Look, the elves will try to stop us.
Gandalf: Thorin, will you chill the hell out, and just let me do this? It'll be cool. Just follow my lead, and don't say anything stupid while we're here. Right, there they come.
A troop of NOLDOR ride to the Largely Interchangeable Dwarves, and then around them in a confusing circle. This is POINTLESS but COOL.
Elrond the Half-Elven: [Wassup?]
The Largely Interchangeable Elves: AAAGH! WHAT ELF SORCERY IS THIS? AAAGH!
INT. THE ELVEN HALLS AT RIVENDELL. It is NIGHT. The Largely Interchangeable Dwarves have eaten all the salad and nibbled on the chairs. It is time to talk business. Elrond examines the CURIOUS MAP.
Elrond: This looks like a map of Erebor to me. What would a heavily-armed band of dwarven warriors want with a map of Erebor?
Gandalf: It's mainly academic. You know. Sometimes you just have to risk horrific death in the hands of orcs and trolls out of abstract antiquarian interest.
Elrond: Okie dokie. Sounds completely plausible. But... what is this!? Look here, Gandalf!
Gandalf: Moon Logic! I should've guessed. This map has Moon Logic written all over it.
Elrond: I can read it. The Moon Logic says: In order to open the door to Erebor, you must jump through mind-numbingly contrived Indiana Jones-esque plot hoops -- then the setting sun, with the last light of Durin's Day, will shine upon the keyhole.
Thorin: That is bad. Durin's Day will soon be upon us.
Balin: Don't worry. We still have time to find the entrance. We have to be standing at exactly the right spot, at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened.
Gandalf: Oh, for fuck's sake, people, I just told him our interest in the map was academic. Just now. Are any of you even listening to me anymore? How do you knuckleheads feed yourselves? Man, I hate you all so much right now.
Arthur Dent Baggins: I just want to register that I'm still in this movie.
Elrond: Uhh. Gandalf, since you're clearly going into the mountain and all, could we maybe exchange some words? In private?
Gandalf: And now I've been summoned to the Head Elf's office for a talking-to. Oh, this is just great. Good going, heroes. Good going.
EXT. An ORCISH CAMP hidden somewhere in the DREARY HILLS. A fire is burning. The Incredible Albino Hulk, the orcish leader and Thorin's nemesis, gazes evilly into the distance.
The Incredible Albino Hulk: Phew. Okay. New Year's resolution. No more throwing underlings to the wolves as if they were nothing but a race of hapless sausage people. If I'm to catch those dwarves, I'm going to have to start running this abominable orc horde with inspiration and example, just like it deserves!
Steve the Orc and Dave the Orc gingerly approach their leader.
The Incredible Albino Hulk: Report!
Steve the Orc: ... we found the dwarves, but were distracted by a man we were unable to catch because he rode a sleigh drawn by bunny rabbits. Then, despite the fact that we were riding and they were walking, we lost the dwarves on wide and rolling terrain with next to no trees on it. And then elves ambushed us from off-screen somehow and killed everyone. Can I go?
The Incredible Albino Hulk closes his eyes for a second, then gazes into the distance like a man painfully coming to terms with some sort of deep, hidden truth about his life.
The Incredible Albino Hulk: Fine. Fido? Come here, boy.