Parting Glances: Hobbits, Jeff, saints du jour

I waited 'til the last Christmas carol was sung, the last bit of New year's confetti was thrown, and the last champagne cork was popped before seeing "The Return of the King," part three of the 1949 J.R.R.Tolkein literary masterpiece.
The complete Middle Earth odyssey was four years in the making and filmed for $97 million, with a myriad of mind-boggling special effects. To date "The Return" has grossed $312 million, of which sum I dutifully contributed my pittance — $6.50 to be exact, senior discount rate.
I saw the 220-minute saga (plus 15 minutes of PG previews, and 10 minutes of screen credits that included a roster of over 800 names) with part-time hobbits Jeff Montgomery, Triangle Foundation CEO, and Rick Robinson, anthropologist and political bon vivant.
We broke bread beforehand at Bob Evan's. And not wanting to be interrupted in my marathon viewing by an untoward call of nature, I drank one diet Coke, nibbled a tuna salad, and ate no fudge-embossed desert. Just to be safe I went to the men's room twice as we stood in line at John R Star. (Or, was it three times?)
Jeff's an authority on orcs, elves, changelings, and — no big surprise — fairies, and Rick knows a thing or two about princes, princesses, kings and, to a limited extent, queens (of all political persuasions.)
My own interest — other than giving my nates a triathlon workout — was keeping a wary eye out for "my precious, my precious" Gollum. (I can't get it out of my mind that this poor creature looks like one of our perennial neighborhood family values pests, whom Christian charity prevents me from button holing by name.)
I've been to movies enough times with Jeff to notice a marked transformation as he sits illuminated in the surround-sound twilight. He gets mesmerized by the action and edges closer to the screen, ready, I'm sure, at any moment to jump in and take charge. You'd swear you were sitting next to your 13-year-old (gay) nephew. It happened again during "The Return of the King."
When Jeff's hero Legolas acrobatically leapt onto a trumpeting, three-story woolly mammal Mumak — bow and arrows in his forthright hand, sculptured muscles a-flex, and not a braid of his golden locks out of place — Jeff uttered an audible sigh. (It went well beyond the decorous limits of cinematic in-house good taste.) When Legolas felled that poor, shaggy beast, Jeff became quite, quite animated with joy, and actually cheered.
On the ride home it occurred to me that the special effects of epics like "The Return of the King" are so flawlessly executed and realistic that fancy magically becomes fact, and make believe transposes into gospel truth. The John R Stars, Royal Oak Mains, the neighborhood Cineplexes across America become cathedrals of pagan myth, gnostic theology, and occult mystery. Movie attendance goes up. Church attendance goes down. Movie stars become our saints du jour.
Unfortunately, movies are getting too expansive for my comfort zone. Three hours of viewer yoga is a bit much. After six hours of the "Cremaster" series at the Detroit Film Theater last season, I said that's it. I've had it. No more marathons. I spoke too soon. My Reel Pride Director's Pass entitles me to see 40 LGBT films this week, attend 20 film-related events, and sit reasonably spellbound (and proud) for 2031 minutes.
If you sit by Jeff, take notes. (By the way: my cremaster's fine. But thanks for asking.)