I was once chastised for homophobia after referring to the Lord of the Rings as pretty damn gay. My accuser understandably misunderstood my meaning. Contrary to the usual intention behind the term’s use, whenever I refer to something as gay, I mean it literally and never as a bad thing. Lord of the Rings is pretty damn gay, and I’m all for it. When I say, “professional wrestling is pretty damn gay,” I don’t mean that it is bad (although it is). I mean: it is gay. Homoeroticism for homophobes.
However, the Lord of the Rings isn’t like the cheap, sweaty, manly thrill of musclemen grinding on each other in tights. It’s a story of depth, concerning love preserving and salvaging us in the most difficult and dangerous times. If Tolkien published these days, I’m sure all the Hobbit spooning would be even hotter. Sauron’s wasn’t the only ring Frodo was getting mileage out of on that journey, if you know what I’m saying. (He was having lots of butt sex with Sam.) The sausage-fest, gay bed frolic at the end of the movies shows that Peter Jackson had his finger on the pulse of the source material. Much like Frodo had his finger… (Okay, okay, I’ll stop now.)