Tolkien's Faerie in "Epic" Film

Today I revisited one of my favorite movies. Before I studied Tolkien and Lewis I would have called it a children’s film, but now, I know better. I learned from the Inklings’ writings that there is no such thing as a children’s genre of fantasy, and if there is, it is arbitrary. Such categorizations are an underestimation of the capacity of children, and an assumption that their naivete would compel them to desire imagery of small, delicate creatures in a whimsical world where nothing ever goes terribly wrong. Lewis wrote, “A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest.”

It is also an unfortunate reduction of the most fascinating literature to designate this genre exclusively to children, when many adults would rather enter its magical realm.

The world in which I think this film, Epic, is better suited to is Tolkien’s Faerie. In “On Fairy-stories” Tolkien wrote, “Faerie contains many things besides elves and fays, and besides dwarfs, witches, trolls, giants or dragons: it holds all the seas, the sun, the moon, the sky; and the earth, and all things that are in it: tree and bird, water and stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted” (42).
Although the film’s primary characters are smallish, elf-like creatures called Leaf-men they are capable of making both good and bad decisions, and are not unlike humans. They experience love, laughter, grief, pain, and loss. In this Faerie realm, not even death is hidden from its intended audience: children. As Fisher wrote in Narrative Paradigm, “Life is fullest when one loves and is loved; death is real; and maturity is achieved by accepting the reality of death. We learn these truths by dwelling in the characters in the story, by observing the outcomes of the several conflicts that arise throughout it” (13). In the story, one of the Leaf-men dies, as does the queen of the forest. However, the loss of the Leaf-man creates the necessity of a relationship between his comrade-in-arms, and the Leaf-man’s son. Without death, it is clear that the bond they are forced to form would not have occurred without the death, and the friendship that grows later on is a stronger one having been borne out of loss. Similarly, without the death of the forest queen, the film’s protagonist, a human, would not have been brought into the Faerie world. The death, while tragic to those who were left without their beloved leader, was essential to transform the ordinary existence of a suffering human girl into a adventure and a mission to save the forest. She learns to believe in what should have been the impossible, yet having entered the fairy world, it becomes her reality. She discovers that the absence of empirical evidence is not proof that illogical things cannot exist in the “real world.”

What is so profound about this film is that, even though the realm is marked with an unmistakable touch of whimsy, the one who enters it is fully human. We can relate to the protagonist in a more tangible sense, because we would feel similarly if we entered a magical realm. Seeing her struggle to make sense of it makes the possibility of such a thing more accessible more than if it existed entirely absent from humanity. The interaction between the familiar and the fantastical is what creates the environment in which we, the audience, enter the magical world of the film to make meaning out of watching someone else enter a magical world to make meaning. After the girl has many adventures, some mishaps, and learns a lesson or two about herself to take back with her, the girl has to return to the “real world” before we do, letting us down gently, easing the transition and preparing the audience for our own return to our realities. Having been whisked away into the realm of Faerie, one might return with a greater understanding of existence and a profound sense of purpose.