Bernard Hill, the unfortunately passed away Last weekend is a part of some the greatest moments in the Lord of the rings Movies. As Théoden, his lines are endlessly quotable, often memorable, and he gets some of the trilogy’s best work tied to its legendary battles like Helm’s Deep and the Rohirrim attack on Minas Tirith. But there is one scene that perfectly encapsulates what made Hill’s performance so incredible: a scene devoid of sound and fury, but full of Hill’s humanity.
Shortly afterwards, Théoden is awakened from the rule of Saruman and his lackey Grima Wormtounge The two Towerswe see how he reacts to the tragic news that his son Théodred was killed by orc raiders while Théoden was enchanted by Isengard. While the extended version of the film showed Théodred’s actual funeral, the original film kept the most important moment of the whole thing in what came after: Gandalf encountering the still-recovering king, who was watching over his son’s burial mound.
Every character in Lord of the rings, speaks to some extent with a fantastical, romantic structure in his sentences, just as they did in Tolkien’s original books, but Théoden is particularly known for his flowery words – in his greatest moments, such as the legendary speech he gave on the Pelennor -Fields holds, or as the last defenders of Helm’s Deeps ride off to face the Uruk-Hai. It’s here, even in this scene – “unfortunate that these evil days should be mine…that I should live to see the last days of my house.” But what always made Hill’s performance shine in these films is not just the weight he put into those lyrical words, but also their warmth. There’s always the danger with such fantastic dialogue that it comes across as stilted or even cold – dialogue that reads well on the page but doesn’t when spoken out loud sound like something a person would say. But Hill portrays Théoden in this and countless other moments with a humanity that gives every word such emotion: here his weariness, his sadness, his despair at the weight of the world he lives in, and his love for his son, that is in every moment.
But in plain English – as Théoden contemplates the cruelty of a parent having to bury his child – he decides to break down. There is no big shouting, no wailing, nothing great that reflects the great sadness he feels. Hill acts out the moment, sobbing as he falls motionless to his knees. He’s almost silent – you can barely hear him gasping for air between his sobs. It’s up to Ian McKellan’s Gandalf to embrace the poetry and comfort Théoden with the wise words of the Istari, but Théoden himself? In this moment there is no poetic king, only a man, a father consumed by grief for his fallen son.
For all the complexity and affectations we often associate with Hill’s performance, it’s this one small moment – one in which he barely has to speak – that still reminds us of what made Théoden such a compelling character in the first place has.
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