Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

The final weekend before Christmas.

Without a doubt, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers was the most anticipated film of the week.

With 3,945 screens, it far outpaced the second-place contender, Lisa and Her Friends.

Lisa and Her Friends is one of Nickelodeon's most successful original animated series. Premiering in 1998 in the United States, it became a favorite among children aged 2 to 12.

The movie adaptation, co-produced by Nickelodeon and its sister company Paramount Pictures, premiered alongside The Two Towers, securing 3,012 screens.

In the theater.

As the lights dimmed, the film began.

If The Fellowship of the Ring focused more on the formation and adventures of the fellowship, the second installment, The Two Towers, introduced themes of war and power.

The story depicted the conflicts and struggles among the various races of Middle-earth and their battles for control of the One Ring.

Of course, the fellowship's personal growth and courage remained integral to the narrative.

Legolas, in particular, captivated audiences once more with his elegant combat prowess, reigniting admiration for "ultimate beauty."

"Oh!"

"Ah!"

"Wow!"

Every appearance of Legolas was accompanied by such exclamations.

The visual effects of The Two Towers surpassed even its predecessor.

The film's portrayal of Middle-earth's vast and varied landscapes—boundless forests, towering mountains, and majestic castles—was breathtaking.

The realistic special effects made viewers feel as though they had been transported into the wondrous and grand world of Middle-earth.

Peter Jackson undoubtedly understands how to craft a blockbuster.

Moreover, as a trilogy shot in succession, the films carried a seamless continuity.

The Fellowship of the Ring, as the series opener, established its tone as uplifting at first, then sobering.

This tonal shift was reflected in the cinematography:

The idyllic life in the Shire was depicted with bright, sunny hues, filled with birdsong and flowers.The middle section, with the Nazgûl's relentless pursuit, turned cold and somber, punctuated occasionally by stunning vistas—such as the ethereal Rivendell.By the end, the nonstop chase left viewers breathless, and the mood descended entirely into darkness.

All the earlier joy and camaraderie were meant to underscore the tragic deaths of Boromir and Gandalf, as well as the fellowship's eventual fragmentation, leaving a sense of desolation and uncertainty.

Frankly, without Legolas as the "ultimate supporting star" bringing light to the narrative, the oppressive atmosphere at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring might have significantly dampened its box office success.

This holds true for both the original timeline and the present.

As the middle chapter of the trilogy, The Two Towers needed to act as a bridge.

It couldn't afford to mire audiences in unrelenting despair, as consecutive downbeat tones risked viewer fatigue, potentially diminishing interest in the finale.

Peter Jackson made a clever choice: balancing tragedy with hope, thus building anticipation for the third film.

Therefore, the primary tone of the second film was one of sorrow transitioning into hope.

The film opens with Saruman's war preparations. The vast armies evoke immediate dread and unease.

Subsequent scenes emphasize the oppressive power of Saruman and Mordor:

Gondor struggles to fend for itself.Rohan, once a proud nation of horse lords, is now leaderless and cursed—its king bewitched, its prince slain, its warriors exiled, and its people left vulnerable to internal and external threats.

Could such a fractured kingdom possibly withstand the assault of the two towers?

At this point, both the characters and the audience are steeped in despair.

Even Martin, watching in the audience, felt his spirits sink.

His friends Leonardo and Tobey, who had been invited to the premiere, were similarly engrossed, their eyes fixed on the screen, silently hoping for a miracle.

And miracles did come.

Gandalf, presumed dead in the first film, returned as a figure of renewed strength. He freed King Théoden from Saruman's curse and expelled the treacherous Gríma Wormtongue.

A glimmer of hope emerged.

Although Rohan was in disarray and its king disheartened, choosing to retreat to Helm's Deep, and though the Ents remained frustratingly indecisive, these were still steps in the right direction.

But then the plot turned once again, toying with the audience's emotions. Helm's Deep, known for its impenetrable defenses, faced a catastrophic threat: Saruman's cunning use of explosives to breach the fortress walls.

With tens of thousands of Uruk-hai bearing down on Helm's Deep, defended by only 300 men, the tension was palpable.

Just as the audience collectively held its breath, a sliver of relief arrived—an army of elves came to aid the defense.

But—

The numbers were still vastly mismatched, plunging Helm's Deep back into desperate combat.

Meanwhile, the Ents, true to their nature, initially chose to stay out of the fray, further heightening the audience's anxiety.

The film's tension peaked—Helm's Deep seemed on the verge of collapse, with no reinforcements in sight.

Then came the turning point.

Merry and Pippin, the seemingly insignificant hobbits, convinced Treebeard to witness Saruman's destruction firsthand. The Ents, enraged, launched a ferocious assault on Isengard, flooding Saruman's stronghold and extinguishing its fires.

This marked a minor triumph.

But the film's most exhilarating sequence followed shortly after.

As Helm's Deep teetered on the brink of defeat, King Théoden lamented, "How did it come to this?"

Aragorn delivered an impassioned speech, rallying his troops:

"Fight for the people! Immortal is the glory of those who battle for their kin. We ride forth at the sound of the horn, into the enemy ranks, until dawn returns to the earth…"

With this, Aragorn, Legolas, and the remaining defenders charged into the Uruk-hai horde.

The scene was filmed with heartbreaking poignancy, evoking a sense of "heroic sacrifice." Quiet sobs echoed through the theater.

Martin even caught the faint whisper of a girl praying, "Please, Legolas, don't die!"

The defenders dwindled in number, a poignant depiction of darkness before the dawn.

But dawn always comes.

As Aragorn, Legolas, and their forces were encircled, the Uruk-hai suddenly halted, distracted by a distant tremor.

Pebbles leapt, grass quivered, and ripples danced on the water.

The Uruk-hai turned toward the horizon.

The sun broke over the hills, painting the mountaintop in golden light.

There, silhouetted against the dawn, stood Gandalf, radiant and resolute.

This was Gandalf's most triumphant moment.

Clad in white, astride his brilliant steed, Gandalf led the charge down the slope.

Behind him surged the Rohirrim, their war cries echoing as they plunged into the Uruk-hai ranks.

Strength returned to the defenders.

Aragorn raised his sword and roared, "For the people! Charge!"

Legolas, swift and graceful, leapt atop an oliphant, loosing a cascade of arrows, his actions a testament to his unyielding spirit.

Gandalf's arrival symbolized the triumph of light over darkness, the assurance that hope would always endure.

(P.S.: Personally, I believe the Battle of Helm's Deep is the pinnacle of the Lord of the Rings trilogy—deeply moving and unforgettable.)

The battle at Helm's Deep, the Ents' assault on Isengard…

The arrival of the elven reinforcements, the charge of the Rohirrim…

All the threads converged.

"Justice" was poised to prevail, and the theater erupted in exhilaration.