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Uncovering The Hidden City: Depictions of the Siege of Gondolin in Popular Culture
Not much is remembered of the famed Elven stronghold of Gondolin, but of a few things we are relatively certain: It was ruled over by King Turgon, son of high king Fingolfin; it kept itself hidden from the forces of the so-called “dark lord” Morgoth for centuries through a policy of careful isolationism; and it was eventually betrayed by Turgon’s nephew, his sister-son Maeglin Lómion.
What texts survive from the First Age—and few enough of the Gondolindrim survived both the sack of Gondolin and the Third Kinslaying to tell their tales—paint an incomplete picture, and since the end of that Age, we have been trying to fit the pieces together and complete the image. Why do we have such an interest in this tale? Is it because of the likelihood that Gondolin was the last of the Elven strongholds to fall during the Great Darkness, making it an event of staggering significance to the peoples of Middle-earth at the time? Is it out of a sense of grief for the loss of a city which, by all accounts, was a cultural cornucopia at the time? Or is it simply because the family entanglements allegedly involved make for such a lurid tale?
Pop culture portrayals of the event vary widely in both tone and focus, as well as which characters they sympathize with. Few things remain constant where so much is left to the imagination. Even the few key pieces of information we have about Gondolin and its people are open for manipulating where a playwright or director sees a chance for a more engrossing story. However, the endurance of the tale suggests that nothing can compete with reality in the realm of this particular event.
The Númenorean Play (Title: The Fall of Gondolin) – Published at the height of Númenor’s Elf-mania, this play is an unabashed love letter to Gondolin and the descendants of Fingolfin. In this script, King Turgon is a heroic figure for the ages; the play opens on his battling through the Nirnaeth Arnoediad as he hacks an escape for his soldiers through an onslaught of orcs. In the wake of Turgon’s coronation as high king of the Noldor, a tense conversation between Maeglin and Idril in an empty hall paints a subtle picture of the tensions waiting to pull Gondolin apart.
Idril’s husband Tuor is given a very prominent place in this production, which is perhaps unsurprising. Here, the Way of Escape is actually Tuor’s proposition, begun by Idril, though many historians vigorously defend Idril’s legacy as the one responsible for the escape route.
Having set the stage with the interpersonal conflict, The Númenorean Play wastes little time in rushing through Maeglin’s betrayal to focus on the actual assault. The height of this drama is Tuor’s rescue of Idril from Maeglin’s lustful clutches, and his son from Maeglin’s murderous intent. Clearly Númenor relished the notion of a Man being responsible for the rescue of the Elven princess and the defeat of the king’s greedy nephew.
Thanks to the copious records both kept by both Númenor and certain Elven enclaves of the time, we have a fairly solid understanding of the cultural impact. The play fell out of favor as Númenor turned away from the Elves, which made it all the more popular among the Faithful. It grew increasingly political in Númenor’s declining years, until it was scarcely about Gondolin at all, but rather a statement on the alliance of Men and Elves. In the final years of the kingdom, it was banned outright by Ar-Pharazon, who claimed it caused excessive unrest, and amidst criticism from his advisors concerning the portrayal of a Man wedding an Elf of higher rank than himself and producing a child of mixed blood.
The Play of Lothlórien (Title: The Final Days of Gondolin) – Few records survive of the arts of the Elvish enclave of Lothlórien, but those that do are almost entirely thanks to the efforts of lingering guests of Rivendell and Queen Arwen Evenstar of Gondor, who made documentation of Lothlórien’s culture and history a cornerstone of her rule. Therefore, although this play was not well-received by Mannish kingdoms at the time, significant records of it remain and it was performed at least once in Minas Tirith.
For reasons unclear, the playwrights of Lothlórien decided to give a more sympathetic view to Maeglin, who here is actually put to torment by Morgoth before revealing Gondolin’s location, and who reaches out to both Turgon and Idril in an effort to repair the damage, but is somewhat coldly rebuffed by both. Dialogue also indicates Maeglin has been neglected since his arrival in Gondolin—here, on the cusp of adolescence, as opposed to in the fullness of adulthood as in other adaptations—and that he is unpopular among Turgon’s advisors, and is particularly misliked by Idril and Tuor.
While The Final Days of Gondolin presents an interesting “alternate” perspective, most historians today agree that it sacrifices accuracy for narrative, choosing to portray Maeglin’s unfair malignment and ostracization (in some versions, due to his mixed heritage—though Idril’s own mixed heritage is not addressed) as the main cause of his discontent. Today, many feminist groups also criticize The Final Days of Gondolin for the implication that Idril was at fault for not being more accepting of her cousin’s unwelcome romantic advances.
The Idis Play (Title: The Fall of Gondolin and the Kingdoms of the Elves) – Once again we see an effort by Men to capture the fall of Gondolin on stage. The Fall of Gondolin and the Kingdoms of the Elves is unique in the liberal use of horses on the stage, which makes it particularly difficult to put on nowadays. At its debut in Edoras, it would have been performed outdoors, making life a bit easier for everyone, with regards to the equine actors.
Once again, the Men of the story take centerstage. This play devotes time to Tuor’s journey to Gondolin, including a meeting with Ulmo, lord of the sea, in Vinyamar, before it dives into the politics of Gondolin, largely from Tuor’s perspective. The play draws strong comparisons between Turgon—who allegedly constructed Gondolin to honor Ulmo—and Tuor, Ulmo’s chosen champion. It devotes considerable time to Maeglin then cleaving Turgon away from Tuor, his spiritual kindred, and Idril, his loyal daughter.
At first brush, the play is perhaps surprisingly politically-focused for a play of the Rohirrim, but it is possible that the country’s past history with insidious influences on otherwise well-liked kings—one recalls centuries earlier the damage done by one Gríma Wormtongue—that this particular aspect of the fall of Gondolin struck home with the Rohirrim.
As to the speculation on Tuor’s pre-Gondolin wanderings, it is impossible to say how much is true or false. Whatever Tuor may have seen that led him to believe a Vala wished him to seek out this city has been lost to us. But one thing is clear—Turgon took Tuor’s words seriously.
Many modern showings of this play choose to conclude the final scene of the refugees’ flight with a few seabirds sailing overhead, foreshadowing the group’s arrival in the Havens of Sirion and perhaps even Eärendil’s future marriage to Elwing, last queen of Doriath, perhaps most famous for the tale of her transformation into a white seabird during the Third Kinslaying.
The Meadaz Novel (Title: Like Leaves from the Vine) – Like Leaves from the Vine, from Haradrim author Meadaz, focuses almost entirely on the relationships between Tuor, Idril, and those immediately surrounding them, almost to the exclusion of anything relating to Morgoth or outside threats. The book was a raving success at the time and remains on most “classics” lists for its passionate, poetic prose and subtle touch with the interpersonal relationships.
Like Leaves from the Vine reads almost as classic Haradrim romance epic, beginning with a meeting of Tuor and Idril not long after Tuor’s arrival in Gondolin. The pair are clearly smitten, but much stands in their way, and neither is sure whether such a relationship would be possible (This novel posits theirs as the first romance between Elves and Men, though the accuracy of this claim is doubtful.)
In this novel, Maeglin arrived in Gondolin at the cusp of manhood and was welcomed by his cousin, who has, this far into adulthood, grown weary of rebuffing his romantic attention and mistrustful of his desires, despite lingering familial affection. It isn’t until his attempted assault of her on the night before Morgoth’s arrival that Idril seems to truly give up on him.
Also tackled in this novel is Turgon’s relationship with and his effort to mentor Maeglin—and Maeglin’s occasionally conflicted feelings about plotting Turgon’s overthrow. At times he seems to almost regard Turgon as a father figure, but he always comes back to his burning ambition and his resentment over Idril’s rejection. With far more time to linger than a play, Meadaz even digs into Maeglin’s relationship with Salgant, who here appears almost besotted, or at least eager to have someone’s approval, as well as Tuor’s reception by various lords of Gondolin, chief among them Glorfindel of the Golden Flower and Ecthelion of the Fountain.
Precious little is known about the lords of Gondolin, save that one of them called Glorfindel existed, and likely partook in the battle for Gondolin. Like Leaves from the Vine popularized his title as lord of the Golden Flower, but if it is accurate, it is difficult to say. Ecthelion may be an invention of this author, though the name was known in the area at the time.
Some literary scholars cite the awkward pacing of the novel’s conclusion as a sign that the author wished to end with the guard spotting the approach of Morgoth’s troops and Idril’s realization that someone has betrayed them to the enemy, but felt pressured to include the actual sack of the city for completeness’ sake. Others suggest extended, bloody battle sequences were simply considered uncouth among Haradrim literati at the time. Still other scholars point to the constant loom of Morgoth as a more existentialist threat, meant to stand in for the many non-military threats constantly facing any city at the time and argue that Meadaz uses the forces of “the enemy”—not seen until the very end of the novel—as a metaphor.
Deftly mixed into the ever-shifting interpersonal drama are Meadaz’s own reflections on a culture on the verge of destruction, perhaps reflective of Harad’s long history of struggle with despots and invaders. At some points, the text is positively philosophic, to wonderful effect for the reader who knows already what is in store for these characters.
The Blue Mountains Radio Drama (Title: Secrets of the Hidden City) – While radio was slow to take off in Dwarvish communities due to its limited functionality underground, use of it came quicker in above-ground diaspora groups due to the speed and convenience of communication. Dwarvish techsmiths quickly set about perfecting the system, and eventually the radio dramas popular among Men and Hobbits also took root. One of the earlier examples of an epic radio dramas put out by a Dwarvish cast and company was Secrets of the Hidden City.
What is truly impressive about Secrets of the Hidden City is how much research clearly went into it. Dwarvish historical productions tend to stick more closely to truth and accuracy than many you will see on a Mannish stage, and this was no different. Entire episodes are dedicated to describing city function and architecture—episodes very well-received by their Dwarvish audience. Historians continue to applaud the show for its commitment to accuracy, and where question arose, working out the most logical or likely truth based on surrounding information.
Playing into the crime dramas which were popular in the community at the time, Secrets of the Hidden City chooses to make Gondolin aware that it has a traitor in its midst and focus on the tension of the effort to root that person out. It takes pains to establish that Maeglin is a liked and trusted figure in Gondolin, suspected by Idril alone, so that to anyone unfamiliar with the tale, it comes as a shock when his treachery is revealed. Turgon’s agonized response is particularly touching; to learn that one he considered his own son had plotted the destruction of all that Turgon built is a crushing blow to the king, who chooses to remain behind and die with his city, in what is heavily implied to be a suicide.
Throughout Secrets of the Hidden City, there is a great focus on how beloved Gondolin is by its citizens, such that listeners are encouraged to grieve Gondolin as if it too, were a beloved character meeting a terrible end. When the characters at the finale wail and bemoan their losses, no one doubts that Gondolin itself is included in their grief, and that some of their tears are for all the history, culture, and memory that is lost with her destruction.
The Andir Play (Title: Reflection: Fall of a Bastion) – This play is entirely a soliloquy by Maeglin to the audience, which therefore requires an extraordinarily powerful actor to cast as the lead. Here, Maeglin is presented as a disembodied spirit who has rejected the call of Namo, the lord of the dead, and instead drifts in regret and bitterness around the ruined landscape of a Middle-earth deep in the throes of the Great Darkness.
Throughout the play he laments to the audience about his life, beginning with his complicated relationship with his father, Eöl. While Maeglin insists they are nothing alike, the audience listens as more and more similarities between them crop up. He takes the audience through his wonder at first arriving in Gondolin and his pride at his place beside the king to the resentment and ambition which consumed him as an adult, leading to his eventual betrayal of the city which had taken him in.
Perhaps the most powerful moment of this play is when Maeglin cries out to the silent theater that when he gave Morgoth the location of the city, it was not fear of torture first on his mind, but rage with Idril who had spurned him, and Tuor who had wed the woman he desired.
Therefore, while this play roundly condemns Maeglin’s actions in life, it also presents him as a very three-dimensional character, one with the capacity for regret: someone who had the ability to be better, but instead chose a path of darkness. It launched the career of playwright Andir who rocketed onto the scene, with most critics praising the claustrophobic power of the piece. It is also surprisingly historically accurate, though some things—such as Maeglin’s recollection of certain festivals of the city—were inventions of Andir to give more depth to Maeglin’s memories.
The Oreldes Film (Title: Princess in Peril: The Fall of Gondolin) – Princess in Peril places Idril front and center, and never strays from her. While the film has been criticized for its blatant historical inaccuracies in costuming and set design (Rog’s perm is particularly egregious), one can find few faults with the snappy performance of Ionith in the lead. Take issue with the modern dialogue one might (it seems doubtful that Gondoldrim ever started a horse race with “Cowabunga!”), but Ionith delivers it confidently and with the aggressive punch the director puts behind this entire interpretation of her character. Promotional posters of her from the film were so popular at the time they have come back in vogue as “retro glampunk.”
Princess in Peril does not perhaps present Idril as the most conscientious princess, but it does give enormous credence to her foresight and her suspicions. Additionally, in this adaptation, Tuor does not come to Idril’s aid during the sack: Idril slays Maeglin herself, and rescues Eärendil from the clutches of Salgant, aiding Maeglin to off Idril’s heir. It has been criticized for extending that fight too long—it takes several encounters with both characters throughout the chaos of battle before Idril offs them definitively, all set to the flaming backdrop of the burning city and a rock n’ roll score.
In the final sequences, Idril takes up her father’s fallen sword and charges the palace of kings in time for Turgon to be seized by a firedrake. His final words are an plea to flee with what Gondolindrim she can gather. Idril slays the firedrake and cradles her father’s body in her arms, bidding him a final sooty, teary goodbye before leading her people out of the city.
This focus almost exclusively on Idril comes perhaps as contemporary critics felt she had been overshadowed by the male drama of the tale. However, its own lack of nuance leaves something of a hollow final product, as we have very little idea of who this power princess is. Much of the film’s potential emotional stakes are sacrificed for the at-the-time cutting-edge special effects of battle. But even if the film fails to give us a satisfactory answer, it does indicate that even at this time, curiosity about who this woman was and what she experienced lives on, and if the specifics have been lost to time, we nevertheless remember her as a hero.
The Jolly Green Goblins Podcast (Title: Real Community Organizers of Gondolin) – Real Community Organizers of Gondolin was launched almost ten years ago now, and at one point was a pop culture staple. Borrowing from popular TV comedies several years earlier, it styled Gondolin as a workplace mockumentary and its razor-sharp, dark humor and lightning fast, quippy dialogue kept listeners in stitches for years.
Real Community Organizers of Gondolin picks up several years after the wedding of Tuor and Idril, with a meeting of the king’s council. It is the perfect opening to showcase the writers’ phenomenal talent for biting dialogue and quickly establishing characters and dynamics. Listening to the bickering of the Gondolin Home and Gardens Committee became such a staple of pop comedy that it was frequently referenced by multiple late show hosts during the podcast’s run. Similarly well-known gags, which pervade even that audience which managed to avoid listening to the actual show include Turgon’s interview sigh, which manages to convey a deadpan expression even without visual aid, and the constant references to everyone’s inability to leave the city (“I’d kill for a Hithlum taffy,” sighs Egalmoth. “I mean I really would. I better stay inside today.”)
However, the show rapidly lost favor in the final season, which chose to tackle the fall of the city as a way to wind up the show. It became painfully clear midway through the show the writers had no idea how to balance their typical humor with the overwhelming horror of what was taking place in the city. No amount of sassy quips could overcome Maeglin’s attempted murder of seven-year-old Eärendil or Ecthelion’s brutal death at the hands of a balrog.
In recent interviews reflecting on the end of the show, writer Cothes admitted the team could not decide between going dark enough to mock the terrible fates many of the characters met, or switching tone entirely to something more genuine, and the result was the confused muddle of the final season. She suggested they might have benefitted from simply taken far more artistic license with the story to make it fit their purposes better, but that they felt constrained by prior interpretations which are often take as the “truth” of the story in the popular imagination.
Nevertheless, the show’s focus on petty banalities and irreverent takes on the difficulties of ruling the Hidden City show a human side to the characters involved. There’s something relatable in seeing Idril oversleep for the council, in Turgon’s frustration with trying to get the lords to agree on something, in Tuor’s realization about just how much of his monthly budget he’s spent on new outfits for Eärendil, in their tendency—as much as ours now—to get caught up in the minutia of things which barely matter in the grand scheme. Real Community Organizers of Gondolin shows us that they were all people, for better or worse, by giving us a look at their less noble sides.
Conclusion
What can we observe from these often widely varying interpretations of Gondolin’s end? It is one of those “grand tales” of the First Age, a towering myth in which is buried some truth, though much has been lost to the ages, and likely much invented by those that came after. There are some constants: We know there was a city. We know there was a king, a princess. We know there was a betrayal. And the city fell. The residents of Gondolin could not save their city, despite the best efforts of Princess Idril and perhaps of others—and while we cannot effect change of the past, we can do our best to remember them still.
Doubtless many Gondolindrim died or lived on thinking of how things might have been different. And perhaps that is part of the draw for us as well—that in this play, in this book, in this movie, maybe Gondolin will be spared. Perhaps King Turgon will not die. Perhaps Eärendil’s life will not be threatened. Perhaps they will not have to walk away from the corpse of their home.
Perhaps we are drawn to the heroism in spite of the grimness of Gondolin’s situation: that the lords of Gondolin fight, despite the overwhelming odds; that Idril leads the fleeing civilians rather than place her own life ahead of theirs; that Turgon goes down with his city. Or perhaps we cannot help but fixate on the tragedy of so grand a place brought down by something as small as one bitter malcontent, ready to burn it all to the ground to satisfy his anger.
The tale of Gondolin’s final days fascinates us for many reasons, not least of all because there remains in all the grief a spark of hope: the survival of Eärendil, future leader of the Gondolindrim, and one who will go on to bring succor to the people of Middle-earth, eventually turning the tide against the Great Darkness, allowing a calmer age of peace and prosperity to dawn, even if it did not last forever. Gondolin’s story takes us through a whirlwind of emotions: the joy of Tuor and Idril’s love, the anxiety over Maeglin’s resentment, the anger at his betrayal, the fear of the siege, the sorrow at Gondolin’s end. In living through this memory of the past, in keeping it alive, we remind ourselves that we are all the Children of Middle-earth, past, present, and future, and we have always and ever been together moving towards a softer, gentler dawn.