Everybody knows about Peter Jackson, 'The Hobbit' movies and 'The

Host: The wind swept over the hills, cool and golden with the scent of the sea. The sky stretched wide — a canvas of pale blue fading into silver, and beneath it, the land rolled in gentle curves, wild and unending. The grass bent like waves in motion, catching the sunlight as though the earth itself were breathing.

It was late afternoon on the coast of New Zealand, and the world felt larger than usual. In the distance, the faint outline of a mountain ridge rose like a sleeping giant — timeless, indifferent, magnificent.

A wooden bench overlooked the valley below, and on it sat Jack and Jeeny, wrapped in the hush of the hour. The wind tugged softly at Jeeny’s dark hair; Jack’s grey eyes followed a line of clouds drifting west, lost in thought.

The scene looked almost cinematic — two small figures against an enormous world.

Jeeny: “Luke Evans once said, ‘Everybody knows about Peter Jackson, “The Hobbit” movies and “The Lord of the Rings” films being made in New Zealand, and to actually have been part of it for such a long period, to live there and to have friends that I will have for life because of that experience, is an amazing thing.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Amazing, huh? It’s funny how actors always sound like they’ve survived a pilgrimage instead of a movie shoot.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is a pilgrimage, Jack. Think about it — thousands of miles away from home, in a place untouched by noise, building a whole world from imagination. That’s not just work; it’s myth-making.”

Jack: “Or tourism with better cameras.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant cries of seabirds and the whisper of leaves brushing one another. The air shimmered slightly in the fading light, and a faint smell of salt mingled with the earthy scent of rain-soaked wood.

Jack: “You know what I think? We’ve turned stories into brands. Middle-earth used to be a dream — now it’s a franchise. You can’t walk through Wellington without tripping over a souvenir shop shaped like Mordor.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that part of the magic? Stories escaping the page, becoming places? For a moment, you get to live inside something bigger than yourself. I think that’s what Luke Evans meant — being part of a world where fiction feels real, even just for a while.”

Jack: “Reality’s overrated now. People visit sets like they’re holy ground. They trade wonder for selfies.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “And yet, you’re here — on this hill, staring at the same sky they filmed under. Maybe you came for your own selfie of the soul.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, spilling a soft amber light across the valley. The air cooled, and the grass whispered as if remembering every footstep that had passed through this place — the actors, the crew, the dreamers, and now, these two.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. The idea that people call something ‘amazing’ just because they were part of a film—it feels self-congratulatory. Real amazement should come from creation, not from proximity.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly what they created, Jack? A myth so powerful it became landscape. You can’t separate the art from the place now. Middle-earth is New Zealand. The mountains hold the memory of the story.”

Jack: “That’s romantic nonsense. Mountains don’t hold memory — people do. And they forget faster than they think.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why stories exist — to remind them. When Luke Evans talks about lifelong friends, he’s not talking about fame or franchise. He’s talking about human bonds born in shared imagination.”

Jack: “So you think fantasy creates reality?”

Jeeny: “I think fantasy reveals it. The part we forget when life gets too small.”

Host: The wind grew stronger now, tugging at Jeeny’s coat and carrying her words into the distance. Jack watched her — her face lit by the last threads of sunlight, her voice calm but firm, her conviction as steady as the mountains themselves.

Jack: “You always talk like belief is the cure for everything.”

Jeeny: “Not belief — wonder. There’s a difference. Belief asks you to commit. Wonder just asks you to look.”

Jack: “And what do you see when you look?”

Jeeny: “That even make-believe worlds can make real change. Those movies — they didn’t just entertain. They reshaped how people see this country, how they see adventure, courage, friendship. That’s real.”

Jack: “You’re saying fantasy has consequences.”

Jeeny: “Everything beautiful does.”

Host: A moment of silence passed — a long one, filled only by the sound of wind moving through grass and the faint, hollow call of a bird somewhere far away. Jack lowered his gaze to the horizon, where the last of the sun was sinking behind the mountains.

For a second, the landscape looked unreal — painted, like a film still.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I watched The Fellowship of the Ring for the first time on a scratched DVD. I remember thinking the Shire looked too perfect to exist. I couldn’t believe it was real.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And now you’re sitting in it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Guess I am. And it’s quieter than I imagined.”

Jeeny: “Because movies give silence a soundtrack. Real life doesn’t. But that doesn’t make it less sacred.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet trapped in a travel brochure.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just someone who still believes that art leaves fingerprints on places.”

Host: Jack’s lips curved into a faint smile, half amusement, half surrender. The sky was now a deep indigo, streaked with faint stars, the air crisp with the coming night. In the distance, the lights of a small village began to flicker on, like embers reigniting at the base of the world.

Jack: “You know, you might be right. This place — it does feel different. Like the air’s been touched by stories.”

Jeeny: “It has. Every frame of those films carried a piece of this land — the mist, the water, the light. Even people who’ve never been here feel they have, through the story.”

Jack: “That’s the strange part, isn’t it? Fiction becomes memory. People cry over places they’ve never seen, characters that never lived.”

Jeeny: “Because in those stories, they see themselves — the courage they lost, the innocence they buried, the friendship they crave. That’s what makes art eternal. It gives us pieces of ourselves back.”

Jack: “And all it takes is a camera and a script?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It takes heart — and a bit of madness.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, the sound swallowed by the wind. He picked up a small stone from the ground, turned it in his palm, then tossed it into the valley below. It vanished into the grass without a sound.

Jack: “You ever wonder what it’s like — to build something like that? To live inside a world that big?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But maybe the real gift isn’t creating Middle-earth — it’s realizing we already live in one. The same hills, the same sky, the same potential for wonder. We just stopped looking.”

Jack: “You think people forget wonder that easily?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they bury it under responsibility. Stories like that dig it up again.”

Host: The moon rose now, pale and distant, washing the landscape in a soft silver light. The world looked both ancient and new — as though time itself had folded.

Jack: (softly) “You know… I think I get it now. Evans wasn’t amazed because of fame or film. He was amazed because something imaginary became home. Because strangers became family.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the secret of creation — not the building of worlds, but the building of belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging…” (pauses) “Yeah. I like that word.”

Jeeny: “Me too. Because it’s the only kind of magic that lasts.”

Host: They sat in silence, listening to the wind hum through the valley — a sound both ancient and infinite. The world around them seemed to expand, not in distance, but in depth.

The stars brightened, the earth breathed, and for a fleeting moment, they were not just visitors — they were part of the landscape, part of the story that had begun long before them and would continue long after.

Host: And as the night deepened, the last light faded from the sky, leaving only the shimmer of constellations — the same stars that had watched over elves, men, dreamers, and filmmakers alike.

Jack and Jeeny remained still, two souls in quiet awe, their words gone but their wonder alive — a small, human echo of what Luke Evans had called “an amazing thing.”