Missing the Obvious on Star Wars
Dean
Nick Gillespie has one of the more interesting contemporary analyses on the Star Wars phenomenon I've seen. It starts out seeming like a rant, but on the whole is actually fairly insightful. However, he misses the crucial dramatic points as to why the first two movies were both critical and popular successes, and why all the other movies have disappointed.
Here's a story:
An orphan boy grows up on a boring farm, dreaming of a life of adventure. He has never met his real parents, and while he loves the people who care for him, he knows he doesn't really belong with them. He meets two exotic strangers who befriend him and become his servants. They wind up leading him through a brief misadventure to an old wizard. The wizard tells him there's more to his past than he ever realized, and gives him a magic sword. He also teaches the boy how to unlock amazing powers he never realized he had within him. After discovering that his family has been killed by minions of a dark knight in the service of an evil king, the boy goes off on an adventure with the wizard into strange lands full of exotic creatures. Their mission: rescue a beautiful princess from the clutches of the same dark knight. The dark knight also controls a giant dragon that can wipe out horrifying numbers of people with its devastating fire breath. Along the way on their journey, they are joined by a lovable rogue knight and his strong, silent squire. Together, they invade the dark knight's lair, escaping from the dragon's belly with the beautiful princess in tow. They later rally to destroy the dragon, but before they can bring the dark knight to justice, he escapes to fight another day. The princess rewards them all nonetheless, and there is much rejoicing as they are applauded as great heroes. The end.
That, of course, is the entire plot of the first Star Wars film.
The second film is about the budding romance between the rogue knight and the princess, and about the boy confronting his inner demons, discovering horrifying revelations about his past, and becoming a man. The chapter ends on a note of wonder: scared for the future, but we're older and wiser, and hopeful and determined for the future.
The third movie was little more than a big satisfying "crash" of an ending, wrapping up all the major themes of the first two with some epic battles. Frankly, if it hadn't been for those f**ckig Ewoks it would have been a fine film. Dramatically simpler than the other two of course, but that's just because it was a climax. Complaining that it's simpler and less interesting is like complaining that orgasm is simpler and less interesting than foreplay.
The fact that the story was so very simple and so filled with familiar archetypes is the entire reason people have found endless allegories to them in such things as the Cold War, the Iraq war, Vietnam, Nixon, Watergate, and all that other stuff. It's not because Lucas really put any of that in there. It's just that a story filled with fairy tale archetypes is one easily adapted to almost any real life situation. Can you see the original Star Wars trilogy as an allegory to the Cold War? Sure you can if you want to. You can just as easily see it as an allegory of your conflict with your jerk boss and the lousy company you work for.
The original Star Wars trilogy was nothing but a fantasy story given a more "real seeming" background by putting it in space with aliens instead of in a magical fairy kingdom. By the end of our teen years most of us come to the realization that no matter how hard we imagine it, we know we're never going to find the magical portal that leads to Middle Earth or Hogwart's--but by putting his fantasy stories in space, and invoking New Age mysticism with "The Force," George Lucas made it a little easier even for grownups to think maybe something like all that was pssible. Oh not really of course, but we could believe in it just enough to make the speculation seem fun and not completely silly; after all, despite the abject failure of parapsychologists to prove their existence after decades of research, most people find things like telekenesis and telepathy far more believable than magic spells and fire-breathing dragons.
The new movies have all that the old ones had and more in terms of stunning special effects and interesting fantasy settings. But they fail dramatically. Why? One of the biggest reasons is that they aren't drawn with such timeless characters and plot lines.
Another reason they fail is that all the mystery, all the questions the story invokes (What were the "clone wars?" What happened to the Jedi? How did Vader become evil? How does "The Force" really work?) were already set up for us in the original movies. The mysteries are all established for us before we walk in. All that's left is Revelation.
Revelation is almost always less interesting than mystery--unless your revelation creates still deeper mystery. If not, the fascination you once had for the mystery generally ends.
For example: one of the reasons people remain so utterly fascinated by JFK-assassination conspiracy theories is that they contain endless mystery: who "really" did it? Who engaged in the coverup? Who else may have been involved? What were their motivations? Are they still around, and if so, what are they up to?
The idea that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone is an unpopular view. Why? I suggest that it's not just because people don't like to believe that a great and powerful man could be brought down by a lone nut. Yes, there's some of that, but there's more: if we don't accept that the lone nut did it, then we have a fascinating mystery to enthrall us, into which we can pour all of our own interests and fascinations. How much more interesting! We can now endlessly debate the grassy knoll, the less-popular overpass location for the second (or maybe even third!) gunman, possible Mob involvement, possible CIA or KGB involvement, maybe LBJ or even Castro were involved somewhere...
It never ends, and for many people, just having it end would be upsetting. They don't want a definitive and simple answer because having one ruins their fun. A moody, disaffected Marxist gets off a moderately lucky shot and takes down a President? How utterly boring!
Think similarly about people's fascination with dinosaurs. Why are we fascinated by them? It's not just what we know about them, it's what we don't know that fascinates us. Indeed, a part of the enduring charm of the dinosaur is that every time paleontologists uncover new facts about dinosaurs, those new facts inevitably spark debate and open up still more questions. And it's endless fun to debate the causes of their extinction. (At least, for dinosaur fans it is.)
Or think of physics. Why are we so interested in, say, black holes, or the secrets of the atom? Well, part of it is that as we learn about them, we learn about still mysteries. Usually, new breakthrough discoveries in these areas lead to still more mysteries. Once we definitevely proved the existence of the atom, it raised the next obvious question: what's the atom made up of? For a long time we weren't sure. Then the answer: protons neutrons and elections! Well what are those made up of, and how do they work?
At least so far, the answers to all those questions have not only been interesting in their own right, but they have created further mysteries. So we don't just get an answer to our earlier questions, but we also get new fun: more mysteries!
George Lucas' second Star Wars trilogy falls flat for most people not just because George Lucas is rusty and out of shape from 20 years away from the director's chair--although that's undoubtedly part of it. They also fail not just because of the wooden dialogue--although that's part of it too.
No, their biggest failure by far is that these new films evoke few universal archetypes, and present no great new mysteries. There's some political intrigue, but most of it seems obscure and uninteresting, not grand and compelling. Beyond that, almost none of the story in this second set of films creates any mysteries for us to wonder about or debate.
We're just handed a pile of answers, most of which don't go anywhere. Nor are the answers organized in the way of great archetypal themes like the first two films were: Lucas tries to do this with gestures like giving Darth Vader a virgin birth, but it's handled in such an offhand way it's uncompelling.
It's notable that the few times that the movies do rise beyond the tedious, it is when they again move into the realm of mystery ("how did this come about?") and into the realm of universal archetypes ("how did a good man become evil?"). These second films barely manage to do those things--and when they do, they don't do it anywhere near as adroitly.
It's telling, though, that almost everyone seems to agree that this third film is the best--and what does this film deal with? It spends the entire film building up a big mystery ("how did he get hurt and become Darth Vader?") that it does not reveal until then end. And it is otherwise all about universal themes: the choices we make in life, fear, loneliness, anguish, rebellion. When it rises to those levels--and when we're kept in suspense by the mystery until the very end--we tend to like the film better.
In short, then:
First set of films: Filled with universal archetypes and themes that everyone recognized at a visceral level. Set up lots of mysteries and challenges. Made fantasy concepts feel almost like maybe, just maybe, they could be real.
Second set of films: Universal archetypes and themes largely missing and/or buried in obscuring, overcomplicated plotlines. Old mysteries solved, with very few new mysteries introduced for us to ponder. Add in a screenwriter and director who's lost his touch for good dialogue and pulling the warmth out of actors, and you've got a much less interesting set of films.
Here's my prediction to Nick: the original Star Wars films will endure and still be loved even by our great-grandchildren. Because they were not cultural phenomena: they hit on themes universal to the human experience.
The second set will be remembered mostly as a sort of addendum, a "here's more if you wanted to explore that universe a bit more" set of stories. Not unlike The Silmarillion to The Lord of the Rings. Or the fourth or fifth Hitchhiker's Guide books.
* Update * As a good lesson in how silly it is for people to look for deep "hidden meanings" in movies that are really just made up of grand archetypes, look no further than Pundit Guy's funny piece on how Star Wars is really a messsage to the Catholic Church to keep priestly fidelity and keep women and homosexuals out of the clergy. Me? I say the whole thing's George Lucas' message to my wife to tell her that she should get the day job and let me stay home with the kids and play video games all day.
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- Missing the Obvious on Star Wars
And I always get the theme of these two movies mixed up, because again, it's so similar.
If Lucas had been clever he might have hired somebody like M. Night Shyamalan (is there anybody like M. Night Shyamalan?) who would have written Episodes I, II, and III to reveal that what we had thought we had known about Episodes IV, V, and VI were completely wrong and that there were a completely new set of mysteries.
Maybe he was aware of his limitations. He just doesn't have the imagination and the gift of creating great characters that went into episode IV and V. (and American Graffiti).
The great artists have a real sense of timing, and that includes knowing when it's time to retire.
Lesson for writers of epic worlds? Don't bother writing anything to explain it. Just let it be.
Hey, at least the Silmarillion had:
1) A truly legendary mano-a-mano: Fingolfin, King of the Noldor, going toe-to-toe with Morgoth, the Great Enemy who was Sauron's old boss before he went into business for himself as an Evil Overlord:
"Now news came to Hithlum that Dorthonion was lost and the sons of Finarfin overthrown, and that the sons of Feanor were driven from their lands. Then Fingolfin beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of the Noldor, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses; and filled with wrath and despair he mounted upon Rochallor his great horse and rode forth alone, and none might restrain him. He passed over Dor-nu-Fauglith like a wind amid the dust, and all that beheld his onset fled in amaze, thinking that Orome himself was come: for a great madness of rage was upon him, so that his eyes shone like the eyes of the Valar. Thus he came alone to Angband's gates, and he sounded his horn, and smote once more upon the brazen doors, and challenged Morgoth to come forth to single combat. And Morgoth came.
That was the last time in those wars that he passed the doors of his stronghold, and it is said that he took not the challenge willingly; for though his might was greatest of all things in this world, alone of the Valar he knew fear. But he could not now deny the challenge before the face of his captains; for the rocks rang with the shrill music of Fingolfin's horn, and his voice came keen and clear down into the depths of Angband; and Fingolfin named Morgoth craven, and lord of slaves. Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable enblazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice.
Then Morgoth hurled aloft Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld, and swung it down like a bolt of thunder. But Fingolfin sprang aside, and Grond rent a mighty pit in the earth, whence smoke and fire darted. Many times Morgoth essayed to smite him, and each time Fingolfin leaped away, as a lightning shoots from under a dark cloud; and he wounded Morgoth with seven wounds, and seven times Morgoth gave a cry of anguish, whereat the host of Angband fell upon their faces in dismay, and the cries echoed in the Northlands.
But at the last the King grew weary, and Morgoth bore down his shield upon him. Thrice he was crushed to his knees, and thrice arose again and bore up his broken shield and stricken helm. But the earth was all rent and pitted about him, and he stumbled and fell backward before the feet of Morgoth; and Morgoth set his left foot upon his neck, and the weight of it was like a fallen hill. Yet with his last and desperate stroke Fingolfin hewed the foot with Ringil, and the blood gushed forth black and smoking and filled the pits of Grond.
Thus died Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, most proud and valiant of the Elven-kings of old...."
From The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien "
Oh, and let's not forget the even more important advantage the Silmarillion has over Episodes I-III:
2) No Jar-Jar.
Let's be honest: Lucas is a hack writer, a mediocre director, but an excellent producer.
Oh, all that BS about Joseph Campbell, and the "common mythologies?" That's BS too. I'll give a shiny new buffalo nickel to anyone who can show me an interview or an article where Lucas referenced that stuff before Phantom Menace. Better yet, show me references at the same time, or before, Empire Strikes Back.
What happened was that Lucas started taking the mythology about himself seriously.
But everyone's right, at least Tolien had an excuse. What's Lucas'? Oh, yeah, all that money. God knows where we'd be without our Wookie cell-phone rings.
Look at the Jedi code:
There is no emotion, there is peace
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge
There is no passion, there is serenity
There is no death, there is the Force
No attachment, no desire only emptiness of self to be filled with the Force.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna pull my head out of all my amassed Star Wars geek lore and make out with my wife.