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| The Theme to The Last Jedi should have been "We Don't Need No Education" |
In preparation for seeing Star Wars: Episode VIII - The Last Jedi, I saw The Force Awakens again, then looked back at the review and analysis I wrote back when it came out two years ago. It ends up that I didn't like it as much as I thought I had, with the analysis not going past the level of basic logistics and trivial details. In seeing Awakens again, the acting seems better to me and the overall experience more satisfying than how it hit me the first time around. I still don't have anything deep to say about it: it's a fun, rousing, dumb popcorn movie that made me think nostalgically of my childhood. Who needs more?
OK, Star Wars fanboys and girls want more. As for me, I've always lived on the fringe of both Star Wars and Star Trek geekdom, never actually counting myself an adherent of either faith. Both were parts of my childhood I remember fondly, and I know more than most nonbelievers about both universes, but not much more. The only thing I treat like religion is religion, so nitpicking about whether Greedo or Han shot first or picking sides between Picard or Kirk never interested to me, let alone trying to learn Klingon. I do have to say that this latest Star Wars film did get me thinking about what went wrong with it, and how its subverting the expectations of the fan base (a theme I heard repeated on a few sites) may alienate both the fundamentalist hard core and casual adherent alike.
Over the first three films made between 1977 and 1983, which technically make up the middle portion of what will be a nine movie story arc (with countless new trilogies and stand alone films planned for the future), the ground rules for the Star Wars myth was set. George Lucas drew on the high minded theories of academic Joseph Campbell, mixed with the cliff hanger thrills of the old Buck Rogers movie serials of his youth, wrapped up in a World War II in space ethos to create modern mythology. At the time it was something fresh, which instantly captured the imaginations of movie audiences young and old, in desperate need of some good old fashioned entertainment.
Star Wars (later retitled Episode IV: A New Hope) came out in the heart of the New Hollywood era. With the twin deaths of the old production code and the studio system a decade before, control over the film making process increasingly shifted from studio executives into the hands of the directors (who often wrote, or at least collaborated on their own scripts, as opposed to being assigned projects by the studio). With this new found freedom, and in light of the Vietnam War and Watergate scandal, films became darker in tone. The distinctions between heroes and villains weren't always clearly drawn. It wasn't unusual for the the good guy to loose and, crime often payed - a big no-no under the old rules. In the midst of this moral relativism came Star Wars. It's true that the bad guys wore white - which I remember confusing some people in 1977, but there wasn't any mistaking that the Storm Troopers were evil. While Darth Vader becomes increasingly conflicted over the course of the movies, as does Luke, to a lesser degree, there is no moral relativism or irony at work here. Darth Vader isn't misunderstood and Luke isn't a closet baddie. The battle is over their "souls" and the destiny of the universe. This very clear battle between good and evil was refreshing to audiences in the age of the cynical, relativistic antihero.
There was also a spiritual foundation at work, albeit a bit hoaky. The Force is a supernatural energy that binds reality together, and certain people are more strongly connected to it than others. There are prophecies and destinies, and life has a purpose. Luke is on the hero's journey of self discovery and fulfillment. He is strong in the Force, but still needs to perfect his skills under the tutelage of an experienced mentor. It wasn't meant to be realistic, even apart from the science fantasy setting: we're dealing in archetypes and symbols (this is where Campbell comes in) as old as human civilization. While we shouldn't confuse the Star Wars franchise with anything other than mass market commercial entertainment, because it trades in these universal values it connected, and continues to connect with audiences, who, in some cases, respond with an almost religious fervor (something I would need another lengthy post to explore).
That some express a pseudo-religious response to Star Wars isn't completely surprising. The sacred texts of many religions around the world are made up of stories handed down through the ages. Jesus understood the power of narrative and of universal types. This is why he spoke in parables. Like doctrinal discourse it gives generalities that can later be applied to concrete situations, but in a way that people more easily remember. There was no Good Samaritan, as far as we know, neither was there a Prodigal Son. But like mythology of old they hit upon universal human experience and, in the case of our Lord’s parables, show how divine grace can effect it. Theology can be dry and detached, and history usually fails to offer us clear lessons. But story is a powerful conductor of truth when used correctly. There will always be a certain degree of subjectivity at work. We can still argue over what the universals mean. But in good fiction the truth hovers above the details that serve like mnemonic devises to aid our remembering.
In the grand scheme Star Wars worked because it followed a method with a proven track record of success - for something like millennia: take universal ideals and express them through a simple, yet lively story that people will remember. Dark, brooding and morally conflicted stories often make great films, but that's not why people go to a Star Wars movie. There's nothing wrong with opening things up story wise, putting characters into new situations, exploring new worlds, if you will, a la Star Trek. But the basics of the struggle between good and evil and the hero's journey to self discovery still needs to be there, or it just isn't Star Wars anymore. Reports that the latest installment faded faster at the box office than it's precesessor are a bit exaggerated, but what should be more worrying to the corporate geniuses at Disney is the disparity of opinion between the professional critics and the general audience. The critics may love The Last Jedi, but many fans sense that there's been a disturbance in the Force: Episode VIII diverted too radically from the original spirit of the series, and they're not happy about it.
Fiddling with the Star Wars Mythology isn't new, but pinning down exactly when it began to be deconstructed is open to debate. Some say that Lucas began the process himself in the Prequels, especially when he reduced the Force to microscopic organisms living in people's blood. The more midi-chlorians, as they were called, in the blood system the more "Force" the person had. It's a concept that was quickly forgotten after Episode One, but the hard core fans still fume at the idea. Since I'm not that familiar with the Prequels, I'll stick to commenting on the original trilogy and the films made since 2015. So, while we can nitpick things, I point to 2016's stand alone movie Rogue One as the place where the postmodern tomfoolery started in earnest.
Rogue One tells the story of how the Death Star plans were captured, ending just as the events of A New Hope begin. In many ways it was an attempt at making a gritty war movie (think an intergalactic version of The Dirty Dozen). In ramping up the World War II in space aspect of the myth, it tended to down play the ideas of a hero's journey and personal destiny, with the Force being talked about, but not playing a significant part in the lives of a majority of the characters. It also injected moral ambiguity into the story for the first time. The Empire is evil still, but the Rebel Alliance isn't squeaky clean either. The protagonist is disenchanted with the rebellion, her childhood mentor is now an off the reservation Colonel Kurtz style quazi-psychopath, another "hero" is young but still grizzled veteran of the cause who kills allies when it's convenient to save his own skin. All these elements combine to produce a generally grim experience. The most memorable, and lovable, character is a blind martial arts expert who has undying faith in the power of the Force. I'm not the only person to mention that I'd have preferred to see a movie about that guy instead of the rest of these sad, cynical rejects from what ended up being a cosmic Catch-22.
The sole noble idea that Rogue One held on to was the theme of self sacrifice for a bigger cause. The trouble is it went a bit overboard in that area, with all the central characters dying at the end, which may have prompted a backlash of sorts in The Last Jedi. More on that a bit later.
As for the “in universe” pictures, in The Force Awakens (2015) we were reintroduced to the original spirit of the franchise. Themes that took three movies to establish are condensed, but very clearly Rey is the youth of uncertain origin, leaving home on an adventure seeking to understand her herself through discovering her past (think Luke Skywalker's hero's journey). Rylo Ren is the conflicted villain, who may or may not be related to Rey, much like Darth Vader and his relationship with Luke. Snoke, in the Palpatine role, is the embodiment of pure evil who seeks to keep Ren under his power while either turning or else destroying Rey. Han Solo assumes the role of Rey's mentor, like Ben Kenobi (rather than teaching her the ways of the Force, he offers to hone her skills as the next captain of the Millennium Falcon). Episode VII has an open-ended cliffhanger climax, but leaves the overall Star Wars ethos in place.
As I've already written about, Rogue One attempted to inject some "realism" into all the mythology, but it could be forgiven. It's a diversion from the main story, much like Tom Stoppard following the exploits of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern riffs on Hamlet without necessarily effecting how we interpret that play. But Episode VIII isn't a detour into something quirky. It's a part of the "official cannon," which systematically takes the Star Wars Myth and blows it up. In demythologizing Star Wars the film makers mirror the attitudes of the postmodern West, who's dictum is that nothing really matters, nothing is real, and there's nothing to get hung about.
Unlike Yoda, who assumes Luke's training after Ben Kenobi's death, Skywalker, in this case grabbing the mentor baton from the martyred Had Solo, wants nothing to do with training a new Jedi. He literally takes the baton, in the form of his own lightsaber breathlessly delivered by Rey, and tosses it away like an empty Coke can. He is riddled with self doubt, and no longer believes in the positive power of the Force. He is determined to abdicate his responsibility to accompany Rey on her journey. He is a far cry from Ben Kenobi who cherished his heritage and was ever to pass on his wisdom to a future generation. Instead past failures have overshadowed Luke's earlier triumphs, and he may or may not be just as evil as Kylo Ren. He chooses seclusion on his distant island planet, allowing the events of the universe to go on without him, content to die the last Jedi.
Kylo Ren isn't so much conflicted about whether to go to the Dark or the Light Side of the Force as much as figuring out how he will gain control of the universe. For a brief time it looked like the franchise was going to go into a truly interesting direction when Kylo and Rey team up against Snoke. The moment is thrilling, but brief, and we're right back to Kylo as the bad guy, but without an ounce of conflict within him. Rather than some grand statement, Kylo cynically uses Rey (an his Force power) to off Snoke in a palace intrigue power play move.
Rey begins Episode VII in the Luke role, as I've said. She is a blank slate, but hints are given as to her origin. Touching Luke's light saber unlocks all sorts of suppressed memories along with connecting her with the mythology's collective unconscious. Her mission transforms from simply getting the map piece to the Resistance to going on a journey of self discovery. In Episode VIII we find out her background is meaningless: her parents were nobody in particular and she has these great powers just because - no journey of discovery necessary, no trial by ordeal needed. Anybody can be powerful in the Force, it's nothing special, really. Even Yoda rejects the whole Jedi tradition, burning down the tree temple, with the sacred Jedi texts in it (though there is a chance Rey stole them before she left the island planet).
As for self sacrifice, we see one character die saving the fleet, but when Finn tires a similar move he's scolded for it. Toward the end of the movie what's left of the Resistance is trapped in a cave with a thick steel door, so the First Order brings on this huge canon type battering ram to blow it open (it utilizes Death Star Technology ™, of course). When it becomes clear that their not going to be able to blow up the weapon in time Finn decided to ride his speeder, Randy Quade in Independence Day style, right down the barrel of it. He's deflected by Rose Tico, and they both crash, keeping the canon in tact and their comrades in danger. In one of the most inane and insipid lines in movie history Rose justifies her action by telling Finn, "We're going to win this war not by fighting what we hate, but saving what we love!" She then kisses him tenderly before falling away unconscious. We've come a long way from Rick Blain proclaiming that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, to let ‘em fry, as along as I've got my man!
The most egregious demythologizing has to do with the aforementioned burning down of the Jedi Temple. It is a clear break with the past: a statement that tradition is meaningless, there is only the now, so it’s for us to create our own meaning.
The moviemakers may think that they are updating Star Wars to fit a contemporary mentality, but they are missing the point. As I wrote, A New Hope hit the screens during the era of The Godfather and Apocalypse Now, movies that made the mafia an allegory for corporate and political America, and portrayed the U.S. military leadership as either insane or coldly murderous. We generally think of Saturday Night Fever as a feel good movie of sorts, but it asks deep questions as to the meaning of life and ends with an apparent suicide. The Star Wars films were a balm from the moral relativism.
The films of today are far less serious than back in the ‘70’s, they actually ask fewer real questions, demand fewer sacrifices of their characters. But the culture is still saturated with moral relativism. I heard a critic claim that characters don’t die at the end of movies anymore because the actors themselves feel its bad for their image. Either that or it cuts off the possibility of making a sequel. These reasons may be true, but I think it’s also because filmmakers know that the current popular metaphysics doesn’t allow for life after death. All we have is this life, and the pleasures of this world. So there is no heaven or hell, there is no veil to pass through. All we have is now and the meaning we give life. If there is a heaven everyone goes there, and it’s not as good as life on earth (you have no idea how much I hated City of Angels). If there’s a hell, only the likes of Hitler and bankers go there. Maybe.
Deep down people don’t really believe that life has no meaning, or at least they’re not satisfied by the thought (the heaven and hell question is another, more complicated story I won’t tackle right now). They know that humans on earth are flawed creatures, full of great potential but struggling to do the right thing. They want to be inspired to rise above. They want to believe that there is a hero inside them. They want to believe that life has a purpose. Star Wars 1977 zigged when the popular culture of the ‘70’s was zagging. It caught people by surprise, and they got caught up in the good feeling.
The Last Jedi faded faster than expected from movie screens in the States (and actually tanked in China) I believe because it has strayed from formula that got it here. It still has Ex-Wings and TIE Fighters and all the familiar tech, but Star Wars is more than those things. I’m not sure that saying there’s no need for training, anyone can be a Jedi, it’s not all that special is the message you want to go for. I’m not sure that claiming that the Resistance buys their weapons from the same dealers as the First Order, so they’re only a little less corrupt than their enemy, is going to ignite the child like wonder in the audience. I’m not sure that saying the Jedi tradition is past its prime, and really never meant that much to begin with, is going to connect with long time fans craving for some modern mythology, especially since we get so much demythologizing already.
I close by echoing what I heard from the guys over at Red Letter Media. This movie left me unenthusiastic about the next film. I’ll still probably go see it, along with the Han Solo stand alone coming up in December. But I won’t be looking forward to either one like I did for The Force Awakens and, especially, The Last Jedi. Not because I’m a man now, who demands more mature entertainment, but because the child inside me was let down; a child who desperately wants to believe in heroes, and heroines, the pursuit of good and the defeat of evil, in a culture saturated with the inverse. With all the talk of box office disappointment, The Last Jedi still banked a billion and counting. I won’t be surprised though, if this represents the peak, with a steady decline in the forecast. What made Star Was special has been put aside. Hopefully it was only misplaces and not lost forever.
Over the first three films made between 1977 and 1983, which technically make up the middle portion of what will be a nine movie story arc (with countless new trilogies and stand alone films planned for the future), the ground rules for the Star Wars myth was set. George Lucas drew on the high minded theories of academic Joseph Campbell, mixed with the cliff hanger thrills of the old Buck Rogers movie serials of his youth, wrapped up in a World War II in space ethos to create modern mythology. At the time it was something fresh, which instantly captured the imaginations of movie audiences young and old, in desperate need of some good old fashioned entertainment.
Star Wars (later retitled Episode IV: A New Hope) came out in the heart of the New Hollywood era. With the twin deaths of the old production code and the studio system a decade before, control over the film making process increasingly shifted from studio executives into the hands of the directors (who often wrote, or at least collaborated on their own scripts, as opposed to being assigned projects by the studio). With this new found freedom, and in light of the Vietnam War and Watergate scandal, films became darker in tone. The distinctions between heroes and villains weren't always clearly drawn. It wasn't unusual for the the good guy to loose and, crime often payed - a big no-no under the old rules. In the midst of this moral relativism came Star Wars. It's true that the bad guys wore white - which I remember confusing some people in 1977, but there wasn't any mistaking that the Storm Troopers were evil. While Darth Vader becomes increasingly conflicted over the course of the movies, as does Luke, to a lesser degree, there is no moral relativism or irony at work here. Darth Vader isn't misunderstood and Luke isn't a closet baddie. The battle is over their "souls" and the destiny of the universe. This very clear battle between good and evil was refreshing to audiences in the age of the cynical, relativistic antihero.
There was also a spiritual foundation at work, albeit a bit hoaky. The Force is a supernatural energy that binds reality together, and certain people are more strongly connected to it than others. There are prophecies and destinies, and life has a purpose. Luke is on the hero's journey of self discovery and fulfillment. He is strong in the Force, but still needs to perfect his skills under the tutelage of an experienced mentor. It wasn't meant to be realistic, even apart from the science fantasy setting: we're dealing in archetypes and symbols (this is where Campbell comes in) as old as human civilization. While we shouldn't confuse the Star Wars franchise with anything other than mass market commercial entertainment, because it trades in these universal values it connected, and continues to connect with audiences, who, in some cases, respond with an almost religious fervor (something I would need another lengthy post to explore).
That some express a pseudo-religious response to Star Wars isn't completely surprising. The sacred texts of many religions around the world are made up of stories handed down through the ages. Jesus understood the power of narrative and of universal types. This is why he spoke in parables. Like doctrinal discourse it gives generalities that can later be applied to concrete situations, but in a way that people more easily remember. There was no Good Samaritan, as far as we know, neither was there a Prodigal Son. But like mythology of old they hit upon universal human experience and, in the case of our Lord’s parables, show how divine grace can effect it. Theology can be dry and detached, and history usually fails to offer us clear lessons. But story is a powerful conductor of truth when used correctly. There will always be a certain degree of subjectivity at work. We can still argue over what the universals mean. But in good fiction the truth hovers above the details that serve like mnemonic devises to aid our remembering.
In the grand scheme Star Wars worked because it followed a method with a proven track record of success - for something like millennia: take universal ideals and express them through a simple, yet lively story that people will remember. Dark, brooding and morally conflicted stories often make great films, but that's not why people go to a Star Wars movie. There's nothing wrong with opening things up story wise, putting characters into new situations, exploring new worlds, if you will, a la Star Trek. But the basics of the struggle between good and evil and the hero's journey to self discovery still needs to be there, or it just isn't Star Wars anymore. Reports that the latest installment faded faster at the box office than it's precesessor are a bit exaggerated, but what should be more worrying to the corporate geniuses at Disney is the disparity of opinion between the professional critics and the general audience. The critics may love The Last Jedi, but many fans sense that there's been a disturbance in the Force: Episode VIII diverted too radically from the original spirit of the series, and they're not happy about it.
Fiddling with the Star Wars Mythology isn't new, but pinning down exactly when it began to be deconstructed is open to debate. Some say that Lucas began the process himself in the Prequels, especially when he reduced the Force to microscopic organisms living in people's blood. The more midi-chlorians, as they were called, in the blood system the more "Force" the person had. It's a concept that was quickly forgotten after Episode One, but the hard core fans still fume at the idea. Since I'm not that familiar with the Prequels, I'll stick to commenting on the original trilogy and the films made since 2015. So, while we can nitpick things, I point to 2016's stand alone movie Rogue One as the place where the postmodern tomfoolery started in earnest.
Rogue One tells the story of how the Death Star plans were captured, ending just as the events of A New Hope begin. In many ways it was an attempt at making a gritty war movie (think an intergalactic version of The Dirty Dozen). In ramping up the World War II in space aspect of the myth, it tended to down play the ideas of a hero's journey and personal destiny, with the Force being talked about, but not playing a significant part in the lives of a majority of the characters. It also injected moral ambiguity into the story for the first time. The Empire is evil still, but the Rebel Alliance isn't squeaky clean either. The protagonist is disenchanted with the rebellion, her childhood mentor is now an off the reservation Colonel Kurtz style quazi-psychopath, another "hero" is young but still grizzled veteran of the cause who kills allies when it's convenient to save his own skin. All these elements combine to produce a generally grim experience. The most memorable, and lovable, character is a blind martial arts expert who has undying faith in the power of the Force. I'm not the only person to mention that I'd have preferred to see a movie about that guy instead of the rest of these sad, cynical rejects from what ended up being a cosmic Catch-22.
The sole noble idea that Rogue One held on to was the theme of self sacrifice for a bigger cause. The trouble is it went a bit overboard in that area, with all the central characters dying at the end, which may have prompted a backlash of sorts in The Last Jedi. More on that a bit later.
As for the “in universe” pictures, in The Force Awakens (2015) we were reintroduced to the original spirit of the franchise. Themes that took three movies to establish are condensed, but very clearly Rey is the youth of uncertain origin, leaving home on an adventure seeking to understand her herself through discovering her past (think Luke Skywalker's hero's journey). Rylo Ren is the conflicted villain, who may or may not be related to Rey, much like Darth Vader and his relationship with Luke. Snoke, in the Palpatine role, is the embodiment of pure evil who seeks to keep Ren under his power while either turning or else destroying Rey. Han Solo assumes the role of Rey's mentor, like Ben Kenobi (rather than teaching her the ways of the Force, he offers to hone her skills as the next captain of the Millennium Falcon). Episode VII has an open-ended cliffhanger climax, but leaves the overall Star Wars ethos in place.
As I've already written about, Rogue One attempted to inject some "realism" into all the mythology, but it could be forgiven. It's a diversion from the main story, much like Tom Stoppard following the exploits of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern riffs on Hamlet without necessarily effecting how we interpret that play. But Episode VIII isn't a detour into something quirky. It's a part of the "official cannon," which systematically takes the Star Wars Myth and blows it up. In demythologizing Star Wars the film makers mirror the attitudes of the postmodern West, who's dictum is that nothing really matters, nothing is real, and there's nothing to get hung about.
Unlike Yoda, who assumes Luke's training after Ben Kenobi's death, Skywalker, in this case grabbing the mentor baton from the martyred Had Solo, wants nothing to do with training a new Jedi. He literally takes the baton, in the form of his own lightsaber breathlessly delivered by Rey, and tosses it away like an empty Coke can. He is riddled with self doubt, and no longer believes in the positive power of the Force. He is determined to abdicate his responsibility to accompany Rey on her journey. He is a far cry from Ben Kenobi who cherished his heritage and was ever to pass on his wisdom to a future generation. Instead past failures have overshadowed Luke's earlier triumphs, and he may or may not be just as evil as Kylo Ren. He chooses seclusion on his distant island planet, allowing the events of the universe to go on without him, content to die the last Jedi.
Kylo Ren isn't so much conflicted about whether to go to the Dark or the Light Side of the Force as much as figuring out how he will gain control of the universe. For a brief time it looked like the franchise was going to go into a truly interesting direction when Kylo and Rey team up against Snoke. The moment is thrilling, but brief, and we're right back to Kylo as the bad guy, but without an ounce of conflict within him. Rather than some grand statement, Kylo cynically uses Rey (an his Force power) to off Snoke in a palace intrigue power play move.
Rey begins Episode VII in the Luke role, as I've said. She is a blank slate, but hints are given as to her origin. Touching Luke's light saber unlocks all sorts of suppressed memories along with connecting her with the mythology's collective unconscious. Her mission transforms from simply getting the map piece to the Resistance to going on a journey of self discovery. In Episode VIII we find out her background is meaningless: her parents were nobody in particular and she has these great powers just because - no journey of discovery necessary, no trial by ordeal needed. Anybody can be powerful in the Force, it's nothing special, really. Even Yoda rejects the whole Jedi tradition, burning down the tree temple, with the sacred Jedi texts in it (though there is a chance Rey stole them before she left the island planet).
As for self sacrifice, we see one character die saving the fleet, but when Finn tires a similar move he's scolded for it. Toward the end of the movie what's left of the Resistance is trapped in a cave with a thick steel door, so the First Order brings on this huge canon type battering ram to blow it open (it utilizes Death Star Technology ™, of course). When it becomes clear that their not going to be able to blow up the weapon in time Finn decided to ride his speeder, Randy Quade in Independence Day style, right down the barrel of it. He's deflected by Rose Tico, and they both crash, keeping the canon in tact and their comrades in danger. In one of the most inane and insipid lines in movie history Rose justifies her action by telling Finn, "We're going to win this war not by fighting what we hate, but saving what we love!" She then kisses him tenderly before falling away unconscious. We've come a long way from Rick Blain proclaiming that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, to let ‘em fry, as along as I've got my man!
The most egregious demythologizing has to do with the aforementioned burning down of the Jedi Temple. It is a clear break with the past: a statement that tradition is meaningless, there is only the now, so it’s for us to create our own meaning.
The moviemakers may think that they are updating Star Wars to fit a contemporary mentality, but they are missing the point. As I wrote, A New Hope hit the screens during the era of The Godfather and Apocalypse Now, movies that made the mafia an allegory for corporate and political America, and portrayed the U.S. military leadership as either insane or coldly murderous. We generally think of Saturday Night Fever as a feel good movie of sorts, but it asks deep questions as to the meaning of life and ends with an apparent suicide. The Star Wars films were a balm from the moral relativism.
The films of today are far less serious than back in the ‘70’s, they actually ask fewer real questions, demand fewer sacrifices of their characters. But the culture is still saturated with moral relativism. I heard a critic claim that characters don’t die at the end of movies anymore because the actors themselves feel its bad for their image. Either that or it cuts off the possibility of making a sequel. These reasons may be true, but I think it’s also because filmmakers know that the current popular metaphysics doesn’t allow for life after death. All we have is this life, and the pleasures of this world. So there is no heaven or hell, there is no veil to pass through. All we have is now and the meaning we give life. If there is a heaven everyone goes there, and it’s not as good as life on earth (you have no idea how much I hated City of Angels). If there’s a hell, only the likes of Hitler and bankers go there. Maybe.
Deep down people don’t really believe that life has no meaning, or at least they’re not satisfied by the thought (the heaven and hell question is another, more complicated story I won’t tackle right now). They know that humans on earth are flawed creatures, full of great potential but struggling to do the right thing. They want to be inspired to rise above. They want to believe that there is a hero inside them. They want to believe that life has a purpose. Star Wars 1977 zigged when the popular culture of the ‘70’s was zagging. It caught people by surprise, and they got caught up in the good feeling.
The Last Jedi faded faster than expected from movie screens in the States (and actually tanked in China) I believe because it has strayed from formula that got it here. It still has Ex-Wings and TIE Fighters and all the familiar tech, but Star Wars is more than those things. I’m not sure that saying there’s no need for training, anyone can be a Jedi, it’s not all that special is the message you want to go for. I’m not sure that claiming that the Resistance buys their weapons from the same dealers as the First Order, so they’re only a little less corrupt than their enemy, is going to ignite the child like wonder in the audience. I’m not sure that saying the Jedi tradition is past its prime, and really never meant that much to begin with, is going to connect with long time fans craving for some modern mythology, especially since we get so much demythologizing already.
I close by echoing what I heard from the guys over at Red Letter Media. This movie left me unenthusiastic about the next film. I’ll still probably go see it, along with the Han Solo stand alone coming up in December. But I won’t be looking forward to either one like I did for The Force Awakens and, especially, The Last Jedi. Not because I’m a man now, who demands more mature entertainment, but because the child inside me was let down; a child who desperately wants to believe in heroes, and heroines, the pursuit of good and the defeat of evil, in a culture saturated with the inverse. With all the talk of box office disappointment, The Last Jedi still banked a billion and counting. I won’t be surprised though, if this represents the peak, with a steady decline in the forecast. What made Star Was special has been put aside. Hopefully it was only misplaces and not lost forever.
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