Star Wars on Trial (3 page)

ELL, IT'S DONE. The sci-fi legend of our generation is now complete. Our parents had Dr. Strangelove and 1984. Their parents were transfixed by H. G. Wells. The generation before that had Jules Verne.

And we got Star Wars, the biggest, most lavish, most popular and by far the most lucrative sci-fi drama ever. George Lucas's grand vision gave us resplendent vistas and a spectacular sense of wonder, while portraying a vivid range of possibilities that science, technology and forward-thinking might eventually bring about-inspiring us and drawing our eyes toward a far horizon.

But what horizon?

After all the dazzling explosions and lightsaber duels, all the spaceship chases and cryptic-guru Yoda-isms, all the droids and special effects and obscure political story lines, did we-did anyone-learn anything?

George Lucas certainly claims that he's been doing something more important than simply pushing eye candy. More valuable than just diverting the masses with some cash-generating entertainment. In various locales, spanning three decades, the Star Wars creator proclaimed that his epic teaches important lessons. For example, in a famous New York Times interview, he said: "Movies have a big voice, and what we filmmakers have to do is to set a good example."

So, after tens of billions of dollars-and human hours-spent watching the films, playing the games, buying the toys, reading the books and buying even more toys, have we come away enlightened, even inspired?

Inspired to do what? To be ... what?

Science fiction has never been modest about its aim to take on important issues. Beyond just "good versus evil" or "boy meets girl," there has always been a notion that SF is the true descendant and heir of Gilgamesh and Homer, of Virgil and Murasaki, of Dante, Swift and Defoe. Liberated from the constraints of day-to-day existence, it provides a canvas wide enough to portray and discuss real issues. Things that matter over the long run.

Take those stories that Jules Verne created during the latter part of the nineteenth century. In his words, you can hear and feel the spirit of Verne's time-an era of ebullient, can-do confidence. Even as the age of earthly terra incognita was coming to an end, readers hungered to lift their eyes skyward, seaward-or even into the planet itselfcertain that new frontiers would soon unfold before a humanity that knew no bounds.

Of course, this surefire naivete had to crash, or at least grow up a bit. And H. G. Wells was just the man to throw on a little cold water, while taking science fiction to new levels, appealing to the concerns of worried adults. Always the contrarian, Wells told wild-eyed dreamers to grow up and smell the dangers ... then berated cynics who refused to hope. Technology can bite back, he warned, and the universe owes us no favors. On the other hand, he deeply believed that honest men and women might yet pick up tools and make a better world. Wells never stopped using stories to help make that happen.

Indeed, one of civilization's greatest tools has always been mythology. Legends and songs. Stories and dark lore. If George Lucas and I agree on anything, it would be that civilizations turn-they veer or rise and fall-depending upon the inspirations and goals that common people share. In part, this happens through stories, heard and told, then retold, whether around a campfire or a widescreen digital display.

Take the period that followed H. G. Wells. After the calamities of World Wars I and II, we needed something special in our legends. Something potent. We needed problem solving. Humanity faced some serious tasks, important maturity issues, like how not to destroy ourselves. And sure enough, science fiction stepped up to do its share.

Rolling up its sleeves, SF gave us the self-preventing prophecy ... the most serious and frighteningly plausible subgenre of science fiction. Tales about every possible or far-out way that things could go wrong. When they are effective, such stories have the uniquely powerful effect of ensuring that they do not come true! They do this by offering up stark and compelling warnings that worry an audience, and make millions think. Warnings that even stir at least a few citizens to take action.

How else can you describe Dr. Strangelove, Fail-Safe and On the Beach, which not only exposed specific failure modes, but also drove home the threat of losing it all to spasmodic nuclear war? Or Soylent Green, Silent Running and The China Syndrome, which prodded millions to join a newborn environmental movement. The Andromeda Strain was cited by delegates signing the treaty against biological warfare. Gattaca prepared us to wrestle with issues of genetic determinism. Even a spoof like The President's Analyst warned, with eerie foresight, about a steady, tech-driven decay of personal privacy.

Or take the greatest self-preventing prophecy of all, the one cited by every faction whenever it perceives some creeping tyranny, 1984. Millions shuddered at George Orwell's terrifying thoughts, words and images, coming away determined to struggle against Big Brother ever becoming real.

We will never know whether any of these specific warnings-or general morality tales, like The Day the Earth Stood Still-actually made a crucial difference. But we can say that, unlike those ill-fated Trojans, we do give our Cassandras some attention. Occasionally, we pay them well to scare us into getting a bit better.

Ah but then, at other times, we simply pay them to scare us, pe riod, with no other objective beyond a good, thrilling fright! Films like Alien point to another side of sci-fi. A side that does not have to justify itself with highfalutin purpose.

And that can be good too! Art is multispectral. There's plenty of room for everything from dark fantasy to heroic sword-'n'-sorcery. From wondrously joyful nonsense like The Fifth Element to deeply mystical multiculturalism like The Last Wave. From relentlessly serious exploration of a single universe, like Star Trek, to hilarious sendups like Galaxy Quest. Without any doubt, the people have a right to buy the entertainments that most appeal to them. And entrepreneurial storytellers have a right to sell tickets.

So, why did I spend all that time talking about the importance of myths and their role in helping civilization to choose its path? Because storytelling does span the entire range. And we have a right, perhaps even a duty when all is said and done, to talk about where a work of art fits along the spectrum, from important to fluff.

Especially a work of art that had the scope of influence, economic power, public exposure and relentless preachiness of the Star Wars epic.

Hence, the first issue to confront the authors and sages participating in this project was to argue whether the Star Wars saga is worth arguing about. Throughout this discussion, you will see some people claim-

-that the Star Wars universe and franchise are nothing more than harmless fun. A chance to drop back into childhood and punt your adult cares away for two hours, dwelling in a lavish universe where good and evil are vividly drawn, without all the inconvenient counterpoint distinctions that clutter daily life.

Ever since I first raised the question of Star Wars morality and storytelling flaws, in an infamous article published by Salon online, over a thousand people have written to comment, praise, complain, agree, disagree, make additions or offer fresh arguments. It's been lively, democratic and huge fun! Among the many defenses offered by devoted fans, foremost has been: "Chill out, man. It's only a flick. Just relax and enjoy the show."

Indeed, that philosophy has some appeal.

Got a problem? Cleave it with a lightsaber! Wouldn't you love just once in your life-to dive a fast little ship into your worst enemy's stronghold and set off a chain reaction, blowing up the whole megillah from within its rotten core while you streak away to safety at the speed of light? (Such a nifty notion! Count the number of times it happens in the movies ... and the enemy never learns.)

In fact, well, let me admit, that's pretty much how I did feel about the first of the Star Wars films to appear, Episode IV: A New Hope. What was there not to enjoy? A blatant, Nazi-helmeted mass murderer is bested by a princess, a smuggler and a young knight, avenging his father? Zowee. The movie's very lack of pretension made you take it at face value.

Or, as Yoda would likely put it: fluff and fun, the first movie was! Fluff 'n' fun I was ready for the whole series to be ...