Star Wars on Trial (6 page)

T CANNOT BE SAID often enough. We are here to have fun, tossing ideas around, pretending that they matter. Nobody, on either side of the coming argument, contends that the fate of Western civilization will hang upon a literary analysis of the epical and epochal Star Wars series! A series that deserves respect at many levels, if only for the marvelous artists it has employed and the raw pleasure that it has given hundreds of millions.

In fact, though some people may find it surprising, let me make clear that I never interfere when my children request-or demand!-the next Star Wars merchandising gambit. A Lego Death Star or Darth Vader mask? Another Obi-Wan Happy Meal? I only grit my teeth a little over the merchandising cash flow going to an empire that (in my opinion) could have been a lot more meaningful, a lot more helpful in making a better world. Certainly, my protective instincts don't get all fired up, eager to shield vulnerable young minds from inimical memes!

Why not?

Because what youngsters-and millions of others-mostly see in movies like these are the simple surfaces. The top layer of lavish, goofy, earnestly preachy and even somewhat noble-minded fun. Out numbered heroes bravely taking on the odds. Going with your feelings, tossing logic aside and blasting away! It is the innocent spirit of the first movie (A New Hope) that seems to have spread and captured the hearts of millions of people, young and old.

If you ask them about the "moral messages" of Star Wars, most people tend to recall that-

• Mean people suck.

• It's good to be brave.

• Mean people get yucky-looking.

• Defend your friends.

• Watch out for mean people playing tricks and telling lies.

• Don't let nasty old mean guys goad you into losing your temper.

Hmm. Well, there may be some problems at this level. In fact, entirely on their own, my kids are starting to glance with skepticism at the details in even these simple lessons (e.g., "If something happens to my looks, will I turn into a bad person?").

Still, for the most part, children can take all this in without much harm to their values, or souls. Anyway, who am I to spoil their fun, by yattering on about deeper meaning and symbolism?

But that's the point. I have no intention of spoiling their fun at all.

Yours, on the other hand ... well, you have already paid for this book. So don't pretend that you're not interested.

After all, there are many levels other than the superficial, and George Lucas would be the first to say so. Keeping faith with the teachings of famed mythology maven Joseph Campbell, Lucas claims that storytelling is a central ritual that both describes and helps to shape the way that people picture themselves in relation to society. So, shouldn't we take him at his word?

Moreover, many of the trends that we see in the Star Wars universe have also manifested elsewhere in a society that's undergoing change. For example, take the rise of feudal and magical fantasy, once considered an offshoot of science fiction, but now pushing its hightech cousin off the bookstore shelves. Even within sci-fi, stories seem increasingly to feature "chosen ones" or demigod-like heroes, often set in structured, aristocratic cultures.

How often, anymore, do you see tales that portray society itself functioning, perhaps helping the protagonist, or suggesting solutions that arise from collaborative effort? Maybe even offering hope that hard work and goodwill might bring better days? Do cops ever come when called? Do institutions ever deliver or perform, even partially, in ways that help a little? Are the hero's neighbors ever anything other than hapless sheep? Does scientific advancement ever-ever-come to the rescue, anymore, instead of simply causing more problems and provoking lectures about how "mankind shouldn't meddle" in things we do not understand? Do big projects, or ambitious undertakings, or team efforts ever hold a candle to the boldness of the single, archetype hero, sticking it to every authority figure in sight?

Are we being taught, gradually but inexorably, to turn away from the whole modernist agenda? The concept that science, society, citizenship and faith are things that go well together, contributing to the good of everybody? Or that there was once a good idea-to replace arbitrary leader-worship with democratic institutions that we can all hope to share? What about the notion that any of us regular people-not just mutant chosen ones-can be the hero, if we're ever called upon?

Hey, stories like that can be told. Take the films of director Steven Spielberg. From Saving Private Ryan to Schindler's List to Close Encounters, these are often stirring stories about people who are only a bit above average, but who achieve great things nonetheless. Sometimes these characters are deeply flawed. They slip up, or get angry, or even do bad things. Only then, they do the unexpected. They stand up.

Taking responsibility for their mistakes, they set things right. And, sometimes, civilization even helps them a bit. All told, Spielberg's central ongoing theme seems to be unswerving gratitude toward a society that-in all honesty-has been pretty good to him.

Oh, sure, not every filmmaker has to follow Steven Spielberg's chosen storytelling mode. Anyway, it's hard to live up to that kind of role model. But must nearly all of the others who are making movies today relentlessly preach exactly the opposite message? Especially, is there some underlying reason why the opposite message wound up pervading the biggest, most lavish, most expensive and most watched series of modern times-the Star Wars epic?

Some of the writers in this volume will talk about matters like these-plumbing deeper meanings and messages that are conveyed by Star Wars and its ilk. Others will poke in different directionsat ways that plot, story and character consistency gradually fell apart (alas) as the Star Wars series declined into grumpy middle age ... and then entered what might be called crotchety senescence.

Then, attorneys for the Defense will have their say! For there are many sides to this story, and many who feel eager to defend a series they have come to love.

This should be loads of fun. So let's begin.

IT STARTS WITH THE LITTLEST THINGS...

My own disenchantment began early in my first viewing of Return of the Jedi.

Recall how Luke Skywalker shows up at the palace of Jabba the Hutt, calling himself ajedi Knight? He then offers a bag of gold in exchange for the life of his friend, Han Solo. Without any doubt, it was a thrilling moment. Filled with high hopes after The Empire Strikes Back, I leaned forward in confident expectation that great things would follow, combining vividly creative action and effects with solid plotting, plus a little decent thoughtfulness for those grown-up parts of the brain. (Isn't that what happens in the best art? You get something for the adult and something for the child. There is no need to completely eliminate one in order to serve the other.)

All right, anticipation was running high, as Luke approached Jabba's fancy desert hut. My own instant theory? Frankly, I expected Luke's offer to be backed up with a threat!

"As you can see, Jabba, from the circle of X-wing fighters surrounding your residence, I am also a high commander of the second most powerful military force in the galaxy. So if you don't accept this generous offer...."

I mean... duh? Isn't that what anybody would try first, if he were in Luke's shoes? Combining the carrot with an implied stick?

Oh, sure, that's no fun, so it can't work. But this logical plan is an obvious opening move. It doesn't make for great adventure, thrills, spills and escapades, so let it fail. Have the Empire arrive and chase away all the Rebel ships, leaving Luke in the lurch! Jabba grabs Luke and the fun can begin! Ninety extra seconds to make the next half hour make sense.

Look, I'm not saying it had to be that way! I am only posing that scenario as an example of how easy it would be to get every part of the opening act that is already there, while still giving a passing nod to common sense. All the leaping and slashing and narrow escapes that we see in the opening act of ROTJ could have been the backup plan. Because only complete bozos would have walked into an obvious trapwith escape utterly dependent upon all of the bad guys being lousy shots-without having a better scheme, at least to start with.

Okay, I admit it. That's kind of picky. But the infuriating aspect was how little attention to detail it would have taken to continue the kind of plot consistency and plausibility we saw in the brilliant BrackettKasdan script for The Empire Strikes Back. A few words inserted here and there. Then, every subsequent vivid laser bolt and explosion might proceed as planned. Would that have been too much to ask?

A small hole, true. But through it, more nagging thoughts began to fly. Faster than a little ship can dive inside a big ship, shoot the reactor and then run away just ahead of the blast wave. (Yes, I've mentioned that before. But really. I mean... really.)

Which leads us to the first of what will be many comparisons between Star Wars and its chief competitor for the hearts of science fiction fandom-Star Trek. A comparison that illuminates two very different views of fiction, civilization and the meaning of a hero.

Here's one way of looking at the underlying implications of these two sci-fi universes. Consider the choice of which kinds of ship are featured in each series. Let me invite you to ponder, for a moment, and contrast the Air Force metaphor versus one that hearkens up images of the Navy.

In Star Wars, the ships that matter are little fighter planes. Series creator George Lucas made liberal use of filmed dogfight footage, from both world wars, in some cases borrowing maneuvers like banking slipstream turns, down to the last detail. The heroic image in this case is the solitary pilot, perhaps assisted by his loyal gunner-or Wookiee or droid-companion. It is the modern version of knight and squire. Symbols as old as Achilles.

In contrast, the federation starship in Trek is vastly bigger, more complex, a veritable city cruising through space. Its captain hero is not only a warrior-knight, but also part scientist and part diplomat, a plenipotentiary representative of his civilization and father figure to his crew ... any one of whom may suddenly become an essential character, during the very next adventure. While the captain's brilliance and courage are always key elements, so will be the skill and pluck of one or more crewmen and women. People who are much closer to average-like you or me-yet essential helpers, nonetheless. And possibly even-when it is their turn-heroes themselves.

In any event, the ship-Star Trek's Enterprise-stands for something, every time we look at it. This traveling city is civilization. The Federation's culture and laws, industry and consensus values-like the Prime Directive-are all carried in this condensed vessel, along with the dramatic diversity of its crew. Every single time there is an adventure, the civilization of the United Federation of Planets is put to the test, through its proxy, the hero-ship. And when the Enterprise passes each test, often with flying colors, so too, by implication, does civilization itself.

A civilization that might even be worthy of our grandchildren.

Compare this to the role of the Old Republic in the Lucasian universe. A hapless, hopeless, clueless melange of bickering futility whose political tiffs are as petty as they are incomprehensible. The Republic may be sweet, but it never perceives, never creates or solves anything. Not once do we see any of its institutions actually function well. How can they? The people, the Republic, decent institutions ... these cannot be heroes, or even helpers.

There is no room aboard an X-wing fighter for civilization to ride along.

Only for a knight and squire.

All right, you may call this making too much of yet another superficial thing. It can certainly be argued that ship size doesn't really matter. On the other hand, recall how eager Yoda was, in Attach of the Clones, to destroy the "Federation Starship"? Interesting choice of words, there! Could it be that the director agrees with me?

In sci-fi, ships carry powerful symbolism. They convey contrary ways of viewing heroes, and their relationship to common women and men.

Anyway, I couldn't help it. This difference in the metaphor of the ship continued to nag at me as every problem with the Star Wars universe just seemed to grow and compound, with each newly released episode. These superficial things mounted up, one after another. Deliberate artistic choices bubbled to the foreground, like Darth Vader's Nazi-style helmet and use of the term "stormtroopers." Or the need to be a genetic "midichlorian" mutant in order to use the Force. Or take the difference in educational styles, between the university-like Starfleet Academy and that imperious, overbearing, secretive guru Yoda. Two very different-and iconic-approaches to acquiring and passing on skill. To acquiring power. And then using it.

As the years-and prequels-passed, a list of growing discomforts grew longer and longer....

So let's cut to the chase.

Enough introduction. Get to the indictment!

All right, then. After watching the whole megillah of six long films, it's time to ask the central question.