A Skywalker Apologia: A State of Puzzlement

It has been a few years since I saw one of the most important movies of my life, The Last Jedi. When I first saw the movie in theatres I could only say one word afterwards: "Huh". This threw everyone off. My friends had known me to be a proponent for the entirety of the Skywalker Saga since The Force Awakens, which had ignited a love for the prequels in my heart; it was previously the fires of deepest loathing. Using the seven films we had at the time I fully immersed myself in them, writing Facebook posts that bordered upon raving lunacy.

Okay, maybe they didn't border.

When I got out of The Last Jedi I called a friend of mine. Now, for those of you of a certain political persuasion, this was no liberal I called; she had been bullied horribly for her pro-life stance in highschool and considers her Catholic faith to be the bedrock of her soul, similarly to how I consider my Orthodox Christian faith to be the bedrock of mine. Still overwhelmed, I asked her what her opinion was.

"Nathan, they get it. The director gets it. The movie gets it." 

I sat silently, overwhelmed, as she cried on the phone with me.

I was still trying to process what I felt when the requests for my opinion of The Last Jedi began to pour in. I couldn't just open my brain to them. The only thing I remember saying at the time was: "It's true. It's truth." People were a little put off by that. They wanted a rant and I not only didn't give it to them but stated an opinion that most folks don't want you to have these days: that art is not an end in itself, that its worth is in its service to the truth. And if there is one thing The Last Jedi is, it's true.

Eventually the floodgates opened, and I proceeded on a whirlwind to try and describe what I thought of The Last Jedi. It took me eight months and covered every movie of The Skywalker Saga at that point. It transcended religion, politics, family, mental health. To even write the darn thing I had to become more steeped in the earlier stories of yore. Mythology and Christian scripture were my major touchstones. And by learning to watch Star Wars, to take seriously the "It rhymes" saying that so many people love to mock, my own faith opened me to a coherence I would have never believed. Scripture made sense, because as it turns out it was compiled with the same intent that Star Wars was, but on a whole different scale: a series of repeating images, with differing contexts that whirled about in a dance of deep meaning. Commentary from the Fathers corresponded to the TV shows like The Clone Wars and Rebels: explanations and filling in the gaps that made the dancing images mean more than they could alone. 

The Rise of Skywalker strengthened and concluded the themes I'd seen in The Skywalker Saga: how the interconnected nature of creation led to the creation of life where there was none,  connections that worked despite all seemings, and that while good created and was fruitful evil committed suicide. I've not written much on The Rise of Skywalker and the entirety of The Skywalker Saga because my original eight month treatment was hardly contradicted; the spots where I was wrong (or on the right track) were so obvious to me that I felt little need to expound, despite a few abortive attempts.

So I dove into interiorizing my faith using the tools Star Wars had helped me develop. An entirely new world had opened for me, one that I had always suspected, but could never quite put my finger on, not alone. I found myself becoming less liberal in a classical sense, a process that is very hard to describe unless you've done it; it's like moving from the ocean to the land or vice versa. At some point it occurred to me that the view of humanity espoused in the Bible and that of classical liberalism were almost diametrically opposed to each other. 

Since then I have always felt a stranger in a strange land, no matter where I go or what I do. There have been times I've gotten sick of this permanent sense of alienation and have tried to end it; one wants to feel like he belongs where he lives, after all! Nevermind the fact that such alienation is essential to the Christian life and that it has born me much fruit. The flesh is weak, after all. One wishes to rest on the world, even when you know you shouldn't.

And y'know what? I thought I'd found it with the neo-reactionaries. I stumbled acrost The Distributist first, and then Curtin Yarvin, and then Morgoth's Review. Out of all the political views I've studied neo-reactionary thought is the closest to what is espoused in the Bible. Man is viewed as a self-treacherous creature, in need of guidance, but not beyond hope. There is the demand for order and cultural cohesion that is foundational to all of the Bible. I've generally found neo-reactionary thought to be the most accepting of how the world operated, as opposed to how we wished it to be; God can only save the sinner you are, not the rational and free creature you pretend to be.

At the same time I just so happened to stumble acrost Jonathan Pageau. Talk about a dude I'd just like to sit at the feet of and learn. Pageau's knowledge is incredible and most of the time I find myself slotting more and more facts into a the worldview I've sorted just... assembled... haphazard like. Universal history, information about the Grail, a thousand other things I've learned from The Symbolic World.

But I find myself in a continuous state of bewilderment. Because these people I've found who have taught me quite a bit, whose worldview has enriched my own, hate The Last Jedi, not to mention The Rise of Skywalker. It's like the logic they follow just vanishes at that point. Considering that The Last Jedi is the start of what brought me to this point... I find it more than a little odd. Maybe it's a holdover from my own slowly-dying liberalism?

I don't know.

But at this point I need to find out.

Is The Skywalker Saga something I need to jettison to have a coherent worldview? 

Keep in mind I didn't say be a neo-reactionary or a follower of Pageau. I'm a stranger in a strange land and that's going to go double with people I feel comfortable with. But a lot of people I have a great amount of respect for have spent a not inconsiderable amount of time talking this thing down. And if I'm not willing to re-examine what I think and try to arrive at greater truth then what's the point in having a mind in the first place? Even something as important to me as The Skywalker Saga?

Next time we'll get into the neo-reactionary and Pageau's arguments, as I understand them.

Relationships and The Rise of Skywalker

 

I still can't write about The Rise of Skywalker.

It's hard to write about a movie that changes years and years and decades of your lived experience. I've tried more than a few times, but just... can't. I think I'm still processing it. Part of it is that there are several experiences that the sequel trilogy brings up for me that are so inherently uncomfortable to write about that I've not yet steeled myself for the journey. And it is going to be a journey, writing it down. The Sequel Trilogy is one of the truest and painful things I've ever watched, and I'm still more than a little scared to tie all the pieces together. But there is one thing that jumps out at me. And it's the scene where Palpatine finally corners Rey.

See, contrary to what a lot of people think, Rey has a very clear arc. She's alone, and she needs to belong to something greater than herself. She needs relationship. Like all of us, she craves it. And is afraid of it. Every last decision point in Rey's arc has to do with allowing herself to belong, to be in relationship with those around her. And that's how she finds Finn, The Resistance... and Ben.

All of Star Wars is grieving. All of Star Wars is the process of accepting frailty. And Rey cannot avoid Ben Solo. Throughout the course of our lives we may run into people that we just have to deal with, no matter how much we'd prefer not to. Folks who ship Reylo and those who hate their relationship both make a grave mistake: they assume that erotic connections (and it is clearly erotic) are positive or negative. 

Frequently it's both.

Actually, it's always both.

The only thing that matters about Rey and Ben is that, no matter what they do, their actions always cut to the heart of what the Other is going through. They may run and hide and do all sorts of terrible things, but at the end of the day the Other sees through them. And they remain linked. No matter what.

So then we get to Exegol. Rey is outplayed. The very type of belonging she's been afraid of turns out to be valid: she's Palpatine's "grand-daughter", directly descended from Palpatine in a twisted funhouse mirror of horror scenario that only Palpatine could have cooked up. Her entire existence is upended by that alone.. .and that's before she looks up and sees the friends she does actually belong with. They're dying. She's already lost her family once, she's not going to do it again. So she agrees with Palpatine's sick and twisted plan, because at least she can save her family this time!

And then she sees Ben.

And she knows, better than anyone, possibly even Ben(!), that he's finally himself. Adam Driver's acting here is the best in all of Star Wars. Point blank. Without a word Rey sees Ben and knows he's here for her, and that she can rely upon him. Of course she can see this, she's been able to see through Ben from the very start, it's why he's where he's at now! And so she goes with it. They finally achieve what the two of them have been yearning to do since this whole thing began: to actually belong to each other.

When Rey dies the decision is easy for Ben. Without Rey to relate to there is no Ben, not in the way he needs to be. Without Ben to relate to Rey wouldn't be who she is either. So Ben compromises. He puts his soul, his life force, into Rey. Rey comes back, but she now has the person who helped define the core of who she is with her, forever. Ben Solo lives on. And so does Rey.

And they're forever changed.

Failure and The Last Jedi

There's a story I tell people, from time to time. I try to be proud as I tell this story. I try to let the pleasure that thrills through my frame as I tell this story overcome the other feeling that I get. No matter how many times people tell me I shouldn't feel what I feel I feel it. And that's all there is to it.

I was six when I saw Darth Vader's mask come off. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. I was sitting in Tucson, Arizona. It was stupidly hot, and my hair had bleached to a pure white because of the sun. I had been having nightmares of Darth Vader, the monster in black. And when that mask came off... it's one of the most important moments in my life. Always will be. That moment, when I saw what was under the monster's mask, defined me in ways I am still trying to unpack, years later. I saw a sick, old, happy man, who was relieved to finally see his son as he wanted to, who finally had returned to himself. Luke had returned his father to himself.

I don't know why, but I understood all of that, at six. I knew what Star Wars was trying to teach: that the folks we battle are their own people. And they needed love just as much as we do. That's all I needed to do. Love them.

And yes, I missed the part where Luke had to defend himself against his father. Luke had killed hundreds of people to get this point. I missed that too.

I didn't say I had completely absorbed the entire point, right?

When I was eight all the friends I thought I had came to me with sticks. They told me these sticks represented their friendships with me. 

They snapped the sticks with a laugh and threw them away like you'd chuck away a full diaper.

I'd no clue this was coming. I begged for an explanation. I got none. I begged. I pleaded.

And the next five years I tried to make them understand I still loved them. If it worked for Luke it would work here, right? Right?? Through the fists that pummeled me and insults and constant harassments (I couldn't even walk down my street without being attacked!) I pleaded. There had to be an answer here. I just didn't understand. Maybe if I could understand what had happened, what I had done, they would let up. Things could change then. The masks could come off and I could get my friends back. 

Of course it didn't happen. The problem was far too complex for a child to work out. And, as it turned out, it wasn't even a problem a child could do anything about to begin with.

My mother finally put me into Muay Thai, to force me to start fighting back. I didn't want to. Somehow I still believed that, if I could just figure it out, it could all be over. And I wasn't wrong. That's the tragic part. But, because I couldn't figure out what I needed to know, I thought the problem was with me. And so I resisted the training as hard as I could, until one day I flew into a rage and pummeled my teacher, who laughed and took every single blow I could offer with my tiny twelve year-old frame.

That's not the part that haunts me, however.

We're getting there.

A few months after this bout of rage I had an altercation with one of the kids in the neighborhood, who attacked me merely for walking down the sidewalk. I dealt with her swiftly, throwing her onto the hard concrete after repeated warnings to leave me alone. So all of a sudden the attacks on me stopped.

They went after my six year old brother instead.

I heard about it, gritted my teeth, and waited. I knew I would catch them soon.

I was right. I didn't have to wait too long. One day I was coming home and saw my brother, with one of my oldest "friends" about to attack him. And, as I looked at my "friend", something changed. No longer did I see the person who had given me his extra Army coat when I didn't have one, so that way I could play Army with him. No longer did I remember the kid who, after breaking that stick, had apologized and tried to remain my friend, until the peer pressure grew so great that he snapped like that stick.

I just saw a fat kid. Who I hated. I saw someone who just needed to be broken. To hell with what I remembered, with what I knew to be true. The subjectivity that I had learned to try and give to each and every person I met vanished. The only thing that mattered to me now was that he had spent years hurting me, and was now going to try and do it to my brother too. There was no hope for this fool. And I was going to end him. Right here, right now. My brother needed me to. I needed to protect my brother. And so therefore my "friend" would die.

"Leave my brother alone."

"Why? Why should I?"

"Because I'll kill you if you touch him. I will make it hurt. I will make it last a very long time. And all I need to do, to get off the hook for it, is if you attack him. I can claim insanity. They'll let me walk." I was shaking with pure bliss. I knew, at the moment, it would work. I could carve up this fat kid who had hurt me and I could do it to the others, too! Years and years, for no good reason. I wasn't threatening my "friend", I was promising him.

Oh, this kid was going to die.

He wasn't very smart.

My hands were twitching with anticipation. Finally, something inside of me said. Finally. I can end it. I can get his blood on my hands and just enjoy it.

My "friend", however, was much smarter than I gave him credit for. He looked at my shaking hands. There must have been something in my eyes, because he looked at me a minute. Blustered. And backed away.

I was so disappointed. I was honestly a bit in shock. It wasn't going to happen.

And then my brother came running up to me. He was relieved. And scared. And I realized, to my shame, that I had failed. I had failed something inside of me, something I should have respected, even if it meant my death. And, as I realized a few short months later, I would have preferred that to what I felt as I sat, alone, in the woods, away from everyone else. I could have just walked up and pummeled my "friend" and it would have been fine.

But that's not what I did.

I just saw flesh. And wanted to rip it open.

I am still trying to figure out how to deal with this reality, of a failed interiority that may as well be the ripping open of the sky. I'm 33. What I just wrote about happened when I was 13. I still haven't fully recovered and it's twenty years later.

So Luke's moment of pulling out his lightsaber? On his own nephew? Oh, absolutely it's possible. It was inevitable. You don't go around thinking your own family is a threat to itself, see that get fulfilled, and not react. Luke is a good person, he can't not do it. What a lot of people see as a failure of writing fail to see what destroyed Luke is what made Luke great in the first place. What made Luke a good person turned on him and almost destroyed him. That's. Freaking. Normal. Humans.

It was this fear of self, the fear of the kind and selfless person that he was, that drove Luke to Ach-To. That fear turned to resentment of the forces that Luke perceived had shaped him. Folks who agree with Luke's rants against the Jedi in TLJ or who are offended by them  completely miss the point of why they're there. Luke is declaiming responsibility for himself, as folks in that situation are liable to do. He's blaming forces that frankly had nothing to do with his failure with Ben. Luke failed because he's Luke. No ideal is going to be able to stand up to such pressure. In anyone.

See the moment?

Where he grieved, and then it vanished? And then Luke vanished?

Luke knew what he was, at that point, and accepted it. And thus he passed on. Every time I see this scene a part of my soul twinges, hard. I want the feeling that just coursed through Luke. And it still eludes me, decades later. 

Luke failed. It's not a rational decision, and failures of such nature are frequently far too much for someone to handle. They happen to you, for humanity is fundamentally flawed and cannot help itself. If I'm on my second decade of not forgiving myself Luke doing so so swiftly feels like nothing short of a freaking miracle, at least to me.

It is a sign of strength to be able to forgive yourself on that level. No other moment of triumph will ever be able to equal it. To be able to look your own weakness, your frailty, in the face and accept it is more powerful than anything you can begin to imagine.

And Luke got it.

Statement of Intent: Plagueis The Wise

Our primary focus with this site shall be the nine film cycle now referred to as The Skywalker Saga. We will be seeking to understand the cohesive story and themes that run through this film cycle. Or I might say…this single film. 

We’re NOT out to extrapolate or ruminate on what story these movies didn’t tell, what could have been done better, and what we don’t like. With that in mind, if you want to vent about how George Lucas, Kathleen Kennedy, Rian Johnson, JJ Abrams, Bob Iger or any number of people ruined your childhood, I can tell you this ain’t the place for that friend. 

These films are in dialogue with each other. Just as a line of poetry can’t rhyme without the line which proceeds it, where we’ve been and where we’re going utterly define where we are.

We’re NOT here to do anything so banal as “rank” the episodes of the Skywalker Saga (ok so you will hear A LOT about Last Jedi from my colleague). Rather, we will hope to show that ranking these films is about as fruitful as ranking the chapters of a book, or the notes of a melody. We’re interested in the cohesive whole.

We want to explore The Skywalker Saga as a perfect fusion of Message and Medium. What does that mean? It means that the STORY BEING TOLD can’t be separated from HOW THAT STORY IS BEING TOLD. The Medium IS the Message. With Star Wars, at times it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins! To do that, we’re going to be spending some time exploring Cinematic Formalism and Chiastic Structures, both of which are ESSENTIAL in understanding how Star Wars works. 

Needless to say if you want to find a place to hang out where you can talk about “Machete Order” or anything that breaks up the harmony of this story being told in three, three act plays, let’s just say this isn’t the Star Wars blog you’re looking for. 

Luke Skywalker: The Heart of Star Wars

Luke is the heart of the Skywalker Saga. Full stop. It's not Anakin, or Ben, or Rey. Luke is our key to the whole of Star Wars: to the degree we perceive characters to be like Luke we seem to have greater popular reception. Luke is our modern mythic hero, following those rules faithfully: he must contend with his imperfect family, has strange powers, and the consequences of his actions -which usually stem from a consistent character flaw- are on a large scale.

Luke is not the common man. Whether folks like it or not mythology is not about common people, because there are no common people.

Everyone has an inheritance. 

Everyone is special. 

Everyone has to contend with their family.

This is what makes mythology so compelling; no one is from nowhere. And Luke is the epitome of that reality. Of all the characters in Star Wars Luke sits in the middle, having to decide what to receive from those who came before and what to pass on. He is the only mythological protagonist who actively criticizes the past and future. He understands that his family is strange, because all families are strange. And at first Luke tries to embrace all his family, consequences be damned.

It doesn't go well.

Does Luke stay with his family, the source of his strength? No, of course not. He goes out to re-found the Jedi Order, the very Order that he criticized and ignored by saving Darth Vader! "I am a Jedi, like my father before me", is a completely accurate statement: Anakin abandoned his family to become a Jedi, too, all so he could free the slaves. Luke isn't different from his father. He believes in a legend: the legend in his own head. 

So it's not the uncle who takes in Ben Solo, but Luke Skywalker, Legend. Luke Skywalker, The Last Jedi. Luke Skywalker, Professional Badass.

It doesn't go well.

At all.

Why would it? Why shouldn't Ben hate Luke for being an arrogant jackass? Legends don't heal. They may inspire, but inspiration isn't the only thing that matters. And Luke didn't provide that more to his own nephew. Once he gets his head turned around by Yoda, Luke is able to provide a familial relationship to Rey, mentoring her and helping her to accept her own dark heritage. And it's his voice that gets her up and moving, to destroy Palpatine. Luke may not have have undone Palpatine directly, but he provided every single conceptual tool in Rey's arsenal, along with Leia.

Luke has strange powers, even for a Jedi. He's powerful, sure, but Luke is unique: he is the only Force-User to ever see a Force Ghost with no training, at all. No one else in the Skywalker Saga has this ability, natively. Luke can do it with no effort at all. And this ability defines his trilogy in a way that it doesn't for Anakin and Rey. Anakin never even learns the ability exists, and Rey has to train hard to achieve it, but for Luke? It's completely natural. This ability to commune with the dead defines Luke's arc in the Skywalker Saga, giving him insights into the Force that no one else could ever have arrived at. 

Now we come to the one point of actual dissimilarity between Luke and us: scale. Luke's personal struggles don't just affect his family and friends and work, they affect the galaxy. That's not going to happen to most of us. But the point of a mythological scale is to exaggerate to tell the truth: there are no "private" virtues and vices; everything in your head colors your perceptions, which influences your actions. And Luke's negative inheritance, his legacy, is one of rage and fear. What most people expect is that, once you get over a flaw or failing or whatever, that it goes away. 

Nothing is further than the truth.

Luke has the same problem as anyone: you can't get rid of your issues. You can manage them better, with time and practice. But no one ever gets it perfect. Luke considering (he doesn't actually strike at Ben) murdering his nephew is a part of him. He throws a full-on temper tantrum on Vader, and almost loses his soul in the process. With Ben Luke reacts for a moment... and then realizes it wasn't what he wanted.  And Luke does manage it better. He's consumed with shame. But it's not enough; Ben goes on to become Kylo Ren. But Luke's repentance is just as large. He faces down an entire army and fools his own nephew, ensuring Ben's redemption later thanks to Leia, Rey, and Ham.

Luke's ending chapter is one of acceptance. He has realized who he is and is at peace with himself. With his newfound peace Luke is not just free, but he is powerful. He is able to help Rey admit to her parentage and that it wasn't a threat to her. Peace makes one wise. Luke finally ascends into his place as the lynchpin that all of the Skywalker Saga hangs on. And because of his guidance, because of his willingness to evolve the best he can, Palpatine was defeated; Rey's victory is specifically because of Luke's peace. And because of his guidance, because of his willingness to evolve the best he can, Palpatine was defeated.

Luke's journey was the one we started with, but it's also the most explicit reference to the rest of the Western Canon in the Skywalker Saga. Luke is not just our reference to the Skywalker Saga but to the rest of the canon we've all absorbed. Luke's journey, from wide-eyed youth to the wise, powerful mentor that he had always wanted to be, is emblematic, archetypal. It is our journey. And it is what the rest of The Skywalker Saga hangs on.

Statement of Intent: SpydersWebbing

 

This will be a blog about the entirety of Star Wars, but will focus on treating The Skywalker Saga as a cohesive whole.

It is not about our opinions on whether the original trilogy was ruined.

It is not about whether or not our childhoods were ruined.

It is definitely not about whether or not nostalgia has a place in Star Wars.

It is a positive statement about the Skywalker Saga as a whole; what it is and what what it is can actually mean.

It is as objective as we can attempt to make it. 

I don't know if we will handle Legends. This particular author couldn't care less.

This is a blog about Star Wars.