Dominic, Jeff, and Zach all make points worthy of an Ewok’s dung-tipped spear (see: Butler’s views) — which is to say, theirs are practical and horrifyingly accurate observations. They’re right: Star Wars ran out of magic or midichlorians four years ago, and those responsible are still running the franchise straight into the trench along the Death Star’s superstructure. (R.I.P. Porkins, whom we should celebrate for his body positivity — a capable but round man limited by his orange jumpsuit.) More’s the pity.
What each of the three confirms is that there’s something about the original trilogy (maybe even the first six movies) that works in a way that later installments failed to replicate. I never watched the ninth movie — there was no reason to care — because the preceding two told me everything I needed to know. The latest trilogy flattened the galaxy politically (approximating Earth’s squabbles) while stretching the elastic borders beyond comprehension. What viewers were left with was a mangled depiction of a space buffalo’s hindquarters, like a souvenir penny machine at a national park. The shot of dozens of Star Destroyers in Episode VIII or the shattered planets of the New Republic in Episode VII meant nothing. We hardly knew ye, space wreckage produced for saccharine effect.
Compare the physical and emotional scale of the final trilogy to Rogue One and the original Star Wars. In each of the latter, there’s direction and the promise of a comprehensible universe, as a fully operational battle station deletes them from the galaxy, but only after they’ve transferred the information that will carry the day. (Rogue One even acknowledges mortality and the smallness of its protagonists.)
The new shows fail the test because they’re too small. The scale of the engagements, their effect on the galaxy, and the frequency of major characters ring false. The Mandalorian avoided this for a time because no one on the show was a named character — the introduction of Luke and Ahsoka was its undoing. The new trilogy is the Warhammer 40k-ification of Star Wars: Nothing really matters because nihilistic atrophy or deus ex machina is certain to occur. The new shows are Shakespeare reenactments in Peoria, Ill. — there’s too much fan service, and the set is uncomfortably small. (Apologies to Peoria; they have a wonderful arts scene.)
The original movies produced their force-harmoniousness — as did Star Wars Battlefront I and II — because they understood the tension between scale and attachment. The invasion of Kashyyyk mattered because it affected Chewbacca; the duel on Mustufar mattered because it created Darth Vader; and the destruction of the first Death Star mattered because it bought the Rebellion time to expand and prove to the galaxy that the mangy coalition of a Mon Calamari navy and a Naboo-infused piratical army might have enough to topple the Empire. The paired competency of the earlier villains — Darth Vader/Tarkin and Dooku/Palpatine — went a long way in convincing the viewer that there were no guarantees.
To cap this nerdery, the CartoonNetwork Clone Wars short films are the best Star Wars media ever produced outside of the video games and the Clone Commandos series.
