Dragging ourselves miserably back to the world of Star Wars, it would be remiss not to mention that having showed us that it could be a better Obi-wan, Andor doesn’t miss a beat in showing us that it could be a better Solo — the tight-knit group of proto-rebels lifting improbably defended Imperial resources being the middle act of that film. It’s a very well executed heist movie, giving us the full Ocean’s 11: here are the cast, here are the pieces, here’s half the plan and here’s one or two wrinkles.
In a fashion that feels ludicrously expensive, the show introduces more new characters for this run of episodes than appeared in Obi-wan in total: for our heist squad, there’s the bossy one, the uptight one, the sleazy one, the intense one, the double agent, and the communist. For the opposition: the double agent (again), a rake of subordinates, the squalid provincial governer, a prestigious colonial administrator on a visit, and a plucky comms officer who is going to be in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time.
Stay outdoors, my dude. Going back to your station is not going to go well for you.
Some interesting formalisms at play too, with episode 5 following the spread of different characters through a single extended day, breakfast to dusk — all apparently in the service of a pretty good joke where off-the-board player piece Karn, the antagonist of the first run of episodes, appears to spend the entire day miserably eating one bowl of cereal. Karn’s position in the plot is usurped by a run of scenes of bureaucratic intrigue in the Imperial Spy Ministry (or some such), a larger, snobbier version of Karn’s treasured corporate police.
In an impossibly charming move (in a show that is coming to be defined by the quantity of charming moves it cares to pull off in each episode) the scheme is explained to us over a scale model of the target base, which gets a ceremonial burning the night before the mission that manages to evoke Darth Vader’s funeral pyre.
Interesting is the extent to which the show is happy to play on our pre-knowledge of the character of Andor — obviously as the protagonist he was always going to be likely to have some kind of heart of gold, but the specifics go further. The scene where he reassures the other proto-revolutionaries that tensions always run high the night before a mission seems almost to position Rogue One prior to Andor in the running order. We know this character has experience with rebel missions: we’ve seen him steal the Death Star plans. Cassian’s run of shooting first continues unabated too, all the more pointed with the similarities to Solo.
Skarsgard gets to flex his acting muscles and his facial muscles in his mirror life as the smiling curiosity shop owner — the show again cannily shying away from exactly why such a profession might be prudent for a rebel agent. These scenes introduce Mon Mothma, a vintage Star Wars character who has never really had one, except possibly in the extended universe of books that I never read. These scenes are also set on a returning Coruscant, speeder cars and dining chambers looking every bit as grandiloquent as it was depicted in the Prequels. There’s even a scene in the Imperial senate, which was always an incredible bit of visual design and I was thrilled to see it return. We don’t see who is in position on the centre podium, alas.
Last time turmoil engulfed the Galactic Republic as we discussed episode -3 of Obi-wan, The Phantom Menace.
They better not try and make a big thing out of that Quake logo Rebel Alliance symbol again. I will snap.
So once again we return to these damn Star Wars. It does feel like a joke. Following Obi-wan I swore blind that I was done dipping my toes in the Disney Star War pool, the life-giving waters were certainly all dried up and gone by the time I watched Kenobi face Vader on the exceedingly dark planet of the stalagmites. The problem — it seemed — was that there was simply nothing more to say on the subject of Star Wars. You can pass some time making do-overs, like the sequel trilogy, you can last a while doodling in the gaps as with Solo and Rogue One, and Mandalorian probably warranted a look-in from me eventually but there’s an awful lot of it. Disney’s four-billion-dollar purchase was running along on borrowed time. At some point they were going to try something — like interpolating an alternative follow-up to the prequel trilogy where Vader has some kind of evil daughter who menaces baby Luke — and have it just not work. And so it was.
I found Andor to be a baffling announcement for a series anyway, in the fashion of Michael Bluth hearing about his son’s girlfriend. Really? Him? Don’t get me wrong, Diego Luna was perfectly pleasant in Rogue One, his chemistry with protagonist Felicity Jones papering over any number of cracks in the shooting script. Despite that, he wasn’t an obvious candidate for the extended universe treatment, not just because — spoilers abound — he pops his clogs in the climax of that film, sacrificing himself to the rebel cause. There’s little obvious scope for expanding his story in preference to any of the rest of that cast, many of who were underserved in Rogue One. It almost seemed ridiculous to hope that, even absent the pressure of dealing with a prominent legacy character like Ben Kenobi, the series might flourish. The most we could hope for was that in a post-Obi-wan world, it might be a safer bet to take on characters and relationships that aren’t dripping with potential — if only to save us all the heartbreak.
Him?
I speculated in writing on that series that Obi-wan was an attempt to make a new sequel to Revenge of the Sith in the way that Rogue One had been an attempt to make a new prequel to A New Hope. The insertion of Andor into this genealogy forces us to consider Rogue One insteadas a new Return of the Jedi, the terminal end of a series that’s about to be filled in backwards. This is, inarguably, a George Lucas move. From the prequels to the Clone Wars to the Young Indiana Jones Chronicles, George Lucas loves nothing more than starting a series in the middle somewhere. Could this be an authentically positive omen for Andor?
Getting it out of the way straight off, it’s good. I hate it and I wish it weren’t the case but it’s really good. The genius of Andor, at least in this first trilogy of episodes, is that it doesn’t even try. It’s barely Star Wars. Where it could reference Star Wars it often doesn’t — when antagonist Arnold Rimmer addresses a crack team of extremely unpleasant security agents in the second episode, it could be a pastiche of Darth Vader addressing the bounty hunters in Empire Strikes Back, but it isn’t. Instead its Lieutenant Gorman from Aliens trying to give a pep talk to the cops from The Fifth Element. The first episode opens with the titular Cassian Andor (last seen sleepwalking through that terrible reshoot scene for Rogue One where he lets a man climb halfway up a wall before shooting him) in a greasy, grimy neon city that’s Blade Runner by way of Attack of the Clones but separate and distinct from both.
This feels mean.
It seems implausible that we actually see less of this future neon city than we do the party drug planet from Obi-wan given how much more vibrant and coherent it feels — in what will become a running mark of quality, there’s an extended scene of the club bouncer patting Andor down and giving him the house rules before he heads in. These small moments and subtle characters count tenfold in making the setting compelling, and Andor has them in spades: the busybody on the space transport who thinks everything’s crooked, the town bellringer who takes immense pride in his work without saying a single word, the guy who Cassian owes money to who has hired a local shark man to lightly menace him (yes, a loan-shark). These things could all easily be on the cutting room floor, and a persistent complaint I had about Obi-wan was that they invariably were, giving the impression of a world where people only ever talked when they wanted to muse about starting a rebellion.
This is just Wall-E.
The introduction sequence ends with the inciting incident for the plot of this run of three episodes: Andor shoots first. Framed for a crime he totally committed, he desperately tries to get off-planet while paying his debts and looking after his suspiciously sassy mother. A droid that looks like Wall-E to such an extent that Disney would surely sue if this weren’t being made by Disney pleads with him to stay, but no dice, he’s getting his friend who works on pod race engines to ring up Stellen Skarsgård immediately. Interspersed are flashback scenes in which we see that Andor himself comes from a tribe of presumably-indigenous humanoid scavengers on an Imperial planet. That is to say, he is an Ewok.
The antagonism is provided by Inspector Karn, who as I’ve mentioned draws on no-one so much as Red Dwarf’s Arnold Rimmer, a cripplingly insecure, incredibly tedious busybody who serves as deputy inspector for the sub-Imperial corporate police force. He is an absolute delight in every scene, especially once paired with Alex Fern’s toadying fascist sergeant. I can only assume we’re going to see him get promoted to the highest ranks in the course of his Javert-like pursuit of Andor (who, I should note again, is totally guilty).
Boo! Hiss!
It’s not all roses (well, it’s mostly roses). The 40-minute episode format, while I personally prefer it to the prestige TV standard hour makes little sense for a set of three episodes that feel like nothing more than an episode of Sherlock, a show that hugely benefitted from its feature-length runtime. The ending of the second episode is particularly odd, showcasing some dramatic walking that has the air of being test footage. I’m going to try and consider the show to be a run of movies as best as I can, a series of four features. If they’d released it all at once I’d probably have gone back to my old tricks and started at the end.
The action sequence that takes up most of the third episode falls a little flat in places, such as the multiple uses of “a rope coil has suddenly detached from a pillar” maybe making sense from a logical point of view but perhaps not a dramatic one. Much in the tradition of classic Doctor Who however, the bread and butter of the acting is just good enough to make up for it. Watching Skarsgård and Luna bicker over who gets to be mysterious and aloof to who is well worth the price of entry.
Not another one!
The ending of the third episode, where Andor leaves with Skarsgård, is somewhat muted only because we’re having such a great time with the characters established on Ferrix (the name of the planet). I didn’t want to see them go, but I also can’t see how the plot could return to Ferrix without being contrived. We’ll see. Plenty of time to mull things over in the weeks to come.
The tricky thing with Star Wars is, everyone wants to have a lightsaber. You want to have a lightsaber. I want to have a lightsaber. The people making Andor want to have a lightsaber. How long can they maintain the trapeze act of making Star Wars that isn’t primarily influenced by Star Wars? That’s what we’re going to find out, I guess.
I had something of a moment watching Thor: Love and Thunder, and it wasn’t in reaction to any of the gags or tonal shifts that have enraged other reviewers and commentators. I have no particular distaste for the screaming goats, or the musical cues, or the subplot about Natalie Portman’s character’s illness. They’re all fine, occasionally humourous elements of what is ultimately a comedy film, and if they’re let down it’s by ropey, undercooked visual effects and a crushingly conservative edit that takes away much of the time in which an audience might laugh. There was a point in the film though that brought my objection into sharp focus, and I would like to describe it to you.
Following along with the aforementioned plot concerning Natalie Portman’s character, Jane Porter, we see Jane learn that she has a fatal prognosis and turn to the mysticism of Thor’s hammer to escape from her certain fate. This fails, however, and Porter continues to suffer after reuniting with Thor himself and coming along to face off against Christian Bale’s villain, Gorr. Portman is taken to the “New Asgard Infirmary”, the local medical unit for the relocated Asgardians of Avengers: Endgame, which we assume will be able to take a knowledgable eye to Porter’s condition. Sadly they have little insight other than to inform the audience that if Porter continues to use the hammer, she will perish. Porter bravely sacrifices herself thus in the climax, earning a place in Valhalla.
Portman does a good job despite, well, most things.
Hence follows a brief gag in which Thor — unfamiliar with the concept of a vending machine — steals some snacks to give Porter. The machine is located outside of Porter’s room and is a standard glass-front vending machine showing an array of items in rows and columns, with prices and a coin slot. The provenance of the machine, though obvious, is conveyed through branding on the glass: “New Asgard Infirmary”.
This small detail displaced something inside me. The idea that the magic hospital of the gods charges you for a bag of crisps is so unfathomably depressing that it thrust me back down to earth like a reforged flying hammer. That Jane Porter, given her diagnosis of magic space hammer sickness, would nonetheless have to pay two dollars twenty five for a Diet Coke is a joke on another plane of existence to anything else in Thor: Love and Thunder.
And that’s the moment it dawned on me: nobody in this film believes anything at all.
A scene early on in the film that has received some criticism but mostly bafflement is the one in which Valkyrie, as King of Asgard, attends the opening of a chain Thanos-themed ice cream parlour. Much has been made of the idea that the people of earth would want to joke about a traumatic event in which half the population were briefly believed dead, or whether the image of Thano’s gauntlet would have such penetration in a world in which he was a spectral villain who committed a great evil and not the motion-captured star of a major motion picture. So far as I am aware no Mayor of New York ever attended the opening of an Osama Bin Laden Pizzeria, though I may be mistaken.
It’s not the Thanos-themed ice cream that I find most grotesque in this sequence though. More distressing is the spectacle of the King of Asgard reduced to commercial endorsements: Valkyrie was raised to the position formerly held by Odin himself at the end of Avengers: Endgame, a slovenly Thor not considering himself worthy of the role. King Valkyrie was supposed to be worthy of leading Asgard — worthiness being a major concern of Thor films until that point — and her leadership would restore Asgard to some semblance of glory in exile. In this sequel we first see her cutting the ribbon on a theme park concession.
This is a real-life news report on the fictional ice cream shop.
Asgard in the previous movies was a city of the gods, a heavenly utopia in which immortal beings considered the cosmos. I don’t want to suggest by any means that this should mean they can’t be mocked or made fun of, but there’s something fundamentally perverse about having them appear in this film completely subsumed into a capitalist existence. King Valkyrie has, fundamentally, failed. The film can only gloss this over because Disney films are the only media in existence which do not consider being transformed into a Disney version of your own history to be a living nightmare.
And that’s what New Asgard is — a fixed, calcified history of itself, the Disney cruise ships lurking ominously in the background of the establishing shot. The monument to Thor’s ruined hammer an open-air Tower of London Crown Jewels exhibit. Valkyrie appears in the advert linked above prowling the streets for petty criminals, a King who has become little more than a street warden. It’s not that we should revere the provisionally imperialist, revanchist state that Odin oversaw in Thors 1 & 2, but to see not just the governance but the culture scrubbed clean like this is halting.
The people of New Asgard have completely foreclosed not only on restoring any semblance of their own society, but on any semblance of a society better than that of Earth — of ‘Midgard’. The society in which Thor’s mother once passed away on a luxurious wooden bed surrounded by silks being waited on hand and foot can no longer even provide a complementary bag of crisps in the hospital waiting room. And they aren’t even unhappy about it — they aren’t unhappy about anything.
Gorr is visually compelling, even if there’s some suspicion that all those shadows are hiding some dubious renders.
The children of Asgard are stolen, and Thor traces their theft to a white-cloaked man called Gorr the God-Killer. Gorr, as we see in the pre-credits sequence, is a man who has suffered a personal tragedy at the hands of his God, a stocky bearded man who would rather cavort with nymphs than rescue a man’s dying child. Gorr takes up a magical blade and kills him, beginning a crusade of assassinations against all Gods that culminates in using the children of Asgard as a lure to secure Thor’s help in using a thematically repetitive wishing device at the centre of the universe to finish the Gods off once and for all. This is the central conflict of the film, and the problem is that Gorr is unequivocally right.
The Gods as depicted in this film are capricious, indulgent lordlings, the picture of feudal sloth. Thor visits the City of the Gods, a second Asgard, where he witnesses Zeus engage in tedious despotic displays of self-aggrandisation to a bored audience. Asking for assistance in retrieving his missing children, Zeus cruelly and selfishly dismisses Thor, who with his companions fights his way out of the council chamber (a visual callback to the Star Wars prequels, with Zeus in place of Palpatine, no less). As a parting blow to the puffed-up imbecilic overlord Zeus, Thor uses a lightning bolt to shoot him through the heart. Zeus falls, dead, from his carriage — he later appears alive again in a post-credit scene, apparently to scrub Thor’s conscience for those of us worried about his immortal soul.
Zeus, shortly before being righteously gunned down. Mas Amedda just out of shot.
Gorr is correct about the Gods, and Thor agrees with him. They are both at this point God-Killers, dismayed with the corruption of a treasured institution. Fundamentally they do not disagree. They could team up; unique among the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s villains, Gorr does not go out of his way to reinforce his evil credentials, beyond some half-hearted child-menacing. Surely he could be persuaded, or redeemed, or fully embraced. Could the suffering peasant take his place in the reformed city of the gods-on-earth, in New Asgard? He cannot. Gorr dies, death being the penalty for his belief. The ‘necro-sword’ that embodies the idea that a man might slay a god is — conveniently — corrosive and fatal to those that wield it. We may eschew the sword entirely: believing in an idea is corrosive and fatal in the world of Love and Thunder. All we can hope to achieve is looking cool and kicking ass and impressing our dying ex-girlfriend. Thor adopts Gorr’s daughter, granted life by Gorr’s dying wish, and teaches her the vague interventionist values he lives by — without ever changing anything.
In the final post-credits scene, Jane Foster reaches the Halls of Valhalla, where the greatest heroes who fell in battle live on. Foster and Gorr suffer identical deaths. Foster is present, the Gorr is not. Valhalla doesn’t really believe in the cosmic resonance of individual valour — it’s just a place some people end up.
You could continue in this vein; the people Thor assists with the help of the Guardians of the Galaxy at the start of the film see Thor destroy, through carelessness, their greatest city and holy site, but they don’t really care. They still like him. They didn’t really believe in it at all.
What Thor chases throughout the film is meaning, but meaning is never located in actually achieving anything. Meaning is friends, family, love. Thor can tell Jane how he feels but he cannot save her. He cannot really even try.
The political theorist Mark Fisher described his concept of ‘capitalist realism’ as “the widespread sense that not only is capitalism the only viable political and economic system, but also that it is now impossible to even imagine a coherent alternative to it”. It is obviously too much to expect Thor: Love and Thunder to dis-spell capitalist realism for us. It is likely too much to expect for Thor: Love and Thunder to even mildly critique capitalist realism for us. But it could offer us crumbs of idealism. It could offer us a free bag of crisps. It could offer us a paradise on earth that isn’t framed by cruise ships. It does not.
Last time we tied up the Obi-wan series, pensive about the ways in which the new era differs from the old.
Prequels are a fraught business; expectations are high and the scope for delivering surprises low. Further still, this is no regular prequel, this is The Prequel, the definite article. Star Wars: Episode 1: The Phantom Menace. It’s where we finally get to see where the Obi-wan Kenobi of A New Hope came from, with his vague anecdotes about the Clone Wars and folksy commitment to an ancient monastic order. Crucially intertwined too, the story of Lord Vader, the impassive man behind the mask — the war hero who became the Emperor’s right-hand man. Finally, the enigmatic story of Padme, mother to Luke and Leia, absent entirely from the original trilogy.
Now as well, this is where we get to see the where the title character of Disney+’s Obi-wan came from. The origin for his principled non-intervention and familiarity with child sidekicks. And the origin of the pained, murderous Vader of that series and his red hot hatred of the noble Jedi Knights. The spectral figure of Leia’s mother, described to Leia as “wise, discerning, kindhearted” which really seem to be burying the lede even for this film.
Finally, although there isn’t the space here to really dig into it, this is the film that crafts fully half of what we consider Star Wars aesthetic, and it looks really great. So much thoughtful design by so many artists went into creating a film that looks unmistakably Star Wars while throwing out an endless succession of new designs.
The senate chamber is a particular triumph.
What is first and most noticeable about The Phantom Menace is that it is a story about slaves. It is bookended with snippets of high drama and action mostly taking place on Naboo, with some laser fights in space and sinister dealings in a humongous senate. The real story however sits squarely in the middle acts of the film, the tale of how young Anakin Skywalker, who will one day grow up to be Darth Vader, was once a starry-eyed slave child. The film makes no bones about this focus — encountering Anakin for the first time, Padme exclaims “you’re a slave?” and Anakin shoots back “I’m a person”.
There is a dramatic structure entirely local to Anakin’s story. You could make three episodes of Obi-wan out of it, were you inclined:
Episode 1, A mysterious cloaked man comes to town and meets Anakin, a precocious young engineer who works for a grumpy alien named Watto. Caught in a sandstorm, Anakin offers the man and his friends refuge, and realises that the man is a Jedi Knight.
Episode 2, the mysterious stranger enlists Anakin to race a pod competitively to win the parts to repair his ship — and the price to free Anakin from Watto. Against all odds, Anakin wins.
Episode 3, a freed Anakin must pack his things and leave his mother, facing up to the reality that his new friend cannot or will not end slavery on Tatooine. As they finally go to leave, the Jedi is attacked by a horned demon with a red laser sword and barely escapes. Anakin looks forward to his new life as a Jedi Knight, swearing to one day return and end slavery once and for all.
The plight of the droids, a slave class to the slave class, is ever-present, from Padme thanking R2D2 to Anakin promising to have Shmi not sell C3P0.
Anakin talks of little else other than his desire to free the slaves, to free his mother, to free himself. He transparently believes that becoming a Jedi will grant him the power to do this, even though the Jedi Order would never allow it. From the moment he catches glimpse of Qui-gon’s laser sword it’s clear that the idea has gripped him. Conversely Qui-gon is fascinated by Anakin, and Neeson does a good, subtle job of portraying him as a man being led on by his instincts against his logical judgement. He reluctantly probes Anakin’s abilities with his mother, he double checks himself by testing Anakin’s blood. Qui-gon wants to be absolutely certain in his supposition when he goes before the council to claim that Anakin is the ‘chosen one’, a myth regarding a figure who can bring balance to the force.
Qui-gon is positively callous in his refusal to assist — telling Anakin’s mother outright: “I didn’t come here to free slaves”. He almost sounds like he’s trying to persuade himself. The force tells him one thing and his Jedi training tells him another; Qui-gon ultimately splits the difference and frees half the slaves, frees Anakin whose route to freedom while tricky is still catered for in the Jedi ideology. Freeing Anakin’s mother would mean contending with the Jedi council’s doctrine of non-attachment and separation, so for Qui-gon it’s ultimately easier to not think about it too hard. In the end he is crucially incapable of seeing slavery as an evil in and of itself worth destroying, and in this failure he dooms the Jedi order.
The return of Qui-Gon.
Qui-gon is an interesting figure from the perspective of the original trilogy: a new addition to the cast, unnamed beforehand, who is formative for all three of our trilogy of protagonists. He trains Obi-wan, teaches Padme to trust the will of the force, and inspires young Anakin. Crucially, he also fails all three: he cannot free Anakin’s mother, he hurriedly concludes Obi-wan’s training to take Anakin as an apprentice, and he abandons Padme once they reach Coruscant to the manipulations of Senator Palpatine. He’s positioned as the best of the Jedi — he is, after all, the one we’re given to follow for the bulk of this film, and the council are a bunch of old fuddy-duddies who can’t see the Sith Lord right under their noses. Qui-gon is our introduction to the functioning Jedi Knight.
Our three protagonists grouped together at the end of the film, set under the gaze of the malevolent Chancellor Palpatine.
Obi-wan’s dubious training is heavily hinted at in the final scenes of the movie, trapped as a forced observer behind a series of red force fields as he watches the sinister Darth Maul slay his tutor. Obi-wan’s rage on the death of Qui-gon is non-too-subtly coded as a reaction of the dark side, the red glow over his face making him a mirror of Maul. His stance behind the force field, tense and anxious, recalls Maul more than it does the quiet meditation of Qui-gon. Somewhat interestingly, Obi-wan’s defeat of Maul is echoed in the final conflict of the Obi-wan series, as Kenobi is thrown by his opponent into a pit, which he is able to channel his intense emotions into vaulting out of.
To some frustration, Qui-gon’s return in Obi-wan amounted to a cameo of a few incoherent sentences. It really would be fascinating to hear his ghostly perspective on how subsequent events to his death played out. The show was unwilling to provide them. Apparently he appears in the Lucas-governed animated series which I haven’t seen.
Love that goofy puppet-mouth though, a good choice for a villain who is literally a puppet.
Phantom Menace is not without flaws; it’s hard to begrudge someone finding the use of accents for the Trade Federationists distasteful. By all accounts Lucas was attempting to address the issue head-on by some dubious means during the design of the characters but the consensus since is definitely that polishing specific cultural indicators off your Fu Manchu villains does not liberate them from being Fu Manchu villains. I found it easier to digest Watto, the slaver who seems to barely live better than his slaves. Watto always struck me as more of a hard-nosed New York guy stereotype than anything else, like Bob Hoskins playing Super Mario — but then I am hardly an appropriate judge to deliver this verdict.
The “I’ve been wondering, what are midichlorians?” conversation is a notable clunker, dialogue-wise. It has the feeling of a late addition, interjected to explicitly explain to audiences that the Jedi can measure the mechanical aspects of using the force via science. This is one of the most interesting and disruptive elements that the prequels wrote in over the top of the original films, making a mockery of Yoda’s airy pronunciation that we are all luminous beings, that the Jedi are a religion of universal spirituality— the Jedi Knights were cracking out the calipers when things got really serious.
The elements of The Phantom Menace that have been much derided in years since the release of the film did not hugely bother me — Jake Lloyd is perfectly competent as child Anakin, certainly by reference to child Leia and child Luke from the Obi-wan series. He’s endearing and filled with childish glee. The ‘yippee’s are a bit much but hardly a cardinal sin. Jar-Jar similarly is a coherent component of the film as the cartoon rabbit who steps in the animal dung. No complaints.
Surprised they never went back and re-rendered Jar-Jar with some more modern materials. He mostly looks acceptable with some occasional dips into ‘unconvincing’ but he’d be a good candidate for a special edition.
The most notable reflection for Obi-wan in The Phantom Menace is the metamorphosis from a story concerned about general evils to a story concerned about a specific evil. Palpatine announces to Padme that “the Republic is not what it once was,” that the system that governed the galaxy has lost its power and its way, setting the stage for his ascension to the Supreme Chancellorship, and thereafter the Empire: The Empire is an answer for this chaos we see, manufactured though some of it is. Palpatine has manoeuvred the Trade Federation, to be sure, but the Senate’s inability to decisively resolve the conflict is authentic. Their inability to tackle slavery on Naboo is authentic. It is a failing government, and the Jedi are papering the cracks for it, pressed into the nakedly corrupt position of being sent out as the Supreme Chancellor’s enforcers at the start of the film.
Obi-wan’s focus on the Empire as a state oppressing the Jedi is completely alien to this film. It is unthinkable. An untrained Jedi child is no more threat to the Empire than is Sebulba — Anakin’s force sensitivity could easily be left to rot on the vine to no large calamity, and the possibility of doing so is seriously considered by all involved. Being ‘force-sensitive’ is treated with all the awe of being found to be ‘maths-sensitive’, an advantage in many fields but really only an indicator of potential. The decision whether or not to train him is what will make the difference. This butts uncomfortably against Obi-wan’s ingrained notion of the Jedi identity, rescuing Jedi children, the rebellion helping prevent the Empire from rooting out unknowing Jedi. That story simply is not this story.
The Empire, lurking.
Furthermore The Empire itself, even here, is the Republic’s dirty secret. Qui-gon, Kenobi and Maul push from the picturesque halls of the Naboo palace into the back rooms and find the Empire waiting there for them, gleaming floors and bannister-free walkways aplenty. There is continuity between the gilding of the dying Republic and its Jedi enforcers and the Empire — and this first prequel is unconditional about this. When Anakin, defeated, tells Obi-wan that he is not responsible for creating Vader, Obi-wan has created the entire Empire, insofar as every Jedi created the entire Empire. To ‘rebel’ against it from this position is incoherent: the Rebellion should scorn all Jedis.
Anakin ends the film in the traditional garb of the learner Jedi.
