Star Wars on Trial, Page 3

  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.

  "Just what bill of goods are we being sold, between the frames?"

  Here's my personal list, jotted down across the years since 1984.

  In the Star Wars universe:

  • True leaders are born. It's genetic. The right to rule is inherited.

  • Elites have an inherent right to arbitrary rule; common citizens needn't be consulted. They may only choose which born-torule elite to follow.

  • Any amount of sin can be forgiven if you repent ... and if you are important enough.

  • "Good" elites should act on their subjective whims, without evidence, argument or accountability. Secrecy and lies are always a good option. They never need to be explained.

  • The chief feature distinguishing "good" from "evil" is how pretty the characters look. Oh, and which music theme plays in the background.

  • In order to be a skilled and good and worthy warrior, you must cut yourself off from the very attachments that make a decent coworker, lover, spouse, parent and citizen.

  • Justified human emotions can turn a good person evil, like flicking a switch.

  I plan to focus primarily on the accusations made above. In particular, I will show how the politics of Star Wars is transparently elitist and anti-democratic. But there are more indictments that will be dealt with by some other members of the Prosecution Team.

  • While claiming mythic significance, Star Wars portrays no admirable religious or ethical beliefs. In fact, all the religious or ethical trappings in Star Wars are driven by the sudden veers and impulses of plot, not any higher ethical or religious thinking.

  • Star Wars novels are poor substitutes for real science fiction and are driving real SF off the shelves.

  • Science fiction filmmaking has been reduced to poorly written special effects extravaganzas, and Star Wars shares the blame.

  • Star Wars has dumbed down perception of science fiction in the popular imagination.

  • Star Wars pretends to be science fiction, but is really feudal fantasy.

  • There are troubling ways, in Star Wars, that women are portrayed.

  • The Star Wars universe is rife with plot holes and logical flaws that were never necessary, even in a light adventure story. For this, in an epic that took decades and billions of dollars to create, that portrays itself as important storytelling, there is simply no excuse.

  • Tragically, there are a few small things-missed opportunitiesthat could have eased most of these problems and helped the whole thing to make a lot more sense.

  The last eight or so items will be handled by others, though I may weigh in here and there, later in the trial, especially in the matter of plot holes and missed opportunities. (In fact, there are some places where I tend to be more forgiving than average! For example, I never much minded Ewoks....) But here is where I'll take the time to plunge into crucial issues. Artistic, ethical and mythological. Those that made my original Salon magazine articles so controversial.

  Especially my argument that George Lucas's grand mythology is not a tale that helps a modern and confident enlightenment civilization. It does not reflect our upstart "rebel" values, or provide recompense for all the kindness and good fortune that civilization has heaped upon him.

  Indeed, we are very lucky that most people aren't paying attention, playing with the lightsabers but ignoring the "morality" parts. Because, if citizens actually took their moral cues from Star Wars, we would be in very deep trouble, indeed.

  THE CAMPBELLIAN TRADITION

  In order to argue the core point about what Star Wars teaches, we are going to have to step back a bit and talk about storytelling, in a far more general sense. None of this has been happening in a vacuum, after all. And George Lucas would be the first to tell you that his epic nestles comfortably in a standard mythic tradition that is as old as written human language. If Star Wars stands indicted, then so will be a lot of other tales, from Gilgamesh to Lancelot.

  So please, bear with me, while I take a little time examining that tradition ... and some more recent, upstart alternatives.

  In Star Wars: The Magic of Myth, author Mary Henderson
elaborates how much inspiration George Lucas took from classical mythology. Drawing heavily on the works of Mircea Eliade and Joseph Campbell, she parallels Luke Skywalker's adventure with the classical hero's journey, equating the swamps of Dagoba with the sacred grove, the Ewoks with the archetypal helpful animals populating an enchanted forest, and so on. It's all a deeply felt homage to some of our most ancient archetypes.'

  All right, we start out with a bone of contention. I have my own quirky complaints that start from all this fawning over "ancient archetypes."

  For example, I never much cared for the whole Nietzschian Obermensch thing: the notion-pervading so many myths and legends that a good yarn has to be about demigods who are bigger, badder and better than normal folk by several orders of magnitude. It's an ancient storytelling tradition, all right. But one based on abiding contempt for the masses. One that I gradually came to find suspect in the works of A. E. van Vogt, E. E. Smith, L. Ron Hubbard and wherever you witness slanlike superbeings deciding the fate of billions without ever pausing to consider their wishes. Even Orson Scott Card-who has publicly criticized Star Wars for many of the same reasons that I do-nevertheless returns relentlessly to tales of science fictional Ubermensch demigods ... though Card's are more complex and interesting than most.

  Does anyone else find this obsession, well, just a bit creepy?

  I admit and avow that I am no acolyte of mythology scholar Joseph Campbell, who was made famous by a series of shows on PBS, in which journalist Bill Moyers interviewed him about legends spanning many cultures. In The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell combines the earlier insights of many scholars, pointing out how a particular, rhythmic storytelling technique was used in ancient and premodern cultures, depicting protagonists and antagonists with common motives, character traits and plot twists that seem to transcend boundaries of language and culture. In these classic tales, a hero is beckoned to take on a quest. He begins reluctant, though signs foretell greatness. He receives dire warnings and then sage wisdom from a mentor, acquires quirky-but-faithful companions, faces a series of steepening crises, suffers as he explores the pit of his own fears, and finally emerges triumphant, bringing some boon/talisman/victory home to his admiring tribe/people/nation. Distilling the central message in his books and public statements, Campbell prescribes that all myths ought to be about these figures-like Achilles, Hercules, Orpheus, or Genji-larger than life, following a precise plot outline that is as old as it is rigid and changeless.

  All right, Campbell's admirers use "changeless." The word "rigid" is mine. Still, I'll be the first to admit it's a superb formula-one that I've used at times in my own stories and novels (though always poking at it, trying variations, or even outright reversals). Moreover, by offering valuable insights into this revered storytelling tradition, Joseph Campbell does, indeed, shed light on common spiritual traits that seem to be shared by all human beings.

  Alas, he only highlighted positive traits, ignoring the darker sidesuch as how easily this standard fable template was co-opted by kings, priests and tyrants, by extolling the all-importance of elites who tower over common women and men. King Achilles, slaughtering hundreds of common foot soldiers, while the river weeps. King Odysseus crossing the dire straits while his men all perish. King Arthur ruling benevolently-but with fierce enforcement by mystically anointed knights. King This and brave Prince That .... Above all, while an occasional dark lord or wicked giant gets toppled, hardly any of these heroes ever pause to question the very setup that made the quest necessary in the first place. The feudal order. The capricious Fates. Cryptic elves. The gods themselves.

  I mean, seriously, can you look across the last 4,000 years of recorded history and call it good that society remained changeless for the vast majority of that time?

  Or call good the implication that we must always adhere to variations on a single theme, the same prescribed plot outline, over and over again? Those who praise Joseph Campbell seem to perceive this uniformity as cause for rejoicing-but it isn't. Playing a large part in the tragic miring of our spirit, these demigod/royalty myths helped reinforce sameness and changelessness for millennia, transfixing people in nearly every culture, from Babylon to modern times.

  The Professor claims that this pattern represents our deepest shared zeitgeist, ingrained in our very souls. But might there be another reason that it kept recurring? Picture yourself as Homer, or some other ancient bard. Where do you want to recite? In some peasant hovel, where you'll be fed gruel and nobody will remember? Or in the chief's lodge, the Sacred Temple, perhaps even the High King's hall, where beer and meat will flow, where the powerful may bestow favors, where acolytes will memorize your poesy...

  ... and all you have to do is flatter a little? Spin tales about knights and Ubermenschen superguys. Poets and bards faced the same incentive, everywhere, in every era. By keeping to the program-praising elites-you could stay on the gravy train. For life.

  All right, that explanation is a bit cynical. But shouldn't it be mentioned, at least as an alternative?

  Not when Bill Moyers tossed Campbell one fawning softball ques tion after another. To romantics, that endlessly repeated mythic structure is the only human way to tell a story.

  Another example: Aristotle-in his Poetics-prescribed extremely rigid plot structures that required absolute acceptance of unalterable fate and the will of the gods. Right. Chain up storytelling. Mortify it in rigid stone. And call it a good thing.

  Face it. The fix has been in for thousands of years.

  Dr. Stephen Potts, of the UCSD Literature Department, has an interesting take on why so many ancient myths seem to have traits in common:

  None of us ever completely shakes loose the scars of adolescent solipsism-our belief that we are special but misunderstood, that we stand aloof from authority figures and peers alike, that we may even have some mysterious origin or unique destiny. Adolescence is the age of identity crisis and formation, of self-doubt and self importance-all reflected in the hero myths we inherit from our barbaric past. Campbell's "monomyth" is itself loaded with Freudian and Jungian assumptions regarding sexual identity, separation from and reconciliation with the parent, connection with a "goddess" or anima figure that naturally assumes the hero is male and in need of sexual completion. It is not a surprise, therefore, that Star Wars and similar vessels provide adolescent wish fulfillment (as do comic superheroes), and while we can all enjoy swinging with Spiderman or kicking ass with the Bat, God help us when we embrace these primitive paradigms as models for real life.

  I can think of two recent Western cultures offhand that bought fully and unreservedly into Campbell-style myths, using those fables to forge a unified sense of purpose. In the antebellum American South, the immensely popular and influential novels of Sir Walter Scott-filled with knights errant and questing princes-served the same purpose that Wagner operas and Aryan tales did in pre-WWII Germany, helping to consolidate righteous belief in a clearly defined destiny and purpose. Both the Confederacy and the Nazis emphasized romantic adolescent drama and the glory of a cause to almost complete exclusion of any thought about long-term consequences. Both also had a predilection for archaic weaponry, like swords and daggers (just like the Jedi), as well as a penchant for pageantry, grandiloquence and authority-as-birthright.

  Another dark trait of romanticism, tragically illustrated by both of those cultures, is the willingness (seen in countless Campbellian myths) to reclassify whole swaths of humanity as subpar, not even deserving the minimal rights granted to honorable enemies. Whether they are Ores or soldier-robots or clones ... or black slaves or Jews ... there is no need to bother the conscience when they are disposed of. No need to answer to their mothers. (In fact, conveniently, Ores and robots and clones have no mothers.)

  Is it, then, any mystery why so few of the traditional romantic myths cited by Joseph Campbell focus upon women heroes? Or on people achieving what should be the highest human goals? Successfully raising a family. Building a community. Negotiating
peace. Engaging in civilization.

  Alas, these are not the tasks or concerns of bold, young, unmarried males. Few Campbellian-style heroes-other than great Odysseus-ever mention or yearn for them.

  Nevertheless, these are the proper focus of would-be leaders. The proper study of grown-up human beings.

  Commented the critic Curt Jensen, amid one of the swirling online exchanges generated by this topic:

  One thing you never see with the Jedi Knights is any kind of critical glance at their merits as peacetime political leaders. Being able to levitate an X-wing doesn't make you a wise leader. Quite the contrary actually. It would tend toward the default attitude that might makes right. Not only are the jedi wholly unsuited to the demands of domestic politics, they seem unaware of their limits and keep insisting on meddling, eventually leading society down the road to disaster. Yet, according to the strange logic of George Lucas, these people are still automatically qualified for leadership, with the inherent right to make vital decisions in secret, affecting the well-being of billions.

  Of course, the Defense will argue that Star Wars was never meant for grown-ups! But should not the grown-ups within George Lucas's universe be paying a little heed to such matters, even if only in background? If only to point Luke and Han and Leia and Anakin toward the eventual, proper goal of decent heroes-the role that Odysseus took up when his adventure ended-that of ruling wisely?

  Ironically, this notion was not alien to George Lucas at all! Few remember his short-lived but brilliant television series, The Young IndianaJones Chronicles (1992). It was no great commercial success. But to aficionados, it appeared to be Lucas's most sincere personal statement-a truly brave attempt to mix adolescent excitement with real thoughtfulness and content. Indeed, it seemed as if Lucas was expressing the same theme we often see from Spielberg-one of deep and genuine gratitude.