“We’ll always be with you. No one’s ever really gone.”
Mark Hamill speaks these words over the new trailer for Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker. It’s a sweet sentiment for those of us who grew up loving the franchise, especially the original trilogy, even as it was becoming a $42 billion merchandising behemoth. The idea that the characters and creatures we loved as kids will never disappear is cozy, like a good bedtime story.
At the same time, it signals a turning point. No longer should we expect to be wowed by a galaxy far, far away – its primary purpose is now to comfort, not thrill. With the launch of Disney+ and the new Star Wars shows and films that will stream with it, The Rise of Skywalker will be, as my colleague Scott Mendelson put it, the last time a Star Wars movie feels like a special event.
And that’s already a stretch.
Under Disney’s watch, the franchise has come to resemble Obi-Wan’s assessment of Darth Vader: more machine than man. Not necessarily evil, but definitely zombie-like. It’s a rather ghoulish drip feed of nostalgia; even after their real-world analogues die, we can’t stop digging these characters up for more screen time. And while that might be great for Disney’s bank accounts, it’s a warning to those who like their Star Wars fresh – or at the very least unbeholden to misogynist, racist fanboys.
J. J. Abrams has at least been open about his desire to recreate the movies he loved as a kid. The Force Awakens was a beat-by-beat retread of A New Hope, rendering it a charming if occasionally nonsensical riff on that galaxy we know and love.
And it worked. Or rather, it sold well, which in Disney’s estimation is the same thing.
To be fair, Disney is a publicly-traded company that controls almost 1/6th of the world’s media, and the Star Wars brand is worth more the GDP of Paraguay. Genuine risks are utterly terrifying at that scale. I struggle trying to judge whether I can wear my jeans one more time before a wash.
It is ultimately us – the fans – who have made Star Wars into what the Disney now regurgitates. They know the faithful will flock to church for the homilies we’ve already heard a hundred times. Familiarity breeds profit before it breeds contempt. (Though contempt is absolutely part of the deal – just ask Kelly Marie Tran).
Fandom – the consumptive, performative identity of brand loyalty – impedes truly fresh content. It no longer belongs to the artist, but to the consumer. Fandom means ownership. It means love. It means safety. It means community. It means money, and compromise of quality.
Fandom means, in today's climate of franchises and spinoffs, prequels and crossovers, quite simply: too much of a dear thing.
When Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi took a lightsaber to the tropes Abrams slavishly recreated, the result was uneven but exciting. He convinced me there were still unexplored reaches in that galaxy, stories that could make up for Rogue One’s necromantic conjurings of Peter Cushing and Carrie Fisher.
Johnson gave us the most original, mature spin on the franchise since The Empire Strikes Back - and the fandom shrieked in protest. "How dare you not give me more of what I expect? Who are you to dictate my nostalgia?"
As though they couldn’t simply watch the original films at any time, in any format, on any device.
So Disney brought back Abrams to direct Episode IX: reliable, reverent Abrams, who could never burn the sacred texts no matter how badly they need fumigating.
Cue the trailer for Rise of Skywalker. It features the new characters, like Rey and Poe and Finn, but it’s built around ones that are over 40 years old.
Listen! Luke is doing all the voiceover! Even though he died in the last one! And look! It’s Lando! Remember him? And it’s the Death Star! Again! Can’t go wrong with the Death Star! And since we never came up with a compelling villain this time around, why not just bring back the one who anchored the first six films? The Emperor! Remember that laugh? REMEMBER?
It’s the Star Wars equivalent of a Dane Cook routine: all references to cultural touchstones without any original observations. Even the title is a zombie. We already have a movie about the rise of Skywalker – we have six of the damn things, in fact.
There is an upside here. After the flavorless, vacuum-sealed Solo bombed at the box office, Disney reportedly put its other spin-offs on hold. And they gave Johnson the reins for a new trilogy, one unburdened by legions of squealing hatemongers. Same galaxy far, far away, yes – but new characters and stories, without cameos, CGI ghouls, or “fan-favorites.”
Help us, Rian Johnson; you’re our only hope.
To reference another milked-to-oblivion franchise, you cannot live inside a pensieve. But the newer Star Wars flicks tempt us to do precisely that. In our yearning to revisit the people and places we grew up loving, we’ve entered an addictive downward spiral, one which only approximates magic. We set such a low bar that Disney actually thought people wanted a young Han Solo film, seemingly forgetting that we already have one. (It’s called Star Wars, and it came out in 1977).
And look: I’m not saying that because they came first, the original movies are somehow superior. They had plenty of problems. And the newer ones are populated by a bevvy of delightful actors with terrific chemistry. I am saying that compulsively revisiting the past is more exhumation than exaltation.
And Disney is our number one graverobber.
