Is Star Wars more than an entertaining space opera meant to relax us after the daily grind of post-industrialized life? To answer that question, we must consider the possibility of depth in cinema—that cinema is itself the vehicle for our post-technological mythology, manifesting our deepest fears as well as our subconscious and unconscious struggles. While it is undeniable that some films are entertaining consumeristic products meant for mass consumption or, alternatively, works of propaganda moved solely by the political zeitgeist, other films seem to be representative—oftentimes unconsciously or subconsciously—of our contemporary fears contained deep in the id of human existence. The Star Wars saga, I will contend, is among those films.
I acknowledge that I am a Star Wars fan. I would not venture to say I’m a geek; I do not read the books or comics associated with the Star Wars universe. But I do love the first six films and some of their spinoff cartoons. I find them enchanting and instructive in certain forgotten realities of life—especially the importance of friendship and sacrifice in an increasingly isolative and individualistic age.
If the gentle reader permits me I wish to deconstruct the archetypes, imagery, and narratives employed in the original Star Wars trilogy to bring out what I see as the deep currents that govern the film and its development from the pursuit of the Tantive IV to the celebrations on Endor after the destruction of Death Star II. This concerns itself with the finished films as they are and not with novelizations or original drafts. As such, this deconstruction of Star Wars and its place in the science-fiction and fantasy artistic arc concerns itself with the original films as formally completed and in the time they were produced.
Isaac Asimov defined science fiction as “that branch of literature which deals with the reaction of human beings to changes in science and technology.” Star Wars is a shining example of science fiction because it deals with the ongoing struggles that humans face in a world dominated by science and technology. The opening scenes of A New Hope visually represents this for us in the pursuit of the Tantive IV.
One of the most identifiable archetypes of science fiction is the dialectic between two worlds. One world, often the dying or threatened world, is the world of organic eroticism and naturality. This world is often shown teeming with life, pathos, and sublime vegetation; an imperfect and messy world, but an undeniably sublime and often beautiful world which recaptures our desire for an Edenic paradise. This organic and natural world is often threatened, or contrasted, with the sterile, dark, and mechanical world of science and industry. The second world is the ascendant reality which we ourselves, as homo sapiens, are slowly gliding into. The cold, mechanical, and scientistic world is one where corporations, industry, and machines dominate and often threaten to wipe out the former world of organic naturalism with the promises of progress, peace, and security.
Star Wars depicts for us this dialectic between worlds and how the emergent technological world severs the Erfahrung of natural, organicist, existence. The world of Alderaan, of Mos Eisley, of our heroes, indeed, the whole galaxy far, far away—is the organic and natural world threatened by the mechanical monsters of the new scientific age. In A New Hope, Luke Skywalker is the incarnate hero of the organic world threatened by the ascendant, and tyrannical, world of scientific and technological power. It is important to remember that Luke’s foster parents are (moisture) farmers, an ancient profession that once served as the life common to most humans. Of course, this noble life of the land is extinguished by the forces of technology, science, and progress—manifested for us in the most starkly brutal way when Luke returns to his farm only to see the charred bodies of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru.
The destruction of the moisture farm orphans Luke. He is now an uprooted and displaced human being in search for himself and his destiny. Luke is meant to be a common man hero in his first instantiation. We are meant to identify and sympathize with Luke because he is us. Luke is the in situ man at large, displaced by the modernity of progress, technology, and science, now struggling to find himself in the midst of a rapidly changing cosmos while coming of age and losing his innocence in the process. (I should note, here, that there is a wonderful coloration to Luke as he undergoes this search for identity and coming of age wherein he is dressed in white in A New Hope, becomes a murkier grey in the Empire Strikes Back, and comes of age dressed in black in Return of the Jedi, altogether symbolizing his loss of innocence and discovering the dark side of his family lineage as a son conceived in the sins of his father.)
With Luke we begin to see the formation of the first storyline in Star Wars: The struggle to find an identity, to know thyself, in a world ripped apart by the dark side of technological tyranny. For that is what the Dark Side is in A New Hope (and the original trilogy more generally). At the superficial level, the Dark Side is the negative manifestation of the mystical conception of “The Force.” It leads to unlimited power, which, when wielded, serves the purpose of domination. But getting beyond the superficial and verbatim explanation of the Dark Side helps us realize, more powerfully, what the Dark Side is in the Star Wars universe. To understand the Dark Side, we must realize where Dark Side aligns. In A New Hope, the Dark Side is manifested on the side of technological tyranny—visually represented to us by the Death Star and Darth Vader (who is, in the words of Obi-Wan Kenobi in the Empire Strikes Back, “more machine now than man”). The Dark Side belongs to that second world of scientific, technological, imperialism which kills Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, orphans Luke, destroys Alderaan, and threatens to wipe out natural, organic, biological life throughout the galaxy. At the interior level of our oscillation between the two worlds, Luke is likeable and sympathetic because he experiences the very struggles we ourselves are facing in a world caught in transformation between that messy but natural past and suffocating and displacing future wrought by the power of science and industry.
In Luke’s search for his identity, which is necessarily a search for his destiny, we begin to meet the imperfect cast of heroes who defend the old world in all its glorious imperfections: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Han Solo and Chewbacca, Princess Leia, the rebels of the Rebel Alliance. Each of these heroes are instantiated manifestations of an aspect of the natural world in its eclipse: the old mystic sage (Obi-Wan); the self-centered ruffian and troublemaker (Han) and his partner in crime (Chewbacca); the beautiful sumptuous woman who is, upon closer inspection, headstrong and defiant (Leia); and the idealists (the whole array of rebels).
This world that our heroes archetypally represent are also contrasted by the emergent world of technological and scientific darkness: the apostate (Darth Vader); the tyrannical bureaucrat (Tarkin) and his partners in crime (the careerist imperial officers); and the impressed soldiers of technological domination (the stormtroopers). Interestingly enough, in this sterile mechanical world that the Empire represents we find something noticeably absent: the beautiful woman who, in her womb, carries the miracle wonderwork of life. It is not accidental that the grey and black world of the Dark Side have no women (in the film)—for the world of technological tyranny is sterile and mechanical, it represents the triumph of transhumanism and the supposed dawn of a new beginning where love, in all its pathological complexities, is wiped away and the fully rational, mathematical, and passionless man takes his place at the head of the cosmos.
We know what the agents of the Dark Side fight for: power and destruction. We remain unsure what our heroes fight for. At the cursory level, our heroes fight for an abstract sense of good and justice. They fight to save the galaxy from the evil of the Death Star. But as this story develops for us, we start to see more clearly what our heroes fight for: love. For love is also bound up with one’s identity. What makes us human is our innate heart for love and capacity to love.
Love, of course, is something relational and demands self-giving and sacrifice. Two characters embody the current of love in A New Hope more than any other. The first is Obi Wan, perhaps somewhat naturally, who sacrifices himself for the sake of Luke and the rest of the cosmos. The other character is Han Solo, the self-centered ruffian bad boy who fights for himself. As he repeatedly says throughout the film, he is merely intertwined with the rebel cause simply to rescue Leia and receive his handsome payment for his services. Yet it is Han who grows the most in the film as the reality of love, demanding relationships and self-giving, transforms him into an unlikely crusader for cosmic chivalry and virtue. After all, we thought him departed before the rebels make their last ditched attack on the Death Star only to return in heroic fashion—having put his own self-centeredness aside—to help Luke and therefore play an integral role in the Death Star’s destruction. Han is literally transformed, inwardly at first, then outwardly by film’s end, into an agent of love (as becomes manifestly clear in the Empire Strikes Back).
While Luke comes of age in A New Hope, he has yet to find his identity and destiny. He has been given clues all throughout, but in the Empire Strikes Back we join Luke in his search for himself, and his family lineage, to dark caverns and crevices which sends shivers down our spines. The Empire Strikes Back carries forward where A New Hope left off. As such, we see the search for identity in the midst of the conflagrating cosmos breaking into two streams which, as we shall see, are nevertheless intertwined and related: the search for the self and the struggle to find refuge in love.
The search for his identity, and by contingent necessity, destiny, is the story of Luke. While he has come to find a part of himself in the struggle for love, he has yet to fully know himself which requires his retreat from his friends and love-interest, Leia, to complete the path of Jedi initiation which Obi-Wan started him on. In Luke’s flight to Degobah to train under Yoda, Luke is following the path set out for him by others. It is not, upon a close inspection, Luke’s own path. Luke’s identity is not, per se, to be a Jedi. It is to be a Skywalker which is far more burdensome than being a mere Jedi. He is a son and a Skywalker, which is something deeper than being a mere Jedi.
Luke’s search for himself is the quintessential recapitulation of the seminal question laid out by St. Augustine: mihi quaestio factus sum. Who am I? or what am I? This journey to find the self is also a journey to find the Father. Thus Luke’s path of self-discovery runs through Darth Vader, the shadowy and powerful villain of the first film who was said to have “betrayed” and “killed” Anakin Skywalker according to Obi-Wan.
Luke’s call to self-introspection and discovery is his call to adventure. For the quest for self-understanding and identity is the ultimate pilgrimage that a human can partake in. And Luke’s journey from the sands of Tatooine to the forests of Endor moon is nothing less than a grueling pilgrimage of self-discovery which culminates in the seeing of the Face of his Father, his god.
This journey to self-discovery and encounter with the Father plays on all the traditional archetypes of religion and mythology. Luke journeys to a secluded and murky world to meet with a wise guardian and teacher. He descends into a cave and meets the demons of his psyche, a hallucinogenic version of himself in Darth Vader’s armor which prefigures the revelation of his identity as the son of Darth Vader. The journey leads him to venture into the heart of darkness, the bottom of the abyss, a literal hell—the dark crevices of Bespin, a planet that is otherwise a shining paradise—and duels Darth Vader only to lose an arm and receive the soul crushing news that Darth Vader is, in fact, Luke’s father.
The concurrent storyline to Luke’s pilgrimage to self-identity is the love that grows between Han and Leia over the course of their trials and flight to escape to the clutches of Vader and the Empire. The romance begins, naturally, in turmoil and turbulence but gives way to serenity in the midst of chaos, darkness, and death. So important is the love between Han and Leia that an entire leitmotif, the love leitmotif, is dedicated to it in the film.
Love brings forth transformation, an inward transformation that has outward ramifications. This is seen subtly, at first, then manifested in full splendor when Han is frozen in carbonite on Bespin. Leia, if we remember, is the beautiful but headstrong princess we met in A New Hope. In this respect, not much has changed over the time elapse between films. She is still beautiful and headstrong in the beginning of Empire. Han, if we recall, was the self-centered ruffian tough guy—indeed, “bad boy”—in the first film. Now, however, he has friends whom he devotes his time and energy to helping. Yet he is still something of a renegade in the beginning of Empire (and, frankly, never stops being something of a renegade even through Return of the Jedi). But over the course of Empire, Han undeniably transforms into a chivalric knight of sorts who freely allows himself to be sacrificed with the promise that Leia would be safe from Vader’s schemes.
The love that blossoms between Han and Leia is more the guiding and governing force in their journey than mere escapism from the sinister hand of the Vader and his minions. From estranged quarreling individuals to intimately intertwined persons, the metamorphoses of Han and Leia is one of the great triumphs of the film and an enduring testament to the realities of the metamorphic power of love. After all, the headstrong Leia becomes undeniably more feminine in her acquiescence to Han’s love—submissive but still powerful, enchanting but still seductive, receptive but still willful. Meanwhile, that “scruffy looking nerf herder” and “scoundrel” is entirely transformed into a man willing to sacrifice for others instead of being preoccupied with excuses and protecting himself. In short, Leia matures into a woman over the course of the film and Han becomes a true man when he is frozen in carbonite in an act of sacrifice on behalf of the beloved. Their liveliness and personality is drawn out for us in more personal ways than before; additionally, the headstrong and apoplectic Leia from A New Hope is now filled with a spirit of joy and compassion heretofore unseen which manifests itself alongside the self-sacrificial and chivalric spirit born in Han.
The love arc of Han and Leia also intersects, in Bespin, with Luke’s self-discovery. After Luke is wounded in his confrontation with Darth Vader and nearly falls to his death, he uses the Force to communicate his distress to Leia who has escaped with the traitor turned rebel Lando. The testimony of love’s power to unite in a cosmos rapidly devolving and giving way to technological tyranny is witnessed in these moments. While training with Yoda, Yoda informed Luke about the nature of the Force, that the Force is “around you: here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere!” While undoubtedly New Age in intention, the definition that Yoda provides of the Force is actually intellectually Christian in roots for anyone with a deep knowledge of Christian theology and cosmology. St. Thomas Aquinas, after all, in the Summa defined love as “the unitive force” which binds all things together. This reality is manifested when Luke uses the Force as the communicative unitive force that brings Leia to him in his moment of need and rescues him from certain death.
But what do we make of the Empire, of Vader—in particular—over the course of the story? If the Empire Strikes Back focuses on the pilgrimage of self-discovery and love for our heroes, then the antagonist’s narrative arc certainly has something to tell us, doesn’t it? It most certainly does.
Not much has changed about the Empire being the cog of technological tyranny and destruction. While the Death Star is gone, we see a great array of Imperial weapons and gadgets over the course of the film. They serve only purpose: destruction, which was the same purpose of the Death Star just on a heightened stellar scale.
Vader’s arc in the Empire Strikes Back is a commentary on technology and the pursuit of power. Throughout the film, technological constructions—seen through the new fearsome weapons of terror like the AT-AT and super star destroyer Executor—are utilized in the pursuit of power. This pursuit of power necessarily demands the forsaking of love. To gain power, one must forsake love. To forsake power is to dwell in love. Vader seeks power, as he confides to Luke trying to seduce him to the Dark Side, “Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” We see in Vader, then, what so many poets of the past have long articulated: the pursuit of power is the end of love. It isn’t a surprise, then, that for most of the film Vader and the Empire is pursuing the ship governed by love and not searching for Luke. (We are told that Vader seeks to capture the Millennium Falcon to lure Luke out of hiding but we cannot dismiss the external reality that the ship moved by love is aggressively pursued by the ships powered by the spirit of destruction.)
More importantly, for the sake of the trilogy’s conclusion, Luke’s discovery that he is the son of Darth Vader binds the two together in a way that demands resolution. This resolution is what Return of the Jedi deals with, and with it, the resolution of the intertwining of Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker also brings a tearful and perfect conclusion to the trilogy’s various narrative arcs.
Return of the Jedi synthesizes the pilgrimage of self-discovery and love narratives that have primarily moved the Star Wars films. The reality of one’s sonship is necessarily intertwined with love: The love of a father and the love that parents had in bringing forth new life into the world. Luke, having travelled to Endor Moon then surrendering himself to Darth Vader, speaks of the importance of self-identity to Darth Vader.
Vader, we must never forget, is the new machine of the new era. Darth Vader was, as Luke says, “once Anakin Skywalker, my father.” After Vader rebuffs him, Luke responds, “It is the name of your true self, you have only forgotten. I know there is good in you.” Luke, here, gives a human name and face to Darth Vader: Anakin Skywalker. Darth Vader is a machine without a son, a family, or a human lineage. Anakin Skywalker, by contrast, is a human and a father. The “good” that Luke speaks of still residing in Vader, not having been driven out of him, is the love that the human heart of Anakin still has but is currently suffocated by loveless matter and a mask.
The search for one’s self, and the interior reality of love, come to a head with the intersection of the narrative arcs of Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. Return of the Jedi is not merely, as superficially visible, the return of the Jedi in Luke Skywalker—it is also the return of the Jedi named Anakin Skywalker.
Return of the Jedi is the most theological of the films insofar that Luke’s journey to discover himself has brought him face-to-face with his Father, the quintessential spiritual journey affirmed by the Neoplatonists, Christians, and so many others. But the face of his father is clouded by a mask, a technological mask, which hides the face of “god” from the face of his son. There is still a dark mechanical wall that prevents the face-to-face encounter.
As Luke’s pilgrimage is now tasked with rekindling the light of love deep inside Anakin Skywalker, the love arc and metamorphosis of Han and Leia is fully completed. From their standoffish and confrontational spirits in A New Hope, to their tearful and heart wrenching separation in the Empire Strikes Back, Han and Leia are now inseparable from each other after the rescue of Han from Jabba the Hutt. Love truly does make two one as we witness with Han and Leia. Furthermore, we see their metamorphoses into traditional archetypes of the masculine and feminine.
Han, now made fully a man in love, is a leader. He has left the path of self-centered individualism and piracy for a life of relationships, friendship, and sacrificial love. He acts and gives to others. Leia has been metamorphosized from the headstrong and domineering princess of the first film to a more tender, compassionate, and loving character always seen besides others. She partakes in the rescue of Han, journeys with Luke and Han’s strike team to Endor, befriends the Ewoks, and is reunited in embrace with Han during the climactic battle on Endor. Leia, once alone and headstrong in A New Hope, is everywhere depicted as the prospective new mother of life in Return of the Jedi.
The final confrontation with the “Dark Side” in Return of the Jedi also reveals the interconnectedness of goodness and life in confronting the evil of technological tyranny. The good guys, we realize, all depend on each other. Lando’s attack on Death Star II depends on Han, Leia, and the strike force team on Endor. The strike force team depends on the Ewoks. Han depends on Leia and Leia on Han. C3PO depends on R2D2, etc. Even Luke, as we witness in the duel with Vader and confrontation with the emperor, depends on Anakin Skywalker to reassert control over the emptiness of Vader and save his son from destruction. “Love is,” truly, “the unitive force.” And in love we also witness the importance of trust—each of our heroes must trust their friend, lover, or father, to help deliver them through this titanic struggle.
It is fitting, given the implicit theological and spiritual allegories of Return of the Jedi, that it is not new age spirituality that brings about the resolution of the original trilogy but an act of sacrifice—that most primordial and ancient religious reality that restores the cosmos to life and love. Darth Vader sheds the ghosts of his past and becomes Anakin Skywalker as he tosses the emperor overboard to his death (barring, what has since transpired in the consumeristic cash grab by Disney) and saves Luke from certain death. Anakin’s action is a free choice of goodness which culminates in an act of sacrifice as he sheds himself of the chains of the emperor’s machinations and expresses his love to Luke’s pleas for help by essentially killing himself so that Luke can live. The goodness that Luke spoke of still residing deep inside Vader comes to life as Vader becomes Anakin Skywalker in an act of humanity: love for one’s son.
Given that Anakin Skywalker has reappeared, it is fitting that we see Anakin Skywalker in the finale. At the requests of his father, Luke takes of Anakin’s mask to see Luke face-to-face for the first time. A father and son, we witness here (for the first time in the trilogy) share a moment of receptive love for each other in a humanizing face-to-face encounter that reaffirms Anakin’s humanity and Luke’s future.
Considering the sterile mechanical future that Star Wars is warning against, it is essential we recognize the symbolism in the original trilogy’s ending scene. A New Hope, the Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi all open in the deep darkness of space with metallic machines of war (ships) as our introductory images. We have no illusions that we are living in a futuristic galaxy. Yet the trilogy ends with a party in a natural environment. Return of the Jedi ends with a funeral—a deeply human (and religious) ritual—and celebrations in the outdoor world. The original trilogy concludes by visualizing for us the happiness of a natural life and existence that has stood up to the imposing tyranny of technology, science, and industry. The bulky and cramped spaces of a machine are no longer surrounding us.
In bringing forth the question of identity in a world experiencing meteoric transformation wrought by technological tyranny and destruction, Star Wars affirms a rather traditional outlook concerning humanity’s future. Star Wars ends by asserting that our salvation in this brave new world is through rediscovering our identity as fathers, sons, friends, husbands, and wives. In finding this identity we must rediscover love—the “good” that is still within each and everyone one of us.
It is the love that a son has for a father that redeems the father and allows the father to break free of his enslavement to machines. It is the love of a father for his son that redeems him and brings about a grand act of sacrificial salvation which redeems the whole cosmos bestowing life and liberty across the galaxy. It is the love of a man and woman that brings happy life and joy in the union of two flesh become one. It is the love of a man and woman that metamorphosizes them into the ideal archetypes of the masculine and feminine sealed in marriage (as implied in Han and Leia’s embrace at the end of the film).
Love gives us the strength to stand up to the dark powers of machines, technology, and militarized science. How does Star Was “deal with the reaction of human beings to changes in science and technology?” It affirms that most intimate, human, and divine reality: Love will redeem the world and provide us a home in the midst of displacement, dislocation, and galactic strife. The “galaxy far, far away”—upon a closer examination—is the galaxy that we inhabit and the struggles in that galaxy are the struggles we are currently fighting.
Star Wars is one of most successful film franchises in cinematic history. More than 40 years since it appeared on the screen, it continues to dazzle generations. If there ever were a cinematic drama that encapsulates Richard Wagner’s notion of Gesamtkunstwerk, the Star Wars saga would be it—especially the prequels where John Williams’ theatrical musical scores and the aesthetic environments truly set the tone for the story. But how should we approach the prequels, especially in relation to the originals?
The original trilogy depicts an enchanting tale of man’s search for meaning and discovery of love in the face of technological tyranny. The films find their place in a generation of science fiction films which all tell a story—a myth—of tyrannical machines causing dislocation and death to the world (reaching, perhaps, its acme in Terminator). Yet the prequel trilogy does not tell that story. Instead, it is more appropriate to understand the prequel trilogy of Star Wars as manifesting the subconscious fears of the zeitgeist of the late 1990s and early 2000s as we entered a new era of decadence, hubris, corporate domination, and widespread political corruption and cynicism. The shift in tone and story, among other things, probably caused the lukewarm reception of the prequels. Nevertheless, the prequel trilogy is still endearing for many reasons—especially considering Disney’s embrace of the feminist zeitgeist for its trilogy.
I do not intend to discuss the intentionality of George Lucas and bow to authorial intention. Instead, I seek to deconstruct the trilogy’s underlying themes and character archetypes that drive the films to their conclusion.
Decadence, corporate domination, and political corruption are the central underlying concerns for the Star Wars prequels. So much is visible from the start with The Phantom Menace, the preface to the larger and more powerful story of Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith. In contradistinction to the original Star Wars trilogy, the gaudy aesthetic of the prequels conveys the reality of decadence in the Star Wars universe. The very aesthetic environment of the Phantom Menace crystalizes this: There is greater light and color in the cosmos and the ships than in the earlier films, and the aesthetic of Naboo harkens back to Greece and Rome. The original trilogy was black, grey, white, and otherwise tame compared to the flashy ambience of the prequels. The sublime and overwhelming aesthetic in the prequels is meant to convey the reality of sensual decadence that was otherwise absent in the original trilogy. And two of our principal characters—indeed, most important characters—embody this gaudy and fleshy world of decadence: Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala. (One might say cinematic technology played its part in this; that is true, to be sure, but such a critique fundamentally misses the underlying themes that cinematic technology helps to portray for us.)
We see that the Dark Side is no longer on the side of technological tyranny as it was in the original trilogy because that concern is no longer the unconscious force governing Star Wars. Instead, we see the Dark Side aligned with corporate domination and political corruption (which will lead to technological tyranny). In the Phantom Menace, the Dark Side uses the forces of corporate power (in the form of the Trade Federation and their battle droids) to advance its evils. Corporate power is once again used by the Dark Side in an even greater fashion in Attack of the Clones, and this alliance between the Dark Side and corporate power—the Trade Federation, Techno Union, Commerce Guild, etc.—brings forth the separatist rebellion which rips the galaxy apart in the Clone Wars. And, of course, the Dark Side is embodied by the most corrupt politician of the prequels: Chancellor Palpatine.
Palpatine plays the central role in demonstrating the trilogy’s commentary on the dangers of political corruption. Palpatine is a corrupt politician. This much is undeniable. And that the instantiated embodiment of evil, the Dark Side, is a politician, speaks volumes of the concern of political corruption. The centrality of Palpatine as a major character highlights this concern in a way that he, as emperor, never did in the originals.
As far as the prequels are concerned, the Phantom Menace sets the stage for the new tripartite manifestation of Star Wars. The currents of decadence, love and lust, corporate domination and political corruption, are more fully manifested in the second and third films.
Attack of the Clones opens with a political assassination (or, more accurately, a failed one), which sets the tone for the problems of political corruption in this galaxy. Obi-Wan and Anakin return as our heroic investigators assigned to protect Padmé and solve the mystery of who is seeking to kill the queen-turned-senator. As the plot unfolds, Obi-Wan and Anakin chase a shapeshifting bounty hunter, Zam Wesell, through a hyper-consumeristic, universally urban, and industrialized Coruscant. This pursuit visually provides a tour-de-force ending in a nightclub which epitomizes the decadent and corporatist themes. Upon wounding and capturing Zam, Jango Fett appears in the distance and kills her before she can speak to Obi-Wan and Anakin. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan is able to trace the origins of the poison dart used by Jango Fett and begins his journey through the dark web of corporate conspiracy and political corruption.
Just as there are concurrent stories running through the Empire Strikes Back with Luke’s search for identity and Han and Leia’s love story, there are also two concurrent stories running through Attack of the Clones. The first story is Obi-Wan’s descensus ad inferos. He descends into the dark and messy world of corporate conspiracy and political corruption as he attempts to track down the bounty hunter Jango Fett. The second story is the tragic love story between Anakin and Padmé that takes them across the stars. These storylines eventually intersect at the climax of the film, not at all dissimilar to the intersection of the concurrent storylines of the Empire Strikes Back at Bespin. (Perhaps Lucas was trying to reach back for inspiration in his composition of Attack of the Clones?)
Obi-Wan’s story brings him into the darkness of corporate domination and political corruption when he arrives at Kamino, the mysterious and vanished planet of cloners whose information has been erased from the Jedi Archives. Kamino is a dark, stormy, and turbulent world—its atmosphere conveying the darkness and instability of the galaxy. The dark and stormy world of Kamino is dialectically contrasted with the flush, beautiful, and sensual world of Naboo where Anakin and Padmé wrestle with their feelings for each other—more on that later.
On Kamino, Obi-Wan learns of a secret commissioning of a clone army supposedly by the Jedi Order. Through his dialogue with the prime minister of Kamino, it is implied that the commissioning of the clone army wasn’t authorized by the Jedi Council but by a rogue Jedi named Sifo-Dyas. This discovery adds to the mystery and byzantine world we have entered alongside Obi-Wan. There, Obi-Wan confirms his suspicions that the bounty hunter Jango Fett is responsible for the attempted murder of Senator Amidala.
During their confrontation, Jango Fett manages to escape but is subsequently tracked and pursued by Obi-Wan to the insect desert world of Geonosis where, after being captured, he learns of the separatist conspiracy headed by all the major corporate guilds and organizations operating in the galaxy. Count Dooku appears and tells the imprisoned Obi-Wan a startling truth—though Obi-Wan refuses to believe it—that the dark lord of the Sith is in control of the Republic’s Senate and galactic political system.
Concurrent to Obi-Wan’s descent into the dark pit of conspiracy, corruption, and forthcoming civil war is the tragic love story of Anakin and Padmé. Anakin and Padmé’s story explores the problem of love in a decadent and sensual world. As we witness their love story, from playful flirting to obvious desires of lust, we are left unsure whether we are entering a world of romantic love sheltered from the horrors of corruption and war or falling into the abyss of sensuality and tempestuous lust.
The aesthetic environment which surrounds Anakin and Padmé deliberately plays on this tension. Padmé’s characterization, especially her gaudy dress, conveys an undercurrent of decadence to the narrative. Anakin’s characterization, especially in his torment, portrays the internal unrest—not unlike the young St. Augustine’s in the Confessions—between the pleasantry of love and the dark struggle with lust. Although, as he even acknowledges, a Jedi is not supposed to love, Anakin does love (his mother) and wants to love (Padmé). This tension inside Anakin boils over into a maelstrom of rage when he discovers his dying mother on Tatooine and when, in reaction to her death, he massacres the Tusken sand people “like animals,” including “the women and the children.”
The core gospel of the Jedi preaches that one must control his passions. A Jedi shall not know anger, hatred, or even love. The Jedi Order is equivalent to a stoic knightly order with a New-Age flare. The knights all forswear love in their condemnation of the passions. Yet it is the lack of love which ultimately inhibits the Jedi’s ability to save the galaxy. It makes them indecisive, under the guise of contemplative wisdom, whereas passion directs concrete action, though impulsive. Love leads to action, contemplation to inaction. Hate cannot be confronted by the absence of love; hate can only be defeated by the redemptive power of love (we’ll return to this at the end of the essay).
While on Tatooine, Anakin and Padmé receive Obi-Wan’s distress call and relay the information of corporate conspiracy to the Jedi Council. Padmé, being the ideal feminist—headstrong, aggressive, and a leader—exerts her will over Anakin to rescue Obi-Wan. The two set sail into the storm that awaits them.
It is ironic, here, that Padmé’s impetuous will brings the two to danger and possible death. Yet Attack of the Clones then retreats into a far more classical trope concerning love—love manifested in the midst of chaos and war—rather than continuing the feminist Padmé arc. Ever since Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, love exists in the mayhem and maelstrom of war. It is not without significance that we witness their kiss—as the powerful love leitmotif by John Williams sounds in the background—in a colosseum. Their kiss here, contrasted with the first kiss that they shared on Naboo in a grand aesthetic atmosphere, brings the storylines together and symbolically, as well as psychologically, prefigures their eventual deaths (as we associate a colosseum with death, thanks to Rome).
In the jaws of death, the climax of Attack of the Clones violently erupts. The cost of love, as symbolically manifested in the climax and resolution of the film, is war. For it is only in the midst of war that the struggle for love is reached for Anakin and Padmé. But who is in control of this love relationship? In the original trilogy the love between Han and Leia is clearly headed by Han. While Anakin clearly leads in the desire for initiation with Padmé, Lucas has blurred the lines between person and passion in the love story of Anakin and Padmé, and we are left feeling that passion, rather than persons, dominates our two tragic protagonists in a way that wasn’t seen in the romance between Han and Leia.
In fact, in a featurette, Hayden Christensen explains that Anakin is “attracted to… the power and strength that [Padmé] holds within herself.” Thus our classical tale of forbidden love is consummated the only way this old archetype knows: in the turmoil of “aggressive negotiations.” And, as we witness in the film’s final scene, the two marry on Naboo under a sublime sunset (with the love leitmotif once again playing). The setting simultaneously portrays a romantic beauty and signifies the dark reality rapidly descending over our two star-crossed lovers as the sun sets over the horizon.
Revenge of the Sith picks up where Attack of the Clones left off, and the themes of corporate domination, political corruption, and decadence are still at the center of the story but with a progressive tilt toward technological tyranny and universal empire (which bridges the prequels to the originals). Superficially, Revenge of the Sith is the story of Anakin’s fall from grace and rebirth as Darth Vader. While this is undeniably true, the deeper core—the unconscious core—of Revenge of the Sith is how love is utterly destroyed in a world overcome by corporate domination, political corruption, mass decadence, and technological tyranny.
It is fitting, then, that the Revenge of the Sith is the darkest of the Star Wars films released up to that point. It was the first film in the saga to receive a PG-13 rating. And it is undeniably the most violent of the first six Star Wars films. We witness, firsthand—not at a distance and behind closed walls (like when the Death Star explodes)—more deaths in Revenge of the Sith than in any of the other Star Wars films. Not to mention so many with names and faces we have learned over the prequel trilogy.
The culmination of decadence, corporatism, and political corruption is war. And this is precisely what Revenge of the Sith opens with: the visually spectacular Battle of Coruscant where Anakin and Obi-Wan rescue Chancellor Palpatine from the clutches of General Grievous (who prefigures the robotic monstrosity that Anakin will become) and Count Dooku. Befitting a technological and mechanical world, a tight mechanical environment and aesthetic dominate the early scenes of the film.
Like all the Star Wars films, Revenge of the Sith opens on a spaceship in space. Yet as the film progresses, we remain in the tight, metallic cockpits, docking bays, and hallways that increasingly define this world wrought by corporatism and technological progress. The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones contrast this world of emerging technological tyranny with the flush open spaces of natural environs on Naboo, Tatooine, and Geonosis. This is no longer the case in the opening of the Revenge of the Sith. Even when we finally escape the restrictive confines of death machines battling and exploding around us, we arrive at Coruscant—a homogenous and universally urbanized planet.
When Anakin reunites with Padmé, we are faced with the crisis of love in a world where love cannot exist but where we desperately want it to exist and triumph. Anakin speaks more like a lustful adolescent than a confident and mature married man. He jumps at the opportunity to embrace Padmé upon first sight. Considering he has been away in war and confined to tight, sterile, mechanical places, the embrace of two humans contrasts the suffocating environs of technological power and utilitarianism. Yet we also sense that something is off.
Here, the story of Anakin’s enslavement to the political machinations of Palpatine is superbly done. A great Catholic writer once wrote about how lust leads to enslavement, and this is precisely what we see in Anakin’s story arc. As he gives himself over to his lusts, he becomes easy prey for the schemes of Palpatine. Had he not fallen into such lust, Anakin would have been able to resist Palpatine’s influence (under which, as he becomes Darth Vader, he remains until Return of the Jedi).
Furthermore, Palpatine uses Anakin as a cog, a commodified pawn, in his own pursuit of power. This was implied in the quick dispatching of Count Dooku in the opening moments of the film. In a world of dog-eat-dog utilitarianism and the pursuit of “unlimited power,” all relationships are merely utilitarian in service; when that use ends, the relationship is tossed aside. So Dooku falls victim to the very utilitarian emptiness he had helped to unleash. Palpatine now seeks to shackle Anakin with the collar of servitude in the bid for “unlimited power.”
The Revenge of the Sith is a roller coaster of a film because it serves as the bridge between the dying (natural) world overwhelmed by decadence, corporatism, and political corruption, and the emerging world of technological tyranny. Here, Revenge of the Sith synthesizes that old tale of decadence and civil war (seen in its appropriation of Greco-Roman aesthetic panache and symbolism) with the brave, cold future of techno-scientism. The worlds suffering under the cataclysm of war, in the film, like Kashyyyk and Utapau are naturally radiant and beautiful. These visually remind us of what we are leaving behind as we aggressively speed into the worlds of Coruscant, Mustafar, and the Death Star.
As Anakin falls into enslavement, which results in the death of his human heart and soul, we see him metamorphize into the cold, dark, robotic terror that is Darth Vader. Sir Roger Scruton writes, “The face shines in the world of objects with a light that is not of this world—the light of subjectivity.” And Anakin’s face, that shining light of subjectivity in a world of objects, is distorted by burns and is concealed by a dark and sinister mask.
In portraying this fall from grace, the answer to whether love can endure in a world of decadence, corporate domination, and political corruption is tragic and pessimistic: a resounding no. On one level we know that this fall must happen because the originals tell us that Anakin becomes Darth Vader. Yet, on another level, we still want the fall to be salvaged through love as so many of our great stories tell us.
The climax of the Revenge of the Sith is in the duel between Yoda and Palpatine and the “Battle of the Heroes” between Obi-Wan and Anakin—and Anakin’s force-choking of Padmé. The public and private must be destroyed for technological tyranny to fully manifest itself. Tyranny knows no boundaries as Hannah Arendt wrote. All must be subjugated to it.
Yoda and Palpatine’s duel in the Senate Chamber, and its resulting destruction, is an allegory of what corporatism, corruption, and decadence do to liberty—“this is how liberty dies, with thunderous applause.” We might better understand, now, that liberty dies under the smog of corporatism, corruption, and decadence. Palpatine drives Yoda away, and the march to tyranny is complete. With the sacred Senate chamber destroyed in the process, signaling the end of liberty, the new technological order has arrived.
On Mustafar, however, we witness the ultimate act of utilitarian power politics: the killing of the separatist leaders by Anakin’s enslaved will and the heavily choreographed but emotionally laced battle of Obi-Wan and Anakin. Anakin’s rage extinguishes the flame of love, and he chokes a pregnant Padmé. He then draws his lightsaber against his in-situ father-figure, friend, and mentor Obi-Wan. The two men duel in vicious battle in which Obi-Wan eventually bests Anakin. Anakin’s defeat exemplifies that most ancient wisdom: pride cometh before the fall.
Despite Obi-Wan having secured “higher ground” (which has a double meaning: Obi-Wan possesses a higher ground geographically, but he also possesses a higher ground spiritually and morally), Anakin’s pride in his “power” literally causes his fall into the fires of hell where he suffers severe burns and mutilation. Just as Lucifer transformed from the most beautiful and powerful angel into the dark demon, Anakin transforms into a mechanical monster. Pride truly does come before the fall.
As mentioned, it is essential to understand the symbolism of Anakin’s metamorphosis into Darth Vader through the wise words of Roger Scruton. Tormented, happy, angry, and joyful, Anakin’s face has been the lively manifestation of his passions. Now his face is covered by the black mechanical monstrosity of the Vader mask. Anakin figuratively is dead until the mask is removed in Return of the Jedi. This is of the upmost importance for us to realize and wrestle with: A human being dies when the face, the seat of subjectivity and love, dies. So Anakin is only resurrected when he frees himself from the mechanical suit and looks upon Luke’s face with his own eyes.
The original trilogy explored the crisis of identity, love, and redemption in the midst of a technologically tyrannical world. It ended with the affirmation that only love has the power to stand up against techno-scientism. Return of the Jedi, which completes the original trilogy, ends on a note of optimism with party, family, and prospective marriage in the natural environment of Endor as its final image. The prequel trilogy, by contrast, while nominally providing the tragic backstory of Luke, Leia, and Darth Vader, is primarily concerned with themes of decadence, corporate domination, political corruption, and the insidious influence that these forces have on love. After all, this is what we witness at the film’s conclusion with the birth of Darth Vader and the construction of the Death Star.
This naturally leads us to the problem of interpretative continuity in the Star Wars saga. Superficially, the continuity is preserved through the characters and the Skywalker bloodline (even into Disney’s trilogy). At the deeper level, however, the original trilogy and prequel trilogy explore issues and themes relevant to their specific times. In the 1970s and 1980s during the first wave of science fiction filmography, we see the obsessive concern with mechanical monsters and what they mean for natural, organic life. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, despite the euphoria connected to the end of the Cold War, a new pessimism relating to decadence, shadowy corporate domination, and political corruption came to the fore. These themes dominate the Star Wars galaxy in their respective tripartite iterations.
Yet there remains a certain continuity that bridges the prequel trilogy to the original trilogy. The Revenge of the Sith is the bridge that portrays the end of the decadent, corporatist, and corrupt world—including the death of love—and its transformation into the sterile, technological, and tyrannical world of the original trilogy. Deep down, isn’t this a possibility that many of us subconsciously fear? That our world of decadence, corporatism, and corruption—where love struggles to blossom—is increasingly speeding toward a sterile, techno-tyrannical future?
While the prequel trilogy ends on a darker, more pessimistic note, it also concludes with a flicker of optimism. Anakin truly did love Padmé, for the spirit of love is always new life. Padmé, before she died, gave birth to Luke and Leia. Luke and Leia each find a home with adoptive parents. The final scene of Revenge of the Sith shows not a cramped, metallic ship but the natural world of Tatooine with the infant Luke in the embrace of Owen and Beru. The three look out over the natural world to observe the sunset. The natural light of love, symbolized in this scene, radiates overhead. But though the twin suns set, we know that they must rise again. This scene foreshadows the redemption of Anakin Skywalker in the originals which captivated a generation.
We can, then, indulge in an interpretation that sees love as the link between the original trilogy and the prequel trilogy. For love is the theme common to both trilogies. And both trilogies end with the opposite image of their openings: not the dark and cramped metallic machines of death but the embrace of human beings in love and hope in an organic environment free from the perils of techno-scientism.
Maybe love can’t survive the inevitable march into technological tyranny, but love—as is implied at the end of the Revenge of the Sith and majestically proclaimed in the pilgrimage of the original trilogy—is the only true “Force” strong enough to stand up against technological tyranny and bring about the return of the human face. Love always seals itself with the face-to-face gaze as C.S. Lewis writes. Anakin’s story is our story as we too live in an age of corruption, corporate dominance, and decadence which threatens to extinguish the flame of love and turn us into Darth Vader. But Star Wars is not predicting the future. It warns us against a possible future but proclaims the ancient and indelible truth that only love can save and cultivate a sacred space for human and humane life in a galaxy not that far, far away.
*This post is an anthologized compendium of two essays of mine published as part of my regular arts column at The Imaginative Conservative. The first can be read here (May 4, 2020). The second here (May 4, 2021).
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