Let the Past Die, Kill It If You Have To: How I Fell Out of Love With Star Wars Because of How It Clings to the Past
By: Daniel Hassall
Tags: Star Wars, Disney, Star Wars Force Awakens, The Last Jedi, Mandalorian

Let the Past Die, Kill It If You Have To: How I Fell Out of Love With Star Wars Because of How It Clings to the Past Daniel Hassall Dec 23, 2020·22 min read

Something Awakens

Let’s take a trip back in time to November 28th, 2014. It is Black Friday, and you are still recovering from a self-induced turkey coma, debating whether you should fight the crowds to try to get some deals. Then you log onto social media and see everyone sharing a video: the first teaser trailer to Star Wars: The Force Awakens. It is a slow build, slowly reintroducing familiar imagery, starting with a sweaty, helmetless stormtrooper emerging from a sandy dune. Quick and ominous music slowly builds in the background as we see flashes of stormtroopers, speeders, X-wing fighters, and brief flashes of new faces that will soon hold a great deal of meaning in our hearts. Then, the trailer hard cuts, and we see the Millenium Falcon burst on-screen and the iconic music belt out at full blast. If you were like me, your emotions swelled. This thing that had meant so much to you for so long was finally returning. I lost track of how many times I watched that teaser trailer in the time between it coming out and the film releasing. It must have been hundreds.

The anticipation built rapidly over the next year. Several new trailers were released, with J. J. Abrams and the team at Lucasfilm being cautious and cryptic about what they revealed about the long-anticipated continuation of the Star Wars saga. Every new image felt like a revelation; a sneak peek into an upcoming event. I distinctly remember refreshing the Fandango tab dozens of times, so my group of friends, my little brother, and I could get tickets for the earliest possible screening at our local theater. We got food beforehand and showed up FIVE HOURS before the screening was supposed to start to secure good seats (ah, the time before reserved seating was standard. It feels like a lifetime ago). The theater was packed, and the room was abuzz with nervous energy. To this day, it is one of the most enjoyable theatrical experiences I have ever had. The audience erupted in cheers when the trailers started playing, the Lucasfilm logo appearing, and a few dozen more times before the film ended. It was magical. Star Wars was back. I cried twice (once from joy when the movie began, once when Han Solo died). This mythical saga, a story that had captured my heart and imagination ever since I was a child, had returned, and there was a galaxy full of possibilities. If my memory serves, I saw the film four times during its theatrical run (still a personal record).

That is not to say that the film was flawless, or even that I saw it as such at the time. After all, if there is one thing that Star Wars fans notoriously are, it is reflexive and critical of what they love. It was immediately noticeable how derivative the film was of what had come before. The film’s structure is a carbon copy of A New Hope, with many of the films’ major emotional beats hinging on a nostalgia. We are not given a proper understanding of the conflict’s scope because the film is unconcerned about the galaxy at large, how we have once again returned to a similar galaxy-wide war as it faced thirty years prior. J. J. Abrams is unconcerned with explaining that what matters is re-establishing the familiar past that he (and by extension the audience) grew up loving. The film had to feel like Star Wars, even if this was an updated reimagining of it. J. J.’s style was all over the film, with his kinetic style of action and love of blending practical and digital effects made the universe feel precisely like what we remembered it being like (aided by the iconic themes of John Williams returning to score the entire trilogy).

It was a thrilling ride, zipping by so fast and establishing this new conflict and all these questions so quickly that you barely had time to think about what came next. Commercially, it worked like a charm. The Force Awakens earned over $2 billion, becoming the third highest-grossing film ever(now the fourth, thanks to Avengers Endgame). It ignited a cultural fire, inspiring novels worth of discourse about the film, thousands of hours of Youtube videos theorizing about the answers to the questions that The Force Awakens raised. It captured the hearts, minds, and imaginations of a new generation of movie-goers, just as it was intended to do. The success showed the power of feeling like what we loved, even if it was empty inside.

It was all there from that very first film of the Disney era of Star Wars. Every single flaw in the storytelling and story-crippling writing habit that would later make me jaded to what I once cherished was there from the very first film. Yet, there was something that held it together. Some would argue that J. J. Abrams and Disney needed to play it safe, that after the critical failure of the prequels, we needed something familiar and safe to cleanse our cinematic palettes and remind us what we loved about the franchise. I think it was something different. While much of the film’s impact came from the legacy and nostalgia we felt for the product, it was anchored by something important: characters. Rey, Finn, Poe, and Ben Solo all were immediately engaging as people. They garnered our emotional investment and had an interiority to them. If there was one thing that made this film stand out from the rest of J. J.’s filmography, it is how much care he took in establishing these characters.

Despite the roaring pace and constant action, every single character felt instantly lived-in. We understood their emotional turmoil, the struggle for identity that defines Rey, Finn, and Ben. Each of those three characters reflected the same inner struggle: looking for an identity and a family that will accept you. Rey never had a home or a family beyond a few fleeting memories. Finn was likewise ripped from his family at a young age and indoctrinated into a new one that he is now running away from.

Conversely, Ben runs away from his home and identity, so desperate to evade his family legacy that he hides his face and tries his best to burn down his family’s life work. They are intentionally intertwined in their needs and desires, which perhaps allows J. J. and company to do more characterization with less since one scene with one character can give insight into the psychology of all three. But regardless of the reason, and in no small part due to the likability and talent of all three main actors, each of these characters has tremendous depth. They command the screen, managing to be universal in their struggle while also personal. You want to see more from each of them, and it anchors the film despite its surface-level plotting.

We understand Ben’s turmoil when he is confronted by his father out on the sky bridge, begging for Kylo to come home. Likewise, we know the desire driving Han to do it even if he knows it will likely mean his death. When the sky darkens and the only light left is the blood-red illuminating from Ben’s lightsaber, his turn feels inevitable without losing any of the gut-wrenching impact. It feels like a betrayal because of our emotional investment, and it ratchets up the stakes because we know even our legendary heroes of old are not safe. It is one of the legitimately incredible moments in the film, made possible by intelligent visual storytelling and a keen understanding of the characters. But there always felt like something was hollow about it. While it may feel like I am beating a dead horse (particularly by the time we reach the end of this essay), it all comes back to J. J. Abrams and his misunderstanding of compelling storytelling.

The Mystery Box

For those who are unaware, Abrams gave a now-famous Ted Talk, where he explained what he considered to be the essential tool in his storytelling repertoire: the mystery box. The gist of it is this: that infinite possibility and mystery is more compelling and engaging for an audience than knowledge, and that storytelling is no more than a series of mystery boxes. This principle is visible in every one of his projects: they are shrouded in mystery, characters, and stories haunted by questions that often go entirely unanswered. That is not to say that this is altogether a negative principle. Ambiguity and uncertainty are powerful storytelling tools, and they can suck the audience into a story remarkably fast and leave them super invested in the outcome. It can work very well when done carefully. In Abrams’ Mission Impossible 3, the characters are continually chasing a MacGuffin called The Rabbits Foot. It is something dangerous, but Abrams never spells out what it is because it does not matter for a story like this. It is a plot device, an object for the characters to chase, and a catalyst for the coming conflict. In the end, it doesn’t matter beyond that, and therefore we don’t need to spend time explaining what it is. The crux of the story is Ethan Hunt’s journey and the action sequences. I think MI3 is Abram’s most effectively told story for that very reason: that kind of fast spy thriller lends itself perfectly to his storytelling style.

But Abrams never stops at using mystery boxes for plot devices. He is obsessed with them, shrouding all-important details to the point that it obfuscates and distracts from the story and characters. He is consumed with the mystery, of sucking the audience into some mystery and stringing them along for two hours, never giving them a second to think about the more significant implications of what is happening beyond “ooh I wonder what that is” or “I wonder what will happen next!” This idea is epitomized by an interview Chris Pine gave on an interaction he and J. J. had while making Star Trek: “I said to J.J., “I’d love to do with more time, cause I don’t know what I’m saying. if you could tell me what I’m saying, it would be a great help.” And he said, “It doesn’t matter. You just run, you say it as fast and earnestly and urgently as possible, and no one is going to care.”

Here lies the problem, and the source of the hollow feeling that I had lingering in the back of my mind with The Force Awakens. It feels like Star Wars. It acts like Star Wars. It is exciting and kinetic, with thrilling set-pieces and genuinely good character beats. But underneath it all, it is just one big mystery box. There is no substance underneath, just further mystery and more questions. Who are Rey’s parents? Who is Snoke? What drove Ben Solo to the dark side? Where is Luke? How did the galaxy get back to a state of war with a force that looks and acts just like the Empire only 30–40 years after the last one was defeated? J. J. didn’t know the answers to all those questions, and to some extent, that is okay. Mystery is a powerful storytelling tool, and ambiguity can be one of cinemas most unique and impactful features. But for Abrams, there is only the mystery. He plays it up at every moment, leaving small hints, dropping in more questions, or building the mystery with dream sequences.

The problem with this is that eventually, there has to be a conclusion. Even if we don’t answer all of our questions, stories always conclude. As is ultimately revealed in The Rise of Skywalker (which trust me, we will get to later), in this case, the final revelation is that the emperor has no clothes (forgive my poor attempt at a pun). When you hype up a mystery that much, there can be no satisfying answers. Especially when, like Abrams, all you are trying to communicate to the audience is a feeling of nostalgia. There is no grander theme or message. It is just a hollow mimicry of what came before, trying to capture the same magic without the passion or more profound meaning that made it unique in the first place. While this was under the surface of The Force Awakens, it was not truly revealed until two years later. Which brings us to the next stop on our journey…

The Last Jedi

On December 15th, 2017, my relationship with Star Wars changed again, irreparably. On that day, Rian Johnson’s Star Wars: The Last Jedi was released. Fans were beyond excited, having had two years with all the questions from The Force Awakens festering in their minds. They were ready for some answers and for further development of the characters they loved. The trailers had looked great; the reviews were excellent. But no one was prepared for what they were about to see. The film came out, and reactions were divisive. To say it came out to mixed reviews would be an understatement. Some fans thought it was the best Star Warsfilm, while some fans were outraged and offended by how the film treated the mythology and characters they loved so much.

Full disclosure, I am in the former camp. I find The Last Jedi to be an emotionally rich and thematically engaging experience, with some of the best character work and action set-pieces in the entire Star Wars saga. It was a breath of originality that the universe desperately needed, tackling important thematic questions that had long hidden under the franchise’s surface. It provided a dynamic path forward for the franchise thanks to the creative directorial decisions and empathetic character writing of writer/director Rian Johnson. The cinematography was the most tactile and unique of the entire series, filled with stunning compositions and a genuine talent for creating emotionally evocative images.

I also felt like many of the complaints that angry fans voiced were childish and shallow critiques that did not take away from the story’s power. Complaints like how Luke Skywalker, the central character of the original trilogy, is now a cynical older man who has fallen prey to his lesser instinct ignore that his journey is one of re-affirming his faith in the Jedi and the forces of good. Or complaints that are primarily explained within the film (such as defining the Hyperspace crash’s physics, why Vice Admiral Holdo didn’t trust Poe, etc.). Or worst of all, the complaints that I won’t even try to justify: that the inclusion of more women and minority characters was an attack on the identity of the franchise. But this article is not just about me defending The Last Jedi so that we will move on from this tangent.

Yet, no matter how many people The Last Jedi upset, it resonated with me. I cried twice the first time I saw it in the theater, and my appreciation for it has only grown across multiple viewings. At this point, I consider it to be my favorite Star Wars film. It tackled many of the problems that Star Wars had for a very long time, including the unintentional problem that has been at the core of the subtext of Star Wars for a very long time. Namely, it democratized The Force.

Bloodlines, Midicloreans, and Kids Looking Out At The Stars

Star Wars has had an issue with bloodlines since the prequels. The original Star Wars: A New Hope was egalitarian in the everyman quality of its protagonists. Luke Skywalker was a farm boy from nowhere, an orphan who came from nothing and pined for a larger purpose. He rose to the occasion of being a hero because of compassion for other people. He learns about a mystical power called The Force, and how to tap into it. Then, in Empire Strikes Back, our perspective on the story is twisted. We discover that his father, who he thought was a long-dead hero, is the evil Darth Vader. This twist works on various levels, but mainly because it is the hardest thing for our protagonist to hear at that moment. Luke has to face the fact that the personification of evil is the father he thought was a hero. But all along the way, The Force was not tied to Luke’s family identity. It was a mystical force, connected to all living things. He just refined that connection, learning how to manipulate it through force of will.

This all changed when the Star Wars Prequels came out. For all of their (numerous) flaws, one of the decisions that most angered fans at the time was introducing something the script referred to as Midicloreans. When Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn discovers a young Anakin Skywalker on Tatooine, he gives him a blood test and remarks that the child’s Midiclorean levels are off the charts. Just like that, the metaphysical becomes biological. Your connection with The Force is no longer determined by your training, willpower, or emotional energy. Instead, it is from your family, passed down from parent to child — this created dynasties, powerful families that seemed to have a monopoly on the power of The Force. The magical everyman quality of the original trilogy was gone because the only people that matter are from a few critical families.

This attitude was reflective of J. J. Abrams’ treatment of the subject in The Force Awakens. He continuously played up the mystery of Rey’s parents, to the point that the majority of fan discourse after the film circled her familial origin. Was she a Kenobi? A Skywalker? A Windu? A Palpatine? It reinforced that problematic attitude, this idea of the chosen one permeates a lot of Hollywood storytelling. It reinforces oligarchy and subtextually communicates to the audience that unless they are from an influential family and already have a seat at the table, you are just an extra in the narrative. That you have no power to fundamentally change anything about your position in life or change the society you are a part of. Then Rian Johnson came along.

At the end of The Last Jedi’s second act, Ben Solo assassinates his master Snoke, freeing Rey and offering her a place at his side to rule the galaxy together. At this point, he, as Darth Vader did to Luke before, reveals the information that it would be most challenging for Rey to hear. Her parents were nobodies. She does not belong to an influential family legacy. There are no easy answers to her place in the galaxy. At this moment, Johnson reclaimed The Force for everyone. Rey could be powerful without a connection to a pre-existing character. The whole film functions this way: reclaiming Star Wars’ identity from an elitist series that focuses on a few powerful people machinations to an egalitarian story about the people. The film spends significant time exploring how the galaxy’s oppressed are hurt and oppressed by the Empire and how a single act of rebellion, even a pacifistic one, can inspire hope in millions.

This brings us back to Luke Skywalker and how the film handles his character arc and what upset many Star Wars fans about The Last Jedi. Luke Skywalker is a mythological figure; particularly for those who consumed the expanded universe content such as books, comics, and games (which was removed from the canon when Disney acquired the franchise), Luke is the ultimate badass. He became the ultimate Jedi. He created his own Jedi temple, established his dynasty of force-sensitive children, and became the ultimate warrior in the galaxy. In some ways, The Force Awakens preserved this concept or at least allowed fans to preserve it for themselves. Luke was absent from the narrative, but his presence emotionally hung over the film. We felt his absence, much like the whole galaxy had. Then, after Rey discovers him hiding away and confronts him, we are faced with the complicated (and much more human) truth: Luke was hiding in shame.

The way that Rian Johnson and The Last Jedi approach Luke Skywalker and the legacy of Star Wars is much more difficult to swallow, and a lot of people struggled to accept it. It began showing our legendary hero broken by his own failure, becoming old and cynical and angry at the world (and mostly at himself). For people just wanting their cinema to be wish-fulfillment, to see idealized people (that they can project themselves onto) on-screen overcome incredible odds, this is not what they want from their franchise. I think many people checked out of the film from Luke’s opening scene, where he throws away his old lightsaber. They became upset that their hero acted this way and became antagonistic to the film, nit-picking every detail and not seriously attempting to engage with the film on a thematic or emotional level.

That is why most of the people who are highly critical of The Last Jedi focus on the phrases and theses early in the film, such as Kylo saying, “let the past die, kill it if you have to,” or Luke saying, “it is time for the Jedi to die” instead of the actual themes of the film. The whole point of the film is opposed to those very statements. The “let the past die” quote is spoken by the villain, after all. Kylo spends the first half of the film struggles with his guilt over killing his father, and the film reaches a mid-point climax where he has a chance at redemption, and in one of the film’s most thrilling moments, he rejects it and doubles down on his selfish blind ambition.

Inversely, Luke begins in utter despair, rejecting the identity of the Jedi and the mixed legacy that it holds. Unlike Kylo, Luke overcomes this struggle at the end, and his final actions reflect the film’s real thesis: that legends can inspire change and hope is the most precious resource in dark times. By walking out of the rebel base and facing down the First Order and Kylo in an ultimately pacifistic manner, Luke is embracing the parts of himself that he shunned. His failures and weakness are not something to decry, but part of what makes him human, just like the failures of the Jedi do not negate the good that they do or the beacon of hope they provide for the galaxy. This idea is further emphasized by the film’s final scene that shows a generation of slaves being inspired by the story of Luke confronting Kylo, creating a new generation of rebels battling against oppression and fascism. As I said before, The Force was for all of us again and inspired everyone to be their best selves.

The Backlash And The Return To a Palpatine

This is what I always wanted from Star Wars. It was a thrilling and engaging piece of cinema that made me reflect on what I loved about the franchise, daring to challenge the problems of Star Wars legacy while re-affirming that the franchise can be a force for good. This excitement and buzz I felt for months after the film sharply faded as I soon began to realize that Disney was not going to continue down this path, but was going to revert to the incredibly safe storytelling of The Force Awakens. The first indication of this was when Solo: A Star Wars Story was taken away from its original directors, Phil Lord and Christopher Miller (of 21 Jump Street and The Lego Movie fame) and put in the workman-like hands of Ryan Howard (who, despite seeming like a nice guy, brings no real flavor or style to any project he tackles). After extensive reshoots, the film came out and did not do well with either critics or audiences. It was a mishmash of nostalgia-baiting scenes that served no greater narrative purpose than to over-explain the origins of small things from the original trilogy, which effectively drained much of the magic of those original films through over-explanation. It was a frustrating experience to see, but I also thought to myself “this could be a fluke since it was a spin-off film and the result of a troubled production. I won’t give up yet.”

But Disney elected to bring back J. J. Abrams to direct Episode 9, which resulted in many concerned fans given Abrams track record with endings (or the lack thereof). There were many rumors of what was to come, but my worst fears came true with the reveal of the film’s title (The Rise of Skywalker) and the trailer. At the end of the trailer, there was a familiar maniacal laugh: that of Emperor Palpatine. It was confirmed that he was returning, and the more promotional material that came out for the film, the more jaded I became. It became clear that Abrams and Disney were attempting to retcon the elements of The Last Jedi that I loved the most. It wanted to remind you of what you loved about the past, uncritical nostalgia without context or analysis of what you loved about it in the first place.

I was so turned off that I did not see the film right away. My love of the franchise had diminished from seeing The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi on opening night to waiting three weeks into its run to see TRoS, and when I saw it, my expectations were somehow let down even though I expected the worst. The film actively tried to retcon some of the greatest moments of the previous movie: Rey is no longer a nobody, she is a Palpatine, Luke is no longer the nuanced character he was before but had become a snarky and happy-go-lucky ghost that demanded the utmost respect for a Jedi’s weapon (a specific “fuck you” to the moment in TLJwhere Luke casts aside his old lightsaber), and Kylo goes from doubling down on his evil to an unearned redemption arc. The texture, nuance, and depth to the characters were stripped away for hollow cardboard cutouts of blatant good and evil to take their place.

Sadly, the film had way more problems than just the thematic ones. It had an unrelenting pace, never pausing to let the characters breathe or reflect on their emotions. One of two actual character development scenes is given to a newly introduced character instead of anyone else. Much of the plot developments of the first two films are scrapped in favor of fetch quests and McGuffins that set up a plot so ridiculous that it is hard to believe it got off the drawing board. Every element of the story planned to evoke feelings of the past instead of being its own story, including the villain in Palpatine who comes out of nowhere and undercuts any dramatic build to Rey and Kylo’s respective arcs. Other characters are cut almost entirely, including Rose Tico, sidelined after the racist backlash to her character in TLJ, and Finn and Poe are similarly cast aside. The clearly drawn characters of the previous two films are thrown in the trash for poorly constructed plotting.

The stark and evocative images of The Last Jedi are entirely gone here, replaced with flat images color corrected to the blandest blues and oranges possible. For all the story logic criticisms in The Last Jedi, the script here is nonsensical with gaping holes and contrivances that make no sense even with a cursory thought.The sad thing was that The Rise of Skywalker didn’t even manage to reclaim the fan-base that rebelled after The Last Jedi came out. It did the opposite: alienating fans and haters of TLJ alike and resulting in the lowest-rated entry in the entire saga critically. In an attempt to appeal to the broadest possible audience, it alienated everyone in the process. But the important thing was that it made Disney a TON of money, which ultimately served the only purpose that the media conglomerate had for the franchise.

It broke me. I realized that this is what people wanted from this franchise. They wanted to be reminded of the original trilogy of the heroes of old. We don’t want new stories or critical re-examinations of why we love the stories we hold dear. All that matters is that vague emotional attachment, that feeling where your heart swells at the mere sight of the Millenium Falcon or the sound of the iconic Star Wars theme. That feeling doesn’t alienate fans like Rian Johnson did. It gets people to buy merchandise or see a movie even though they know it won’t be any good. This is the ironic fate of one of the greatest indie film successes of all time: it is now a cash-cow to be mined by the largest entertainment company in the world for billions of dollars for eternity.

Even with The Mandalorian, Disney seems unwilling to move beyond what came before (spoilers for the second season of the show in this paragraph). A previously standalone story now seems to be pivoting to include as many old characters as possible, ignoring the thematic reasons they may be there for the sake of pandering. Gone is the measured Luke Skywalker of The Last Jedi who sacrifices himself in a grand display of pacifism, he is a cool-looking murder machine whose fight scene purposefully mirrors Darth Vader’s massacre of rebel soldiers at the end of Rogue One. Gone is a saga reorienting itself to be about the young orphans looking out to the stars for hope, it is now back to being about the same handful of characters and their sacred bloodlines. People are only significant if they are connected to those families, and stories set anywhere else in this massive galaxy are irrelevant.

Emotional poignance and thematic coherence are now secondary to violent wish fulfillment and pandering to the tiniest and most toxic section of their fanbase for the sake of money. The Last Jedi was a fluke. Singular directors will not be allowed to create their own spin on or interpretation of the franchise. Storytelling risks and challenging ideas will not be permitted. Instead, Disney wants Star Wars to be like stormtroopers: visually identical without any sense of identity underneath the iconic images and sounds. It ironically reminds me of a line from The Last Jedi, which Yoda says to a despairing Luke Skywalker:

“Heeded my words not, did you? Pass on what you have learned. Strength. Mastery. But weakness, folly, failure also. Yes, failure most of all. The greatest teacher, failure is. Luke, we are what they grow beyond. That is the true burden of all masters.”

Disney only wants to pass on the strength and mastery and does not see the value in the failure. It does the opposite of what Yoda advises Luke to do, and from the looks of it, they will continue to ignore the lessons of the film itself. But for me, that quote strikes true. The failure of The Rise of Skywalker was the greatest teacher in how it made me reflect on this franchise that I love that I may have outgrown. Or at least, we have grown apart. Star Wars, it is both you and me. I always will love you and find myself revisiting the best parts of you regularly (such as the original trilogy, Rogue One, and The Force Awakens/The Last Jedi). And for the record, I don’t regret a thing. You coming out with the sequels gave me my favorite entry in the franchise. I just think we want different things. Maybe it is time to take a break. Or at least some time apart.

❤