You Can't Be Serious

During all of this EU canon controversy, a startling thought occurred to me. Alan Watts once remarked that - as "sincere" a philosopher as he was - he simply wasn't a "serious" one.

While the point of these editorials is to provide a counterpoint to the shallow negativity surrounding the saga as well as offer a lot of examples of its significance and depth, I can honestly say I don't take Star Wars that seriously. I don't believe it's meant to be that serious, and perhaps a lot of trouble erupts in fandom because of the teeth-clenched earnestness of those who want to make it so. Instead, Star Wars strikes me as extraordinarily sincere, as does its maker, and maybe the reason I continue to enjoy both so much is that I simply value sincerity over seriousness.

Seriousness implies a certain gravity, a certain weight, a certain necessity. Like when one goes to the doctor and wants to know "Is it serious?" Seriousness inevitably evolves into an almost grim life-or-death struggle because, after all, the stakes are incredibly important. Everything hangs on the outcome when something is deadly serious. This is a remarkably effective way of draining the life, vitality, and energy out of any project, because it must be successful. It has to happen, and we have to make it happen.

On the other hand, sincerity implies a certain open, relaxed honesty to the situation whatever it turns out to be. Someone can be sincere and playful simultaneously, but no one can pull off being both serious and playful at the same time. So, which exactly, is the most applicable attitude to Star Wars? Maybe we've all forgotten, but Star Wars was supposed to be fun, not something you had to go see, or something you had to like.

Star Wars is really all about play. Lucas created a galaxy-wide sandbox, and basically said, "Have fun." To this day, I feel it's the best imaginary playground ever invented. Even here, on this very blog, I'm playing, arranging interesting patterns of words and ideas for amusement and entertainment. As I once stated years ago on Suite101, these essays are written in much the same spirit as a little kid waving a toy lightsaber in the air, while jumping up and down on their bed, and should be read in exactly the same manner.

This is why so many things that drive many fans into a near murderous rage (at least online) pretty much don't bother me at all. I genuinely love Ewoks, and sometimes even speculate what it would be like to be one for a day. I love the prequels, from the corny dialogue to the stylized acting. I even love Jar Jar, and occasionally lapse into Gungan speak (incidentally, all the haters should try this once and awhile - just translate all those rants and see how silly they really do sound). Sure, I may not like Greedo shooting first in the cantina, but I'm not losing sleep over it. As for the people who sit in the theater and anxiously wring their hands while trying to figure out whether or not a scene has too much CGI ... that's utterly baffling to me.

I personally have never watched a Star Wars movie and not had a blast. That's what they're there for, after all. And that's why I'm still here.

But this fandom sometimes seems so completely consumed with its own self-important seriousness that it oftentimes can barely enjoy what it's a fan of. Which, I assume, was the original point. Maybe some people don't have enough to worry about, so they have to use Star Wars to generate their weekly quota of stress and anxiety. Who knows?

Personally, I feel this is missing the mark, although I almost experience twinges of sympathy for those caught in the middle. I admit, I get caught up in the hating and heated arguments in fandom more than I should. Still, that's the only thing about this saga that I don't like or enjoy. So many people don't strike me as sincere fans anymore, only serious ones. Being a fan becomes a kind of morbid duty, a chore, another thing to check off the list of things that must be done, and then they take it out on the rest of us. This even includes the rather dubious attempts to protect the franchise from its own maker.

For the record, I do not have a problem with fans writing a petition to insure the continuity of the Expanded Universe and presenting it to Lucas. To me, this is the most irrelevant thing in the world, and the other fandoms I'm part of seem to feel the same. If someone just likes to connect the dots and retcon all the disparate characters and story elements into a kind of fascinating, enjoyable game, I would personally say that was the way to go. Still, if people feel absolutely compelled to draft elaborate petitions, then they should do so. Here's to lightspeed on their journey.

The part I do have a problem with is the underlying, unstated sentiments of such a proposal. It seems that if you don't tie Lucas down and question him relentlessly regarding the canonicity of Coruscant Nights, even if you couldn't care less, you're not only failing your duty as a fan, but also as a human being. This is the last bit of the Petition of 2000's response to the Forcecast's admittedly harsh reaction to their mandate -

To these people, Lucas cannot, should not, must not be questioned. And that's not a position I can ever get onboard with or even understand. Blind allegiance to an authority figure is one of the great evils of this world, and while its existence in SW fandom is relatively harmless, it's a symptom of a much larger, far less amusing problem.

Taking things maybe a little too seriously there? You think, maybe? Thank the Force it's only "relatively harmless." Maybe we can all band together and limit the cultural damage. And my reply on Facebook, which has yet to be answered -

I still want to know why these petitioners are talking like this. I don't question Lucas' authority, because he doesn't have any. Obviously, the petitioners feel differently. In point of fact, they have imbued Lucas with so much authority that they literally form petitions to win his approval of their point of view. Unlike the rest of us, they can't simply take what they like and ignore the rest, they want to make Lucas to make up their mind for them. The real question is why are they so helplessly dependent on Lucas' imaginary authority that they can't function without it. And then they turn around and accuse his fans of of "blind allegiance to an authority figure."

Again, what is this alleged authority that Lucas has that's so morally imperative to question? If your fandom has evolved to the point that you form petitions to Lucas that mirror the petition that was submitted to the Emperor of the galaxy because you project the same amount of authority on one that the other has, the continuity of the EU is probably the least of your worries. Stop wasting $30 a pop on the interminable "Fate of the Jedi" series, and start saving up for therapy. Lucas isn't controlling you, man. He's not a president, or the pope. You don't have to wait until he exiles or excommunicates you from the fandom. You can walk away any time. So you might want to do so while you still can.

See what happens there? Then I start taking things too seriously. Life is just too short. I still want to know the rationale for projecting all this authority on Lucas, though. As I stated elsewhere, I'm a huge Harry Potter fan too, yet no one accuses me of blind allegiance to JK Rowling's authority (?). But Lucas is always held to a different standard as everyone else. And his fans too, which is sad, because I honestly don't have a clue what, how, or why I'm supposed to question him. The base that whole idea is built on is so faulty I barely no how to respond.

It's not anyone's job to interrogate artists everytime someone encounters their creative work. They can either like it or dislike it, love it or hate it, be inspired by it or not be inspired by it. And again, only in Star Wars fandom would anyone say differently. If I went on an Impressionist website and said I loved Monet, no one would start berating me for not questioning his authority, nor would anyone call me a mindless Monet slave. Yet if the pattern is repeated on a Star Wars forum and I said I loved Lucas, that's precisely what would happen.

It is also worth bringing up that the Petition people cited the "myth" about Lucas being the sole creator of Star Wars. I can't imagine where they got that one from. Only I can, right from my own comments section -Tell me if you feel that Lucas is such a "spiritual, philosophical" storyteller after you read the truth behind the myth in Michael Kaminsky's "The Secret History of Star Wars," which reprints many of Lucas salient interviews over the years. No "fictious portrait" that, but the plain truth.

This book keeps being brought up and it goes to show exactly where fandom's head is at sometimes. I don't know why people keep throwing it up like some kind of a challenge (or better yet, why I take it seriously). While I've only read pieces online and have visited the website, as near as I can tell The Secret History of Star Wars is being touted as some kind of explosive, shocking work featuring never-before-known revelations about Lucas and the saga. Revelations Lucasfilm has gone to elaborate lengths to bury, hide, and suppress.

Perhaps I'm missing something, but if this vast conspiracy is true, Lucasfilm is doing an extraordinarily bad job of keeping it hidden. The site claims Lucas is doing everything possible to suppress the unaltered original trilogy and pretend it never existed, which is odd, because there were plenty of copies of it on DVD the last time I was at Wal-mart. And Target. And Best Buy. And Toys R Us. Then there is the issue of that little book, The Making of Star Wars by the awesome J. W. Rinzler, which perfectly outlines everything that is also allegedly being rewritten and suppressed, out in plain view for anyone with a competent literacy level to read. Oh yeah, and The Making of The Empire Strikes Back too, both of which are officially licensed by Lucasfilm and can be found in fine bookstores everywhere.

Being a sincere Star Wars fan rather than a serious one, I simply don't care about all this stuff, even though people insist on stomping up to me and telling me all about it. None of it strikes me as "secret" so much as just elaborate and complicated. Yes, we all know Star Wars didn't spring fully formed from Lucas' skull like Athena bursting out of Zeus. No one in their right mind has ever claimed such a thing (and sorry, but this goes for the prequels and the Clone Wars as well). One of the sticking points of The Secret History seems to be that Lucas now claims that his saga has always been about the "Tragedy of Darth Vader," and it's a big conspiracy that it wasn't. Actually, I disproved this one with two and a half minutes of research, when I saw that Lucas freely admitted to Vanity Fair in 2005 that he didn't have that part worked out until the late, late nineties. Again, it's not much of a secret if everyone says what's going on.

All the information I've seen from scanning through the book is stuff I pretty much already knew. Unless I'm missing something, it's been out in plain view for the past thirty years for anyone who's taken the time to look for it. Like I said in my last post, that so few people have is precisely the reason why all of it can be erroneously labelled as a "secret." Everyone knows Lucas has changed the number of films from nine or twelve to six and, quite frankly, I couldn't care less. That Lucas has changed his mind in the last thirty years hardly constitutes a conspiracy. I've changed my mind in the last thirty minutes, but I'm not held under the same scrutiny.

Perhaps this book is invaluable for the fan who's desperately trying to convince themselves Gary Kurtz really wrote and directed A New Hope and Lucas was just along for the ride, but I'm not, so it's all kinda superfluous to me. Now that I've gone back and revisited it, the whole affair seems pretty status quo. He'll no doubt have more readers than me when it's all over, but I don't see anything really new or daring going on there. I know it's supposed to be a self-styled "defiance" against the Lucasfilm version of history, but it's really just preaching to the online choir. If you want a real challenge to the status quo, go check out my .The Case for Jar Jar. Now that's daring and subversive.

I would also suggest going online and purchasing a copy of the George Lucas Interviews book, which features some great interviews from the early seventies to the late nineties. Again, I don't have an anti-Lucas agenda but rather a pro- one and so, to me, they all hang together with remarkable consistency. All the interviews I've ever read with the man have increased my respect for him rather than the other way around. If I was flying blind concerning Lucas and his history like most fans apparently are, maybe this "secret" stuff would be blowing me away. But I'm not, and it doesn't (or as another poster put it much better than I could - I read the online version of "Secret History" a while back, and my reaction to it could more or less be compared to Claude Rains in "Casablanca," shocked to discover that there's gambling at Rick's cafe). 

With this taken into account, I hope that in the future those of you who've read The Secret History will refrain from coming up to me and acting like Dan Brown fans who've convinced themselves they're privy to buried truths the rest of the world remains oblivious to. That part is really annoying. Quite frankly, Star Wars has been under the "singular" stewardship of George Lucas for over thirty years and is absolutely blossoming and thriving unlike ever before, with two new generations who love the special editions and the prequels and the Clone Wars as much as we did the originals. So like it or not (not), he is doing something right.

The fact of the matter is, all the myths that have been built up around George Lucas are wide of the mark. Mine, yours, everyone's. Because the real Lucas isn't the myth that fans bash or praise; he's just a guy. He wakes up in the morning, takes a shower, raids his closet for flannel shirts and blue jeans, goes downstairs, eats breakfast, takes his kids to school, and is closer to the rest of us than most will allow him to be. He makes good decisions and bad ones, but so do the rest of us. And I shudder to think what most of our lives would look like when held up to the same relentless scrutiny as his.

A lot of people online seem to labor under the impression that he's become a "money hungry, effects obsessed egomaniac." Other people, including myself, regard him as a "uniquely spiritual, philosophical filmmaker." Again, he's probably neither, or both, but my base is an extremely lucrative one to build on. Amazing things start to happen when Star Wars is viewed with that assumption in mind, as I've helped demonstrate for over a decade. And if I didn't feel that way, I wouldn't be a fan, nor could I possibly enjoy all of it as much as I do.

Everytime I see Lucas during an interview, it's hard not to smile. I look carefully at those eyes, and see the sparkling whimsy in them, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't take any of this that seriously either. At the end of the day, he's just playing with incredibly complicated patterns of light, color, sound, and music on an enormous canvas, and I for one sincerely like to watch him go.

P.S. I'm actually tired of talking. That got a little like work for a minute. I'll try for some actual philosophy next time.

The Other Expanded Universe

 

When Jedi Master Even Piell became one with the Force and was sent over the lava-falls in one of the last Clone Wars episodes of the season, it shook a small yet vocal part of Star Wars fandom. Rather than simply being moved by a noble death, they collectively bristled, arguing that the formidable Piell had already been killed in the Expanded Universe timeline. Though once a little-respected, largely inconsequential tale in the ever-growing market of Star Wars literature, Coruscant Nights unexpectedly became something of a fault line running through the heart of that galaxy far, far away.

The question of what constitutes canon in the Star Wars saga has been an increasingly touchy subject in the fan community. For some, the plethora of books, comics, and games constituting the Expanded Universe almost trump the films themselves, with a certain fringe element even suggesting that George Lucas should hang up his Jedi robes and retire his lightsaber, and allow the authors of all the tie-in novels to take over stewardship of the galaxy he created. For others, canon was never that big of a deal. Actually, since I've read enough tie-in stories with other franchises, I was surprised to learn there were any issues with Star Wars canon at all. When I first heard the controversy, admittedly my first thought was "Oh, the novels are supposed to be canon?"

For me, there has never been any issue with canon, because I've always been first and foremost interested in the films. This is changing thanks to the Clone Wars series, but it still has the direct input of George Lucas and is coming down directly from Skywalker Ranch. That is really all I care about, and I should admit now that I'm a Lucas man all the way. Or at least I am in the same sense that Harry Potter always described himself as a Dumbledore man all the way. That's just the way it is for me. Lucas started this party thirty plus years ago, and I just haven't seen or read anything that has caused me to discount him or believe others could somehow do better Star Wars. Others feel differently, which is fine, though I personally feel this is kinda missing the point.

Just as something as insignificant as Coruscant Nights has led to larger issues, so has this controversy led directly to much bigger issues concerning Lucas, Star Wars, and fandom in general. It seems to me the focus of many fans is too narrow, focusing almost exclusively in-universe. In other words, after viewing the films, the lens is turned almost immediately to the Expanded Universe, that self-perpetuating tidal wave of fiction that currently floods the bookstores. As much as the novels outside of Lucas' storytelling have boosted fandom and carried it through the dark times when no films were on the horizon, they've hurt it as well. Not only have they diluted the property in certain ways, but they've also made a divisive and quarrelsome community even moreso. The reasons for this are a little complicated.

My own experience with the EU has been fairly straightforward. Actually, most of my own significant moments with the EU were born out of the old Marvel comic book series, particularly during the almost unbearable wait between The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. Sure, everyone knew Han Solo wouldn't be rescued until the next movie, but as a kid, the search alone was thrilling. Yet those old Marvel days have been dismissed from hallowed EU canon, much like Alan Dean Foster's Splinter of the Mind’s Eye. The exclusion comes because the comic series and that first tie-in novel were found to clearly be incompatible with Empire and Jedi.

And that was just one comic series and one novel. This is nothing when weighed against the monthly additions to the overly complicated canon currently putting cracks down over-stacked bookcases. The relationship between Luke and Leia, Anakin's identity as Darth Vader, the origins of the Mandalorians, and lots of other issues as established in the original EU were rendered superfluous by the two last films of the classic trilogy. It's no wonder that the continuous stream of material from Del Rey and Dark Horse has enormous difficulty keeping everything straight. But either way, it just wasn't that big of a deal back in the day. The internet is part of the issue, something that no one had to contend with in fandom back in the late seventies and early eighties (if it had been around, I do sometimes get the unsettling feeling that the online continuity police would have gathered to debate whether Empire or Jedi should be admitted into canon).

My current status as a sometimes consumer of the EU remains remarkably drama free. The novels are there, and if I have an itch left vacant by George-Level canon, sometimes I'll read them to scratch it. I'm slowly making my way through the Darth Bane and Han Solo trilogies and, while I'm enjoying both, I'm not clinging to their canonicity like a Sith Lord Force choking a clone. Maybe they happened, or maybe they didn't. I can keep that part of my brain just vague and fuzzy enough where it's not a crisis, or even of much concern. When the last page has been turned, it really comes down to whether the story was good or bad, or whether I enjoyed it or not. At the end of the day, they're all just a fun diversion, and for me that’s all they were intended to be.

Of course, if an author scored face-time with George Lucas, then that does add a little more relevance to a work. The prequel novelizations are one of the few books that falls into this category. As recounted in his book Sometimes the Magic Works, Terry Brooks got the royal treatment at Skywalker Ranch while writing The Phantom Menace, not to mention the hours he spent talking on the phone with Lucas as he went over his original notes. R. A. Salvatore likewise met with the Maker, and his Attack of the Clones novel fills in some of the holes left by deleted scenes in the film. For me, though, the show stopper was Revenge of the Sith. Matthew Stover composed not only a great novelization, but a lyrical one as well. His character work, his poetic descriptions, as well as simply his understanding of the Force, are all pretty much unparalleled in Star Wars literature for me. But Stover also boasted a firm grounding in Eastern philosophy, and such grounding has always been important, as I’ll discuss later.

And again, just for the record, Sean Stewart’s Dark Rendezvous Clone Wars novel is an absolute favorite of mine. Not only beautifully written, it also offers pitch perfect portrayals of Yoda and Count Dooku. And I for one got really attached to the Jedi younglings in it as well. I’m also a big fan of the James Luceno prequel era stuff. Having said that, if the Clone Wars series renders it irrelevant apocrypha, I’m not batting an eye, nor am I writing petitions and organizing online rallies. But that’s just me.

One last bit of my personal relationship with the EU. I say personal because I’m probably in a minority of one on this, but it doesn’t seem fair to omit my own peculiar take here. If I’ve failed to mention any post Jedi EU (though I did love the groovy Ewok movies as a kid), it’s because I don’t consider it any of it relevant to canon. Yes, this even includes the beloved Timothy Zhan trilogy, whether officially recognized or not.

Everyone knows Star Wars is something of a space age fairy tale, with “a long time ago” being the galactic equivalent of our very own “once upon a time.” It took me years to figure out why the post-Jedi EU rang so hollow to me, especially when most fans were waxing lyrical about being able to hear John Williams music as Grand Admiral Thrawn flew across the stars. Perhaps I should get my hearing checked, but I think most of the trouble lies in that final scene with Luke, Han, Leia, and everyone else gathered around the fire on Endor at the end of Jedi. If it all started with “once upon a time,” then that’s a “happily ever after” shot if I’ve ever seen one. Skywalker saga over, curtains fall. I have no more urge to follow the Star Wars characters around than I do to keep track of the actual day-to-day married life of all those fairy tale princes and princesses after they finally tie the knot. This is no reflection on the authors or the storytelling, just the nature of the saga as I see it.

But even when considering the content - Solo kids going to the dark side, Chewbacca wrestling a moon before dying, Luke reforming the Jedi Order, a geriatric Fett wheel-chairing around Slave 1 … none of it holds the slightest appeal for me. Not only does the whole thing feel like a misstep, it now just goes on interminably, with no end in sight. If Legacy of the Force was like beating a dead horse, Fate of the Jedi was like pulling his teeth out, setting him on fire, and beating him some more. At some point, presumably before Luke’s actually hobbling around a galactic rest home and the story’s now about his long lost, second Skywalker cousin twice removed who has to bring balance to the Force for the twentieth time, I fully expect Ferris Bueller to step in, face the fans, and say something to the effect of, “It’s over. Go home.”

Now that I’ve alienated practically everyone (except maybe Jason), I want to examine some of the aforementioned effects the EU has had, as well as what Star Wars as a whole really is. I suppose the next logical question for me posed by other fans would be about my feelings if Lucas decided to turn the tables and make Episodes VII-IX after all. “Happily ever after” shot or no, I admittedly would feel as though I’d made the Kessel Run in less than eleven parsecs.

That this isn’t a contradiction is simply because there has never been any doubt in my mind that Lucas is the Maker, coupled with the fact that all of the Star Wars he’s personally created is completely permeated with that utterly intangible Star Wars feeling that overtakes me when I consume it. In over thirty years of fandom, this has been the case. Of course, it’s probably helped that I’ve never attempted or even seen any point in trying to outsmart or second-guess George Lucas. Since the beginning of the internet, some people have managed to make a secondary career out of doing exactly that, but for me personally, it’s his party and if I wasn’t having a good time, I would have grabbed my jacket and left years ago.

From a certain point of view, that a lot of fans should have left but never did is in no small part the responsibility of the EU. It has taken the fandom a sizeable distance from G-Level Star Wars since the early nineties, conjuring up not so much an expanded universe as a parallel one. This seems to be the case with something like Joe Schreiber’s Death Troopers. True, it was different and exciting, but it was also bloody and gory and Imperials were eating each other and by the time it was all over, it just wasn’t Star Wars to me. This isn’t to say it was bad by any stretch, so much as to say that putting a stormtrooper on a book cover doesn’t necessarily make the book Star Wars.

The very first article I ever sold was to space.com, and it talked about the prequel backlash as well as the it’s-hip-to-be-square-ness of Star Wars in general. This kind of ties in with the Great Nerd Debate of 2011, but the only thing that really makes Star Wars cool is the fact that it’s never tried to be cool. G-Level canon has not only brought us Han Solo, Boba Fett, and Darth Maul, it’s also brought us Jar Jar, Ewoks, and mouse droids. My feeling is that the very thing that makes Star Wars what it is isn’t the exclusion of one side to the other, but rather the balance between the two.

This balance is precisely what makes Star Wars so unique, something that is non-existent in all of the EU I’ve encountered. G-Level canon is what it is, and it’s always been brave enough to wear itself on its sleeve. I personally find that very charming. The sense of whimsy and silliness in Star Wars is usually so lost in the EU that fans are often flabbergasted when they finally get around to seeing a new film and find such elements there. That G-Level canon never tries to be cool and dark makes it that much more genuine and rewarding when it is. Next to that, the EU merely poses, trying to make something cooler than was ever intended, and coming off as (dare I say it?) nerdier as a result.

As alluded to at the beginning, the real problem comes when certain fringe elements in fandom begin to resent Lucas and his additions to his own saga. Oh, very few overtly admit it (although I've run into some that did), but the feeling is always there. However subtly. This hit something of a peak during the Mandalorian trilogy in season two of the Clone Wars, fanned on by Karen Traviss’ blog. Never mind that if I recall correctly she completely destroyed the Mandalorian continuity I had grown up with in the comics first.

The one thing I do take issue with is the backlash Lucas sometimes gets when these kinds of problems arise. I’ve taken some time to figure this out, this oddest of phenomena when the creator of something is no longer wanted in the creative process. Again, I think these faulty lines of reasoning can be subtly traced back to the EU, which has helped breed a part of fandom so endlessly insular and self-referential it can’t see past its own nose.

Frankly, the ever-widening abyss between G-Level canon and the fringe elements of this fandom is due to an almost total lack of understanding and communication. To be sure, there are people who can tell you the exact chapter, page, and probably paragraph in Coruscant Nights when Even Piell meets his cruel demise (and sorry, but they always sound like the Comic Book Guy in The Simpsons in my head). The problem is, while they can tell you all about that, I have very real doubts that they can tell you about much of anything else.

This most certainly includes information on George Lucas. It doesn’t irritate me nearly as much as it once did when fans hate on Lucas, because I’ve finally figured out they have absolutely no idea who or what they’re talking about. This isn’t a slam, but a simple observation. Aside from the odd bit of information about where he was born or maybe where he went to film school, the more belligerent fans have clearly painted a fictitious portrait of Lucas that exists solely on internet forums and talkbacks. And these same fans are just caught in an infinite online loop of misinformation, assumption, and, for some odd reason, paranoia.

Maybe the reason why I continue to have a great amount of respect and admiration for George Lucas is that I’ve actually bothered to find out stuff about him. Rather than simply parroting what the trolls and online conspiracy theorists are saying, I’ve read quite a few books and interviews about the man, from Skywalking to the latest Star Wars Insider. The George Lucas Interviews book is a favorite of mine thanks to the Forcecast, and The Cinema of George Lucas remains one of my most treasured birthday gifts. My EU is more behind-the-scenes than anything, and I’ve torn through about every Making Of book and video I could find. The Mythology of SW, Lucas’ interview with Bill Moyers at Skywalker Ranch which mirrors The Power of Myth, gave a timely glimpse into his thinking at the time of the prequels, and it subsequently influenced my viewing of them.

Speaking of The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell once wisely remarked that if a person is ever fortunate enough to find an artist who really speaks to them, make it a point to find out who inspired them, and then who inspired them, and so on. If someone takes the time to do this, Campbell predicts the universe will start to unfold in a remarkably unified, harmonious manner. I’ve found this to be very solid advice; with Lucas as my starting point, I found Campbell, and then found the people who inspired him, even taking my senior seminar on James Joyce as a result.

As fate would have it, this was about a couple of semesters before The Phantom Menace came out. About as primed on myth, symbolism, and literary analysis as I could be, I was pretty much blown away by the first prequel. It was rather disheartening to go online and discover that the most literate, analytical response to the film a lot of first generation fans could offer was to type “Jar Jar Sux!!!” five hundred times and post it in a talkback.

No doubt some are about to reasonably argue that they didn’t have to know anything about comparative mythology and so on to enjoy the original trilogy. True enough. On the other hand, the generation of children who grew up loving the prequels didn’t need to either. The point stands, though, that if older fans can no longer intuitively appreciate new Star Wars films like they did when they were children, and then refuse to intellectually appreciate them as adults, the possibility of enjoyment is getting pretty slim.

Again, it’s one thing not to like what one’s seeing, and another entirely to not know what one’s seeing. This goes for the reception of the prequels, as well as understanding the Maker himself. This is why Lucas is so often perceived online as a money-hungry, effects-obsessed egomaniac, and yet I still respect him as a uniquely spiritual, philosophical filmmaker.

When the Phantom Menace DVD arrived chocked full of special features, I admit I freeze-framed the bookshelves behind him on the first web documentary to review his reading material. Quite frankly, there wasn’t a Karen Traviss book anywhere in sight, but what was there ranged from history to child psychology, from philosophy to comparative religion. For a fan such as myself, I personally was far more impressed that he’d read Elaine Pagels than that his office wasn’t cluttered with charts and graphs trying to pinpoint Greedo’s exact birth date.

In other words, if we follow Campbell's suggestion, Lucas' inspiration has never really been the EU. The occasional character or planet name may be employed by G-Level canon but, by and large, Lucas has always pointed Star Wars beyond itself. It seems to me fans should be grateful for that. Often the fans who aren't dismiss anything Lucas has to say that sounds deep or scholarly as merely pretentious, though the original trilogy is as grounded in mythic scholarship as the prequels.

One of the reasons Lucas took so long writing the first Star Wars was the amount of research he did. While The Hero With a Thousand Faces is by far the most publicized, he has stated in more than one interview that he read around a hundred books during the writing process. A hundred books. Perhaps I'm wrong, but Traviss probably didn't comb through a hundred books about folklore and fairy tale, myth and metaphor, while writing her Mandalore stuff. Bits of this reading list have shown up here and there, and quite frankly, that's my expanded universe.

The works of Joseph Campbell, Carl Jung, Alan Watts, Karen Armstrong, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Bruno Bettelheim, Mircea Eliade, and quite a few others from East and West alike are far more essential to understanding and appreciating Star Wars than a hundred Fate of the Jedi novels. And it's fascinating, horizon-broadening stuff, too.

Along these lines, Campbell's central thesis that all myths are inflections of the monomyth, the one great story moving behind all the little ones, provides another aspect of this expanded universe. As Star Wars is but another inflection of the monomyth, a great deal of its flavor can be found in ancient storytelling. From Sumeria to Egypt, from Greece to Rome, from India to England, all these sacred stories echo Star Wars in one way or another. Whether it be Gilgamesh searching for immortality, or Odysseus trying to get back to Ithaca, or the Buddha facing down temptation, or Galahad searching for the Holy Grail, or Dante navigating the Inferno with Virgil, elements of all these stories carry within them the intangible feeling evoked by that galaxy far, far away.

And just for the record, while I may not hear the Force theme when reading the latest EU novel, it is utterly impossible for me to read the scenes in Paradise Lost when the archangel Michael and the Devil are battling with flaming swords and not hear Duel of the Fates. Because ultimately, these mythic stories and poems that depict what Campbell called "the soul's high adventure" are what Star Wars is, and where it lives and breathes.

And perhaps if some paid more attention to that aspect of the saga instead of arguing about the canonicity of Coruscant Nights, the fandom would be immeasurably improved.

Deconstructing Vader

A Portrait of the Dark Side

“Do you think you can take over the world and improve it?

I do not think it can be done. The world is sacred.

It you try to change it, you will ruin it.

If you try to grasp it, you will lose it.”

- Lao Tzu

Tao Te Ching

On one of the most important days of his fateful life, young Anakin Skywalker has to decide whether to stay with his beloved mother on Tatooine or travel to the stars to a new life among the Jedi. Even though she must remain in the Outer Rim as a slave, his mother Shmi is willing to let him go. When Anakin protests that he doesn’t want things between them to change, she wisely replies that he cannot stop change, any more than he can “stop the suns from setting.”

Years later, Anakin chooses yet another path, one in which he is remade into a dark lord of the Sith. This path consumes him, as he sets himself the impossible task of stopping a sunset. The effort ruins him within and without, and his redemption only comes when he finally accepts his mother’s words as revealed through the actions of his son. Behind all the mythic drama underlies a basic struggle forever playing out in every human heart and mind. 

The whispers and promises of the dark side are far more ubiquitous than most realize. It feasts most thoroughly when unexamined hatreds and haunting fears rise up in response to life, intensifying anxieties until there seems to be no choice but to turn to the very dark source generating them and expect help. The dark side promises power over life but never admits the more power one has to control life the more power one needs, creating a vicious cycle so self-consuming and self-defeating it is reputed to forever dominate one’s destiny.

The rise and fall and ultimate redemption of Anakin Skywalker illustrates this perfectly, a path that is seen most clearly and vividly when viewed through the lens of the Buddhist philosophical tradition. The creation of the ego, the dangers of attachment, and the importance of compassion all center on this one character and play out across a grand galactic canvas. 

As a young boy on Tatooine, Anakin is as remarkable for his good nature as he is for his midichlorian count, especially considering the dark lord he eventually becomes. As his mother remarks, “he knows nothing of greed,” and as Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn observes, “he gives without any thought of reward.” This is a being in touch with what is known in Zen as one’s “original nature,” a nature that is free and open and moves through life “like a ball in a mountain stream.” Anakin’s willingness to help others ends in him winning not only the Boonta Eve podrace, but also his own freedom. 

Ironically, a new kind of slavery begins to close around him almost immediately. Despite his mother Shmi’s warning not to “look back” when he leaves home, he continues to do so, his mind tentatively making its first attempts to grasp at life and hold it too closely. 

The One and The Many

On Coruscant, Yoda and the Jedi Council quickly sense this during their initial evaluation. As ironic as it may be given their Order’s own inability to change and adapt, the Jedi are correct in assessing the dilemma that will haunt Anakin the rest of his life. It is a dilemma that they do not fully understand or relate to. As perfectly innocent and natural as it may be to fear losing one’s only parent, those closely attuned to the ebb and flow of the Force embrace another perspective that does much to stifle such anxieties. 

For those deeply immersed in the energies of the Force, the galaxy must be experienced very differently than it is by most beings. Since the beginning, the Force is clearly interpreted as a field of energy created and sustained by life itself. Various individuals have the ability to channel this power and do astounding feats. Even more importantly, however, the Force exists within and without, both embracing the galaxy as well as uniting it. From this point of view, all of existence is fundamentally one, resulting in a wholeness that is as real as any of the particulars one may grow attached to. 

To use a favorite metaphor of Zen Buddhism, the sea may produce individual waves that constantly crest and trough, but the water composing the waves is the true field of existence which is constant. If one becomes too infatuated with a single wave rather than allowing its natural rising and falling, suffering inevitably follows. To ignore the oneness of things by fixating on a particular point is called avidya in Sanskrit, often translated simply as “delusion.” 

There is considerable evidence that the Jedi feel much the same way.

After years of being trained by Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin grows into a stubborn and headstrong adolescent. Raised outside the Jedi Order, the young learner constantly finds himself chafing under its traditions and dogma. While he understands that “attachment” and “possession” are “forbidden,” apparently no one on the Council ever takes the time to express why. Without the average padawan’s background in the Force since birth, Anakin struggles with his attachments again and again, particularly as they pertain to his mother and, later, the love of his life, Padme Amidala.

Haunted by dreams of his mother’s death, Anakin eventually seeks her out on Tatooine. After taking vengeance on the Tusken Raiders who abducted and finally killed her, he returns to the homestead where Padme is waiting for him. Before breaking down completely, he tinkers with a broken shifter, remarking, “Life seems so much simpler when you’re fixing things. I’m good at fixing things … always was.” This is one of his most telling statements, as it foreshadows an outlook that views life as something mechanical, a malfunctioning machine one can stand aside from and arbitrarily “fix” to one’s liking. 

As Cheri Huber, an American Zen teacher for over thirty years, once lectured, “We are taught to believe life should be a certain way. When it isn't and we aren't, we assume there's something wrong and something should be done to fix things. Suffering happens when we want life to be other than the way it is." And the dilemma of Anakin Skywalker is really no more complicated than that.

Interpreting his mother’s passing as a personal failure, Anakin begins to build up and harden his ego, proclaiming he will one day “learn to stop people from dying.” In Buddhism, life is seen as a flowing pattern, a flux of elements known as aggregates. At its root this pattern is understood to be impermanent, and all suffering arises from our refusal to accept this impermanence. Like Anakin, we develop an ego, a kind of fictional construct, to protect us from changes we don’t like. Particularly death. However, this false persona is a wrong move, creating yet another source of tension by strengthening the illusion that we are separate from life and can somehow control it. 

Throughout his life, Anakin’s other mentor, Chancellor Palpatine, plays a key role in the development of his ego. From childhood onward, Palpatine has crafted and shaped his protégé’s attitude, constantly whispering in his ear, telling him that life should indeed “be a certain way.” He points out that the Jedi don’t trust him, admonishes the Council when they don’t select him for special missions, and assures him he’s going to be greater and more powerful than all of them. He even positions Anakin on the Council knowing full well they will use him as bait to lure his true agenda into the open. As he sows the seeds of fear and paranoia, the Sith Lord perfectly acts the role of what is called “conditioned mind” in Zen.

This conditioning ripens when Anakin receives more dreams of an ominous future which ripple backwards in the Force. Now married to Padme in secret, he learns that not only is her life threatened, but the life of their unborn child as well. And in classic mythological fashion, he vows to save her “from [his] nightmares,” only to set in motion the karmic chain of events that ultimately ends in her death.

In his final attempt to reconcile with the Jedi Council, though, Anakin does seek out help from Yoda. The centuries-old sage fails to understand his student, vaguely instructing him not to “mourn” or “miss” those who die and “transform into the Force.” The reality of a unified energy field that lives and breathes a greater whole escapes Anakin, and an important opportunity is lost. Still, Yoda is philosophically correct when he states, “Fear of loss is a path to the dark side.”

Punk rocker, monster movie marketer, and Soto Zen priest, Brad Warner does a formidable Yoda impression as well. He also helpfully lays out the fundamental paradox of attachment in his colorfully titled Zen tome, Sit Down and Shut Up. Many have taken issue with the Jedi mandate forbidding attachment, arguing that one should be attached to the people they care about. From a Buddhist perspective, however, this conditioned impulse arises from a mistaken view of life and the universe. 

As Warner explains, “Love, or desire, leads to taking. You try and make that which is separate from yourself ‘yours’.” The problem with this position is that it is based on a dualistic idea where what is regarded as “self” and what is regarded as “other” are two forever opposite and disconnected realities with no relation whatsoever. Everything gets utterly confused, Warner says, when we “make those things we desire into our possessions” because “that which you desire to incorporate into yourself was never apart from you to begin with.” Again, it’s like a wave refusing to acknowledge its unity with the rest of the water, and then straining to make itself crest forever.

When Palpatine claims the Sith have mastered the power of life over death, Anakin cannot resist the temptation because at that point he sees himself as something cut off and divorced from life, and has no choice but to turn back on the galaxy and attempt to control it. Warner sums this up by saying, “I suspect that much, perhaps even all, of the ‘evil’ that is done in the world is a kind of test, as a way for the ‘evil-doer’ to try and prove to him- or herself that he or she really is separate from the rest of creation.” 

This is the basic schizophrenia of the dark side. All the Sith Lords suffer from a split psyche, so much so that they have to literally create a second dark side persona that begins with “darth.” Rarely has the impossible duality of the conditioned mind been more eloquently expressed than when Anakin is gazing across the Coruscant cityscape toward Padme and she towards him, trapped between the hellish choice of letting her die or turning to the dark side. 

Cause and Effect

When Anakin charges into the Chancellor’s office and is forced to (literally) disarm Council leader Mace Windu to save Palpatine, he sets in motion a horrible chain of cause-and-effect, his karmic destiny set by the events of that night.  Karma is often thought of as “action,” specifically the actions the ego takes in order to manipulate people and events to its liking. More often than not, it stirs up so much confusion one can no longer see, this action of running faster and faster yet staying in the same place. 

In the classic The Way of Zen, Alan Watts defines karma as a kind of action that always requires yet more action, eloquently outlining the path Anakin sets for himself:

Man is involved in karma when he interferes with the world in such a way that he is compelled to go on interfering, when the solution of a problem creates still more problems to be solved, when the control of one thing creates the need to control several others. Karma is thus the fate of everyone who “tries to be God.” He lays a trap for the world in which he himself eventually gets caught.

Anakin desperately needs to control Padme’s fate, which causes him to interfere with Mace Windu’s arrest of Palpatine. This subsequently sets in motion Order 66, where all the Jedi across the galaxy are slaughtered. In an attempt to gain more and more power, Anakin has to march into the Jedi Temple and kill even the younglings, which is symbolic of him killing off the good, innocent parts of himself. This requires still more action when Palpatine orders him to the lava-saturated planet of Mustafar to take care of the Separatist Council. 

After his murder of the Separatist leaders, Anakin pauses on a walkway to stare into a black sun, a single tear running down his face as his path is now set (George Lucas himself remarked in a commentary that after the death of Mace Windu, he has no choice but to continue his dark side journey, regardless of whether he wants to or not). Founder of the Buddhist Lodge in London, Christmas Humphries once noted that in Buddhism, “We are not punished because of what we do, but by it,” as Anakin’s tear clearly shows.

By the time Padme confronts Anakin about his actions, though his ego has already crystallized into Darth Vader, building itself up into the biggest and baddest thing in the galaxy, all in an attempt to mask the fears eating away at it. Horrified, Padme tries to get Anakin to leave the newly formed Empire behind, but now he is equally infatuated with power. He even admits he wants to overthrow Emperor Palpatine, saying, “And together, you and I can rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be.” Again, the galaxy is broken, and he wants to fix it. 

Yet all of this was born from a desire to shield Padme from an imagined future. His attempt to become more powerful than any Jedi was for her, “to protect [her].” Unfortunately, he never listened to Brad Warner, who candidly wrote, “Ultimately, you can’t ever save anybody from anything but you.”

Anakin fails to see the basic paradox here, which is that the more protection one has, the more one needs. To be completely protected from life is to be completely isolated from life. The only way to insure Padme’s continued safety is to encase her in carbonite and lock her away in a vault somewhere, which would obviously defeat the purpose of keeping her alive. Life in its very essence is insecurity and impermanence, and that is precisely what gives it its rhythm, spontaneity, and joy.

When Obi-Wan arrives on that platform on Mustafar, Anakin’s conditioned ego has totally consumed him. Fearful and paranoid, he shouts to his former master, “You will not take her from me!” His ego can only see Padme as an object now, which is the only way an ego can see things. He angrily paces back and forth, proclaiming that I have a new Empire, and I have brought peace and security to it. Obi-Wan observes he has become the very thing he once fought against, which is a theme of Buddhism as well as Star Wars. 

One of the signature moves of the Sith is the Force choke, which is really symbolic of their need to grasp and hold on to life, as opposed to allowing it to flow freely and naturally. During a talk, Alan Watts once likened the ego to “an invisible hand grasping at smoke,” and the Force choke is a nice visual metaphor for those who take seriously the universe’s illusory permanence. Grabbing at one thing inevitably leads to grabbing at another, and it never stops until one is on a platform on Mustafar, choking the life out of the very person they love more than anyone in the galaxy. 

Realizing the threat his former padawan has become, Obi-Wan has no choice but to engage him in a ferocious lightsaber duel. The two battle across the structure built to mine the fiery landscape, even as the shields fail and it begins to disintegrate in the lava. Obi-Wan of course gets the upper hand and the higher ground, leaving his limbless opponent burning beside a river of fire. Finally, Vader’s body is wrecked, reflecting the tortured psyche within.

The Self in the Castle

Pieced back together by machines, Vader endures a gruesome resurrection at the hands of Palpatine. Now encased in a menacing black suit, he has literally become the fictional armored ego, the fearsome persona, which he adopted earlier. Imprisoned in this making of himself, he is protected by his life support systems but entombed by them as well. 

Breath is of great importance to Buddhist philosophy and practice, as it is our most basic unity with the rest of life. When we breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide, we are engaged in reciprocity with the organic world, a kind of giving and receiving that forms the simplest of all symbiotic circles. That Vader’s breathing is mechanical and artificial demonstrates how utterly corrupted and disconnected he has become. 

This begins Vader’s time of exile from his original nature. As a young man, his home had once been wherever his mom was and, later, wherever his wife was. With both of them dead, Vader is literally and figuratively homeless, spending decades on Star Destroyers which wander space imposing Imperial law on the citizens of the galaxy. 

In his first book, The Spirit of Zen, Alan Watts describes what Vader has become and why he has become it with almost uncanny accuracy:

Briefly, [the Buddha’s] doctrine is that man suffers because of his craving to possess and keep forever things which are essentially impermanent. Chief among these things is his own person, for this is his means of isolating himself from the rest of life, his castle into which he can retreat and from which he can assert himself against external forces. He believes that this fortified and isolated position is the best means of obtaining happiness; it enables him to fight against change, to strive to keep pleasing things for himself, to shut out suffering and to shape circumstances as he wills.

Darth Vader is the perfect visual metaphor of the “self” in the “castle.” 

Yet when he transforms his “self” into a fortified castle, there is an enormous price to be paid. It goes beyond never being able to see the world with his own eyes, hear it with his own ears, and touch it with his own skin. It is a walling off of himself, a refusal to be hurt again, that results in a total disconnection from life, light, and love. 

Great significance is often attached to facing hard facts, and as he strides about the galaxy in an armored shell, choking Rebel officers during the Empire’s reign of terror, Darth Vader could be said to be the ultimate hard fact. This toughened attitude may work, but with every increase in hardness comes a subsequent loss of sensitivity. Being sensitive does open one up to pain, but it also opens one up to experience in general. As protected as Vader may be in his black armor, it would be impossible for him to enjoy a simple kiss from Padme, or enjoy the feel of the warm sun and cool breezes of Naboo’s Lake Country. His younger self reveled in the “soft” and “smooth” green world, his stilted dialogue nonetheless telling and ironic. 

The Taoist sage Lao-Tzu eloquently sums this paradox up nicely, “When people are born they are gentle and soft. At death they are hard and stiff. Suppleness and tenderness are therefore the characteristics of life. Rigidity and hardness are the characteristics of death.” 

And death is certainly what Vader deals out, even to his own subordinates. To him, the Imperial officers are merely cogs in the machine that is the Empire. If one malfunctions, it is discarded and replaced much like a broken part. Ironically, he often dispatches his officers by Force choking them, as if karma dooms him to continually enact Padme's demise. Likewise, it could be argued that when he freezes Han Solo in carbonite in Cloud City, he is also acting out what he has done to himself. 

After all, until the realization that Luke Skywalker is his son, Vader is spiritually and emotionally frozen too. After Luke’s destruction of the Death Star, he becomes obsessed with finding him, no doubt anxious to turn him into another possession. There are many parallels here that demonstrate Vader is still bound in the chains of karma he forged for himself. He tortures Han Solo and Leia Organa, sending ripples in the Force of Luke’s attachments being threatened, as well as again extending the offer to overthrow the Emperor and rule the galaxy with someone.

Letting Go

After their first lightsaber duel, Luke is battered and broken as well. Learning from Yoda that Vader is his father, he quickly echoes Padme’s last insight that “There is still good in him.” Armed with this faith, he allows himself to be captured on Endor. When Luke confronts Vader, he tells the dark lord he has accepted that he was once Anakin Skywalker, his father. When Vader dismisses the name, Luke tells him, “It’s the name of your true self. You’ve only forgotten.” This “true self” that he speaks of is not the ego, of course, but rather the enlightened buddha consciousness which everyone is originally born into. 

Even when Vader presents him to the Emperor as a prize ripe for conversion, Luke still does not give up hope, sensing the “good” in him, the “conflict.” The importance of karuna, or compassion, is central to the Buddhist insight that all life is connected and interdependent. In The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell translates com-passion as “suffering with,” citing the bodhisattva as one who attains enlightenment but comes back to the world of suffering for all beings anyway. 

Very much like a bodhisattva, Luke somehow understands that while his father may be an evil that needs to be destroyed, he is also a person suffering terribly who needs compassion. Thanks to his experience in the cave on Dagobah, he also understands his father is - on some level - himself. Campbell points out that the mythic theme of “atonement with the father” also means at-one-ment with the father. Contrary to his father, though, Luke is so open to life that he realizes he must also accept the possibility of death. It is only by surrendering to the vicious lightning attack of the Emperor that he fittingly finds the cracks in the armor of his long lost father. 

Finally opening his heart to someone else again and taking his pain as his own, Vader spectacularly lifts the Emperor up into the air and mightily hurls him down a deep reactor shaft (best moment ever). This act is a totally focused example of one-pointed meditation, an understanding of what needs to be done, and a doing of it. 

As Warner describes it in Sit Down and Shut Up, “He isn’t concerned with some future state of enlightenment. He isn’t concerned with addressing whatever wrongs we may have committed in the past. We cannot act in the past or future. We can only act right now.” No longer trapped in the past or attempting to control the future, Vader opens himself to the present moment, and rids the galaxy of the monster ego that wants to rule it forever. 

Afterwards, even in the hangar of a Death Star that’s under attack, all Vader cares about is seeing his son “with [his] own eyes.” When Luke protests that he’ll die without the life support of his mask and armor, he calmly replies, “Nothing can stop that now.” Finally, Anakin has made peace with impermanence. He realizes that just as one can only breathe properly by letting go of the breath as opposed to simply holding it in, he can only live again by dying. 

Luke carefully takes off his mask, revealing an older, surprisingly frail man. Deathly pale, Anakin nonetheless manages a faint smile for his son. When Luke tells him he has to save him, Anakin assures him he already has. Freed from his armored shell at last, he finally surrenders his ego, lets the suns set, and dies.

His body consumed in a ceremonial pyre, Anakin appears to Luke one final time during the celebration on Endor. No longer imprisoned as Vader, he is a young Jedi knight once more. As his shimmering blue apparition stands beside Yoda and Obi-Wan, it is very difficult not to recall  the timeless words of William Blake –

He who binds to himself a joy

Does the winged life destroy

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

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