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It’s Always Refreshing to Hear New Stories

Thirty years after we last saw the heroic Jedi knight celebrating with his friends on the moon of Endor, an unknown scavenger named Rey will respond to his name by saying, “Luke Skywalker? I thought he was a myth.”

Rey’s line from STAR WARS: Episode VII: The Force Awakens is the basis of Ken Liu’s canonical short story collection, The Legends of Luke Skywalker. Released during the run-up to STAR WARS: Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, the collection is centered around an evening of stories told to the young deckhands of a transport barge making its way across the galaxy to Canto Bight.

All told, the collection includes six “legends” about Luke Skywalker. The first revolves around a conspiracy theory that sees Luke and his friends, led by an old con-man named Benny ‘Wiseman’ O’Kenoby, tricking the Republic into using them as weapons in a propaganda war with the Empire. It seems, according to this conspiracy, that there never was a Death Star, that the Emperor made the whole thing up to scare his enemies, but the Republic knew of the secret, so they came up with their own false story about Benny Kenobi and his gang of bandits blowing the Death Star to pieces.

The second story is told from the perspective of a gunner in the Imperial navy whose Star Destroyer crashed during the Battle of Jakku. According to the gunner, Luke Skywalker was singlehandedly responsible for pulling all of the Star Destroyers down from the sky:

He was real, a glowing figure of sorcery and magic. He floated in space, his feet astride the stars, his cape billowing with an arcane power that could not be understood by mere mortals… He was a god playing with toys, except the toys were city-sized structures of steel and held tens of thousands of lives.

The Legends of Luke Skywalker, p. 79

Crashed on the surface now, the Imperial gunner is rescued by a shadowy figure in a hooded robe. He is convinced the figure is Luke Skywalker, and as the figure drags him through the deserts of Jakku, he worries over the torture he’s about to undergo: how will the wizard, Luke Skywalker, attempt to draw the secrets of the Empire from him?

When they get surrounded, with a crew of other scavengers, by the melted-down reactor cores of the crashed starships, the hooded figure leads them all to safety. The question the reader is left with is: Was the hooded figure, indeed, Luke Skywalker?

The third story takes place on the world Lew’el, where the people “lived by, from, and with the sea.” In The Last Jedi, we watch as Luke Skywalker uses a spear at least fifty feet in length to catch a fish for his dinner. In this third story, we learn how Luke gained his fishing skills.

Like many throughout the galaxy, the people of Lew’el are Force sensitives. A long time ago, they paid the price for their skills, and now they refuse to share their understanding of “the Tide” with outsiders. When Luke shows up, he charms his way into being instructed in the Tide, where he learns to “Trust in the Tide, and do what needs to be done.” But more importantly, he learns that, for the people of Lew’el, there is no “dark side” of the Tide:

We don’t think of the Tide that way. The ebb and flow are phases of one Tide, not two opposed sides. To use the Tide is to pervert it… It is those who seek to master it, to control it—whatever excuse they make up for themselves—who bring suffering.

The Legends of Luke Skywalker, p. 161 & 163

The fourth legend is narrated by “a construction droid from the Z7 series,” a droid, “designed for the heavy work of digging ditches, cleaning fields, grading terrain, putting up new buildings—everything necessary for civilization to blossom in the wilderness on newly settled planets.” When the droid is captured by slavers, it finds itself in the company of another captive, a “small astromech droid painted in white, silver, and blue.”

The narrator droid ends up getting a chip implanted into it that forces it to become an enforcer for the slaves. It quickly discovers that the astromech, R2-D2 (of course), “refused to do as he was told. I had to deliver shock after shock,” but even with all of that, R2-D2 was “full of defiance.”

Later, a new droid arrives on a slave ship, a humanoid figure with “five red stripes” on its arms (for those who remember, Luke Skywalker’s pilot designation is “Red 5”). The rest of the legend demonstrates Luke’s Force abilities and his charisma as he rescues R2-D2 and thousands of other droids from the slavers.

The fifth story takes the narration in an even weirder direction than a droid. This time, the narrator is Lugubrious Mote, a four-millimeter insect that lives on the fur of Salacious Crumb, the cackling creature that survives on Jabba the Hutt’s lap.

Salacious B. Crumb

In Lugubrious Mote’s tale, Luke Skywalker only survived his battle with the rancor thanks to Lugubrious’ skill as a puppet master. Riding atop of Luke’s scalp like Remy the Rat in the Pixar film, Ratatouille, Lugubrious whispers fighting tactics into Luke’s ear and bites him on the scalp to steer his actions in a certain direction. The Jedi knight interprets Lugubrious’ instructions not as the voice of an intelligent insect but as the spirit of some long-dead Jedi offering him guidance through the Force.

Lugubrious also accompanies Luke to the sarlac pit, guiding the young Jedi as he defeats Jabba’s guards and rescues Han, Leia, and the others from the Hutt’s clutches. Finding the job of helping Luke too exhausting, Lugubrious retires from the rebellion and takes a job at a circus, where she winds up with her name in lights.

The final legend is told by a young biology student who hitchhiked a ride with Luke Skywalker while conducting fieldwork on two remote planets. Luke was out searching for more information on the Jedi, and together, he and the biologist decided to take a look inside a cave on an asteroid. Unfortunately, it ended up not being a cave, but the inside of “an exogerth…giant, silicon-based creatures that live on asteroids and can grow large enough to swallow starships.”

The inside of the space slug is a world unto itself, with creatures living inside the slug similar to the way bacteria live inside of us. But along with the ecology of the place, Luke discovers a series of glowing letters and carvings that seem to be alive. Entranced by the opportunity to investigate a potential Jedi connection, he and the biologist delve deeper into the slug.

Days or weeks later (it’s difficult for them to keep time in the slug), they discover three statues at an altar, except further investigation reveals the statues aren’t statues at all, but creatures who, despairing at being trapped in the slug, have wrapped themselves in a kind of “time cocoon,” stretching one lifetime into thousands. The arrival of Luke Skywalker, who these creatures call “Bright Heart,” has awakened them to the flow of real time, and in their returned state, they concoct a plan to save Bright Heart from suffering their same fate.

Unfortunately, it requires Luke to sacrifice their lives with his lightsaber. The plan reminds him of the sacrifice Obi Wan Kenobi made, who trusted his life to the Force and allowed Darth Vader to cut him down in order for Luke and the others to escape the Death Star.

After following through with the plan, Luke admits to finally understanding “that accepting the sacrifice of those who love us and share our ideals is the first step to becoming more powerful than we can possibly imagine.”

All told, the six legends of Luke Skywalker add little to the canon of STAR WARS, but they do provide a young adult with a deeper understanding of what it means to be a Jedi knight and how the Force can be interpreted in different ways, much like the diverse cultures on Earth interpret divinity.

I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this book for adults, but if your pre-teen or teenager is a big fan of Luke Skywalker and STAR WARS, this collection of short stories should resonate with their sense of the Force.

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The Rise of…

I might be last to the race on this one, but I think I know how this all ends.

For the past month or so, I have been deep into the world of STAR WARS. I’ve read or listened to four and a half novels (just in the past month; a bunch more if you go back to the announcement of The Force Awakens). I’ve also perused a ton of Wookiepedia, which is a version of Wikipedia dedicated to every known detail of the now-seemingly parallel universe of STAR WARS. Finally, I’ve watched two of the prequels (with my seven-year-old daughter), one of the originals (with my twelve-year old student), part of Solo (fittingly, alone), a bunch of fan-created YouTube videos (for fun, I guess), and almost the entire first season of Rebels.

And yesterday, I purchased my first STAR WARS comic book.

I think I know where this ends.

The last episode of the 22-movie arc of The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU), which was released just this Spring, is titled ‌Endgame. The episode was attached to the announcement of two of its biggest stars that with this film, they would be retiring from the MCU.

Captain America and Ironman still live, however. If you miss them, all you need to do is pick up a comic.

The same goes for STAR WARS. After Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker, regardless of what happens to Rey, Finn, Poe, Kylo, the First Order, the Knights of Ren, the Resistance, the Empire, the New Republic, Darth Vader, Darth Sidious, Luke Skywalker, Yoda, Ben Kenobi, and all the others, if you miss them, all you need to do is pick up a comic.

And that is how this ends: with The Rise of Comics.

**

Saturday night, my wife and I hosted a holiday party for some of our friends. During the party, one of them brought up his distaste for Episode XIII: The Last Jedi, the much beleaguered entry of the Skywalker saga written and directed by Rian Johnson. My friend (like many others) didn’t like the movie; I (like many others) did.

Sunday afternoon, he continued our conversation with a series of text messages based around the clarification of my opinion. His questions, my answers, and his rebuttals were well informed and well intentioned, and our ongoing conversation led me to seek various links in support of my argument, during which time I discovered the Kindle edition of the first issue of a Marvel comic titled, Darth Vader: Dark Lord of the Sith. It was available for free to Amazon Prime members, so I downloaded the issue to read later.

Part of the conversation with my friend centered on whether we prefer storytellers to meet or subvert our expectations. He (like many) prefers the former; I (like many) prefer the latter. For example, he did not want to know how Luke Skywalker maintained his monastic existence while living for years on a lost island in the middle of nowhere; instead, he wanted to see Luke Skywalker fight an epic lightsaber duel. The movie did not live up to his expectation.

I had a similar expectation, but I enjoyed learning that, since the last time I saw him, Luke Skywalker had not been dwelling on the heroics of his past, but rather, hiding from the Force and from his loved ones in shame.

I also liked that instead of demonstrating his increased knowledge and power with the Force through an epic lightsaber duel, he faces his greatest failure through what might have been the greatest Force projection in the history of the universe. Any particularly dextrous Jedi can be dramatic with a lightsaber, but it takes a Jedi of Skywalker’s unique strengths to use the Force to communicate his love and his sadness to his sister while also facing off against the emotional pain that comes from dueling with a disgraced (and disgraceful) student…oh, and doing both of those things from the other side of the galaxy.

But I get it. Some people need their stories to fit an already-expected mold.

And that’s where the comics come in.

The first issue of Darth Vader: Dark Lord of the Sith begins its chronicle of Vader’s story at the exact second it ends in Episode III: The Revenge of the Sith. Suffering from the incredible physical pain caused by the loss of his devastating duel with his master, Obi Wan Kenobi, and from the installation of the life-supporting suit that his new Master, Darth Sidious, fashioned for him, and from the emotional pain that came with learning of the death of his secret wife, Senator Padme Amidala, who had died of a broken heart following Anakin’s turn to the dark side, Vader clenches his fists and screams out the word, “NO!!!!!!” The movie ended, and the comic begins, there.

Before anything else, Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, needs to come to grips with his pain and use it to find a new lightsaber. As his new master Sith Master tells him, “A Sith cannot be given a lightsaber; he must take it.”

Thus begins some of the most bad-ass encounters I’ve come across in the STARS WARS universe. Nothing — nothing — will stand between this legendary Sith Lord and his ultimate goal.

The story my friend wants to see, the one where the incredible Jedis and terrible Sith battle for the balance of the universe, can be found in Marvel comics.

That is the benefit of the behemouth that is Disney.

In the 2010s and 2020s, all the characters of our 20th century mythos are (mostly) free from the licensing issues that hampered their development in the 1990s and early 2000s. By purchasing political power (e.g., the late Senator Sonny Bono, who workshopped Congress into passing a Disney-friendly deal on the nation’s intellectual copyright law) and avoiding anti-trust investigations thanks to the rise of major competitors such as Netflix, HBO, and Amazon, Disney is now able to explore these mythos in a way that will satisfy virtually any audience member’s tastes.

Want to understand the political games Princess Leia played following the rise of the New Republic? There’s a whole book dedicated to it.

Want to see STAR WARS’ female heroes without having to deal with the various masculinities of Annakin, Han, Luke, Finn, or Poe? There’s a whole series of short TV episodes about that, centered around the conceit of a fireside story told by the old and wise female humanoid, Maz Kanata.

Want to hear how the Jedi lost Count Dooku to the Sith? There’s a whole radio show, available as both a script or an audio book, that you can check out.

Want lightsaber duels? Philosophical investigations? Noire crime stories? Spaghetti Westerns? Space battles? Deep lore? A Romeo & Juliet romance? You can have it. Whatever kind of story you want, Disney/Marvel/STAR WARS has something for it.

**

Is there a dark side to all of this? Of course. There’s a dark side to everything. And in this story, it’s the ever-increasing economic and political benefit to the men and women who profit from the goings on at Disney.

No one would complain if Disney’s storytelling and media production prowess didn’t rejigger the economics of creative storyelling, reducing the power of independent film makers at the same time as it increases the audience’s appetite for sensous delights. In society’s demand for bread and circus, Disney runs the big top.

At the same time, Disney employs talented individuals from a diverse range of backgrounds and has seemingly committed itself to promoting relatively liberal values through progressive representation and thematic intent.

Furthermore, the employees of Disney have donated $901,029 to Democratic politicians and only $47,298 to Republican ones, thereby (at least tacitly) promoting a (at least tacitly) liberal political agenda.

Does Disney have a dark side? Of course. First and foremost, as a capitalist entity, its very existence is predicated on the cruelty that is American capitalism, but given that environment (which if the older and more economically powerful members of the Democratic party continue to have their way, will continue for quite some time), isn’t Disney’s handling of our mythos kind of a good thing?

I’m teaching a class right now about the Historicity of Christianity. Working with one of my oldest (and longest tenured) students, I’m exploring how the books of the New Testament came to be considered canon. For example, in the earliest days of the cult, dozens (if not hundreds) of stories of Christ and Christian martyrs made the rounds, much of them contradictory and almost all of them pseudononymously. Why, then, did the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, & John come to be considered holy when others were considered heretical?

The answer is relatively well known, but my student had never considered the question; hence, the class.

There’s a comparison to be made here between Disney’s monopolization of the 20th Century American mythos and Rome’s monopolization of the early Chrisian mythos, but that’s not the comparison I’m aiming for.

Instead, I’m thinking about those early days in the Christian community, when various scrolls and books were read and traded by believers and nonbelievers, collected by monks and churches, and retold around countless fires.

It feels like we’re entering that phase of the STAR WARS universe.

The Resistance is in tatters, much like American democracy; heroes like Luke Skywalker and Martin Luther King, Jr. are gone. Stories of their deeds are now like wisps on the wind, making their way from lighted screen to lighted screen, manufacturing hope and promising that, like Jesus, it’ll come.

But in the meantime, here’s some folded-up book with colorful pictures that tells you even more of the story.

Don’t worry: it’s canon.

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Star Wars & Marvel: A Comparison

(Obviously, spoilers.)

In the last few nights, I’ve watched Star Wars: The Last Jedi and Guardians of the Galaxy: Vol. 2 (a little late on the latter, I know, but hey man, I have a kid). I’m interested in comparing the two universes, Star Wars’ and Marvel Studios’, both of which are owned by Disney (who now also owns pretty much everything else in Hollywood thanks to the deal with 20th Century Fox).

I don’t know what I’ll discover in this little essay, nor whether it will be original, but I think there’s something in the comparison that could be worthwhile. Instead of reading someone else’s comparison, I’ve decided to write my own.

It’s just more fun that way.

First, for context: I literally just finished watching Guardians vol. 2, and I watched The Last Jedi two days ago, so my memory of the former will be better than latter. Still, let’s jump.

First, their themes. Guardians is an artistic expression of the mythologically poignant argument that one must overcome the ego of the father (assisted by the love of friends and family — a love that is first awoken by the mother) before one can embark on their own journey for meaning.

The Last Jedi, meanwhile, is an artistic expression of the mythologically poignant argument that one must reject any attempt to find meaning in the legends and heroes of  the past.

In the same way that Kylo Ren blasts through his father, Han Solo, and Luke Skywalker tosses aside the lightsaber handed to him baton-like at the end of The Force Awakens, Rian Johnson democratizes the force of George Lucas’ meta-chlorinated bloodline and tosses aside the plot devices that were delivered to him, baton-like, by JJ Abrams.

Neither of these movies are subtle. But neither do they try to be. Everything in them drives home their themes. Yes, there are technical mistakes in their plots, the kind that can drive a hypercritical fan crazy with rage and/or disappointment, but for any storyteller worth their salt, the plot is never the point.

Storytellers weave their magic across all of the conflicts and complexities that are raised when a theme interacts with a variety of motivated forces. Rey’s search for the identity of her birth parents, for example, conflicts with Johnson’s argumentative theme (one’s meaning cannot be found in the past), and so part of the plot of The Last Jedi comes from the way that conflict  plays out. In addition, her attempt to re-engage Luke Skywalker in the conflicts of the wider universe only results in the stunning return of his spirit, which has its fleeting moment of beauty and victory before it too, like the sun, is gone.

And Kylo Ren, driven so long by the desire to defeat and kill Luke Skywalker, his true father-figure, sees his journey climax in an empty fight with a ghost, where his every action is meaningless and all of his emotional rage doesn’t matter. Kylo Ren is focused on the past — he wants, for reasons both he and the audience do not fully understand, to become even more powerful than his grandfather and his uncle, and he hasn’t yet learned that wielding such power doesn’t much matter. That’s what makes him the bad guy (in the moral world of Disney, bad guys are people who haven’t yet learned their lesson).

Compare to the bad guys from Guardians of the Galaxy. In vol. 2, two of the bad guys have carried over from vol. 1, but by the end of the movie, both of them have been redeemed, one of them by finally getting to the sympathetic core of what she really wants (a sister), the other by revealing himself as a misunderstood step-father who, though he joked about eating a young Starlord and made him do some criminal things, really did love him and really did protect him, and who, when push came to shove, chose to sacrifice his life for him (compare to Starlord’s biological father, who killed his mother and was just now literally trying to consume his soul).

At the end of Guardians vol 2., the main characters have no real place left to go. The bad guy is dead, and with it, the main characters’ driving questions: at this point, all they want is to make a new family (with Groot standing in for the moody teenage child). Enter the Marvel calling card, an epilogue to remind us that the Guardians corner of the universe is a big place, and there are always more stories to tell.

At the end of Star Wars, however, we don’t know where the story might go, because for Star Wars, the Skywalker bloodline has always been the one story. That’s what so great about what Rian Johnson forced JJ Abrams to do. By revealing Rey’s truly humble origins, doubling down with his force-strong janitor boy, and killing Luke Skywalker and Snoke, Johnson cut away everything extraneous and said to JJ Abrams, “Kylo is the last Skywalker, and you’ve only got one movie to decide his fate. What are you going to do?”

This is such a baller move. Rian took away JJ Abram’s favorite weapon: plot-based mysteries. With the death of Snoke, the reveal of Rey’s parents, and the discarding of the Luke Skywalker MacGuffin, Rian dares JJ Abrams to approach the next chapter of the story not through its plot, but through its theme and its characters. Like a good professor, he challenges JJ Abrams to become a better storyteller.

Compare that to Guardians and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. The basic plot of the Marvel CU has been known for years (not to the general public, but to Marvel, of course). Since its inception in 2008, the universe has shared an already-existing connective tissue. While Marvel encourages its storytellers to make each film stand on its own, it also requires its connective tissue be kept in place, realizing that the strength of one movie supports the weaknesses of the others, much like, in The Avengers, the strength of one superhero supports the weaknesses of the others.

But the Star Wars universe doesn’t work like that. Can you imagine Marvel allowing a creator to toss away major plot-structures (the Infinity Stones, for example) that it spent over a decade of man-hours and billions of dollars constructing and reinforcing?

But that’s what Rian Johnson just did with The Last Jedi.

I applaud Kathleen Kennedy and the rest of the Star Wars executive branch for allowing Johnson to make a movie that was this subversive of its mythos, and then to triple-down on their decisions by giving Johnson the first original trilogy of films in what I can only hope will be an ever-daring and ever-entertaining series of stories.

The difference of course is that the Marvel Universe has been in existence since 1939, and while the Marvel Cinematic Universe didn’t start until the first Iron Man movie in 2008, it still has over 78 years of connections to contend with.

Star Wars, by contrast, has only been around for forty years. In effect, with Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi, we see what amounts to the saga’s midlife crisis, the abandonment of one set of motivating forces for a new but as yet unknown set of motivating forces. We can call it the crisis of one individual life, or we can call the moment when one generation takes over from the one that preceded.

With The Force Awakens, JJ Abrams demonstrated his generation’s ability to receive a beloved set of principles and then toss them back into the universe in much the same form, just with a new sense of style — much like Starlord, in Guardians, tosses a ball of ego-light back and forth with his biological father.

Rian Johnson, however, catches the ball, and like Luke with the lightsaber, he tosses it over his shoulder, as if to say to the previous films, “No thanks. I’m gonna go do something else.” Then he walks off to play his own game, over in a brand new trilogy.

What’s hilarious is that JJ Abrams now has to walk over and pick that ball up again. His whole legacy as a filmmaker rests on what he does with it.

Good luck!