First thoughts on “Rogue One”

Some first impressions from tonight’s screening of Rogue One:

This is the Star Wars film that critics of George Lucas’ prequels wanted instead. I told my brother-in law-in the car heading home that Rogue One is a love letter to fans of the original series.

The comparisons to The Force Awakens are inevitable. But these are, I think, two very different films. The Force Awakens was a nakedly cyclical jumpstart to the Star Wars mythology, whereas Rogue One is more of a panache the series’ best (and sometimes its flawed) elements. Those who left The Force Awakens very satisfied may feel frustrated with Rogue One, and vice versa.

Rogue One stands on its own without having seen any of the other Star Wars pictures, but series devotees will get the most delight out of it.

This very well may be the most action-packed, most violent Star Wars film of them all. It is considerably more battle-oriented than The Force Awakens. Lovers of dialogue and character exposition will be disappointed.

Related note: Rogue One’s characters, outside of Felicity Jones’ excellent Jyn Erso, are not that interesting. This is a film of plot and event, not people (and all the Attack of the Clones bashers said, “Amen!”).

Without spoiling, I will say that the filmmakers here have perfected a remarkable technology that will likely transform the entire way movies, especially reboots and sequels, are made. I won’t say more, but you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about after you see the film. The accomplishment is serious, and audiences will leave Rogue One with their impressions formed significantly by this dazzling technological achievement.

All in all, I think this film’s best achievement is recapturing the energy and joy that the Star Wars franchise is known for. The Force Awakens did part of the work, but its nostalgia was often overbearing and rote. Rogue One isn’t as richly imagined as Awakens, but it might be more fun. And isn’t that what counts in the end?

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“The Force Awakens” and Getting Trapped By Nostalgia

In conversations with friends about the new Star Wars movie, I’ve noticed two trends. The first is that most of the people I’ve talked to report enjoying the movie quite a bit (and that makes sense, seeing as how the film is scoring very well on the critic aggregation site Rotten Tomatoes). The second trend is that virtually no one has criticized The Force Awakens for being too much like the original Star Wars trilogy. Indeed, the opposite seems to be true: Most people who have told me how much they like Episode VII have mentioned its similarity, both in feel and in plot, to George Lucas’s first three Star Wars films as a reason why they like it so much.

For the record, I enjoyed The Force Awakens quite a bit, and J.J. Abrams’ homage to the golden moments of the original films was, I thought, well done. But many of my conversations about it have confirmed to me what I suspected when Episode VII was announced: We’re trapped in a cultural moment of nostalgia, and we can’t get out of it.

Of course, the nostalgia-entrapment begins with the existence of movies like The Force Awakens. As I’ve said before, as much as I love Star Wars, the fact that a 40 year old franchise is still dominating the box office, news cycle, and cultural attention is not something to be excited about. There comes a point when tradition becomes stagnation, and at least in American mainstream film culture, it seems like that line was crossed some time ago. Case in point: Included in my screening of Star Wars were trailers for a Harry Potter spinoff, another Captain America film, an inexplicable sequel to Independence Day, and yet *another* X-Men movie.  In other words, had an audience member in my theater just awoken from a 12 year coma, they would have seen virtually nothing that they hadn’t seen before.

Nostalgia, if unchecked, runs opposed to creativity, freshness, and imagination. Even worse, the dominance of nostalgia in American pop culture has a powerful influence in marketing, making it less likely every year that new storytellers with visions of new worlds, new characters and new adventures will get the financing they need to materialize their talents. That is a particularly disheartening fact when you consider that the storytellers whose work has spawned a generation’s worth of reboots and sequels were themselves at one point the “unknowns:” George Lucas couldn’t find a studio to finance Star Wars until an executive at 2oth Century Fox took a risk on a hunch; Steven Spielberg finished “Jaws” with much of Universal’s leadership wanting to dump both movie and director; and for much of the filming of “The Godfather,” executives of Paramount openly campaigned to fire writer/director Francis Ford Coppola. If formula and nostalgia had been such powerful cultural forces back then, there’s a good chance there’d be no Star Wars to make sequels for at all.

The trap of nostalgia is deceitful. It exaggerates the happiness of the past, then preys on our natural fear that the future will not be like that. But this illusion is easily dismantled, as anyone who has discovered the joys of a new story can attest.

There’s a freedom and a pleasure in letting stories end, in closing the book or rolling the final credits on our beloved tales. The need to resurrect our favorite characters and places through the sequel or the reboot isn’t a need based in the deepest imaginative joys. It is good that stories end rather than live on indefinitely so that we treasure them as we ought and lose ourselves in a finite universe rather than blur the lines in our mind between the truth in our stories and the truth in our lives. If we cannot allow myths to have definite beginnings and endings, it could be that we are idolatrously looking to them not for truth or grace but for a perpetual youthfulness.

Of course, there are dangers on the other side too. An insatiable craving for the new can be a sign of the weightless of our own souls. A disregard for tradition can indicate a ruthless self-centeredness. And, as C.S. Lewis reminded us, novelty is not a virtue and oldness is not a vice.

But we should be careful to distinguish between a healthy regard for those that come before us, and a nostalgia that (unwittingly) devalues tradition by ignoring how and why it exists. In the grand scheme of things, how many Star Wars films get made is probably not of paramount importance. But being trapped by nostalgia has its price. An irrational love of the past can signal a crippling fear of the future. Christians are called to lay aside the weight of fear and follow the gospel onward. If we’re not even willing to learn what life is like without a new Star Wars or Harry Potter, how can we do that?