An Appreciation of John Wick

I was sold on the first John Wick movie after reading something along the lines of this on a movie forum:

Keanu Reeves avenges his dead puppy and takes on the Russian mafia.

My first thought was that this might be a goofy action-movie pastiche that would use a puppy as a story hook the same way the film Keanu used a kitten. It turned out that John Wick was serious--dead serious. And it worked because I was able to take it seriously, even with its bizarre world-building and absurdities. It was an easy-going revenge flick dripping in style and grit, fully loaded with impressive action choreography and gunplay. It wound up becoming a new all-time favorite because the story, so simple and clean, worked.

WARNING: SPOILERS FOLLOW 

It Was More Than a Puppy

John Wick begins in media res, in a scene at the movie's end. We don't know what happened up to that point, and we see nothing that's particularly exciting. It's a bit ironic that this great action movie doesn't start with action--it starts with our title character at his most wounded, literally bleeding his guts out as he pulls out a cellphone and watches a video of his dead wife. Within a few minutes, we already understand a few key things about John Wick: he's involved in something violent and dangerous, and he had a wife once who is now gone. When the title screen hits, we already have a few key story questions that become hooks: who is this guy? What happened to him?

Going back to the beginning, we are then shown John Wick's daily routine, which is somber, slow, peaceful even. There's no real action here either, but we see that he's alone and in mourning. This in itself becomes a conflict, and it's something we see in Keanu Reeve's performance, which takes these wordless scenes and exudes grief and pain out of everyday activities. Even watching him pour coffee looks ritualistic.

Before long, he gets the message from his dead wife and a delivery. To help him move on, he's given a puppy to take care of. It becomes his last remnant of a happier time. He's given hope, purpose, and something to live for (and all of this is explicitly defined later when Wick is tied to a chair, shouting at Viggo the reasons why it was more than a dog and why he has to go through with his vengeance).

These opening scenes may seem like the slowest portion of the film, but it's the most important. This is where all the heart is. The script and performers assign meaning to puppy, which in turn ties to a character who we see is in pain. We already feel something for Wick, and we care for him and his puppy.

So how to do you create a kick-ass action movie out of this? You take away the last things Wick has. Upon doing so, the film elicits outrage. You feel for Wick when he's beaten down and left with nothing. And for the rest of the movie, you root for him when he rises back up and gets payback. What we have with this film is a very simple but effective fall-rise arc. And with the use of the puppy as a personal attachment with deeper meaning, the film succeeds eliciting empathy for the main character. It does all of this within twenty minutes--that leaves another hour-plus for pure action.

Buried Remains

There is a mythic quality to these films. Part of it may be in the simplest of scenes--one in which Wick buries his lost puppy, and another in which he unearths the tools of his past life from his basement. There is an implicit irony to these scenes as they happen in such close proximity--Wick has to bury something he loved and lost, but he must also dig up something he previously buried and thought he left behind. The whole movie (and series) winds up revolving around Wick's inability to escape his past or let go. There's a literal underworld that keeps dragging him back into the fold, making it impossible for him to have nice things. He becomes the Boogeyman everybody talks about.

With the mystique of the film's underworld, it has a few world-building quirks that I've never seen (or perhaps can't recall right now) in other films. In Wick's world, there is some overarching criminal authority built on unspoken rules of conduct and civility--we see it shown (never told) as Wick interacts with his contacts and old friends. It seems like everybody at the Continental knows him--he's achieved legendary status through deeds we never really see or hear about. But we can tell it's significant based on the reputation he has with the high-rollers around him, and the fear he instills in experienced gangsters like Viggo. Through the reactions of other characters, the scant stories they tell about Wick being a Boogeyman who can kill with a pencil, we understand that Wick is a guy you don't mess with.

The places Wick goes to are hardly normal. The Russian mafia seems to always hang out in huge buildings with European facades and stuffy interiors where there are books, booze, cigars, and women. When Iosef is at the club, he's hanging out in its lowest level, which looks less like a usable pool and more like a underground river with vaulted brick ceilings. On top of all that, the mafia performs many operations beneath an elaborately-decorated church. On one hand, there is a sense of class to all these places, but they're simply masks for the underlying filth, crime, and violence that follows the mafia in all its activities. It follows Wick as well, and the Continental hotel achieves the same contrast--there are rules, codes, pleasantries, but Perkins and Marcus both violate those barriers to bring out Wick's violent, uncivil side. This generates the theme of civility vs savagery throughout the film, but even on an aesthetic level, it has a way of adding layers of myth over the criminal underworld. It's all the same reasons why I enjoyed the Noir anime series (and really, Noir and Wick seem to be cut from the same cloth somehow. If I had to write fan fiction for both, I'd mash them up in a shared universe just for kicks. Wick vs Mireille vs Kirika would be an epic gunfight).

What really pushes this movie (and its sequel) into "mythic" territory is what I see in common with another mythic figure: Kratos, from the God of War video games. Both Wick and Kratos lost their loved ones (different reasons--Kratos lost his family by his own rage, but Wick is dragged into things because people just won't leave well enough alone). Both characters seek revenge against higher powers. Both are subject to the rules and whims of higher authorities (as Kratos is punished and de-powered by Zeus, Wick is subject to the rules of "management" and runs the risk of "ex communicado" in the sequels).

Attributing Wick as a Boogeyman (aka Baba Yaga) makes him synonymous with a ghostly figure who stalks his prey, catches them unaware, and wreaks unbelievable havoc on his enemies. Kratos was always a blunt instrument who ravaged Olympus with sheer brute strength and rage--Wick is much more subtle, and with his slick hairstyle and elegant suits, he comes off as a more nuanced, silent, mysterious figure. It's perfect for a nightclub that looks like it's sitting on the River Styx, or later in Rome where there's a party on top of ancient catacombs. Parallels are drawn between the criminal underworld and the mythological underworld, and with Wick's thirst for vengeance, I can't help but to think of his continuous hellish descent as something ripped out of a Greek tragedy.

In the end, it's not just the puppy that goes into the ground, or Wick's off-screen wife. He descends into the ground often as well, so he can rise in the underworld.

Show Us Where It Hurts

He becomes a specter in his own way. Even though he bleeds and suffers, his sheer skill makes him nearly invulnerable. This would normally be a problem for a movie, since invincible characters don't elicit tension. You know they survive in the end (and we know Wick lives long enough to find himself rounded in some loading dock somehow), so you know his scenes at the nightclub, warehouse, and safehouse won't amount to him dying.

And yet, we are glued to his every move for a few good reasons:

• This is an action film, and what sells it the most is the choreography. For films, this works because it becomes a visual art rooted in performance, skilled gunplay, and the camera's tracking (which is all exceptional in the film). We become wowed by what we see.
• The film is just slathered in style, thanks to the steady cinematography, the unique camera angles, the neon-lighting. It's always interesting to look at, even in between the action. Once again, this is a visual trait that benefits the film.
• John Wick may be a Boogeyman, but his fights rarely go perfectly. His first big fight scene at his own house goes pretty smoothly--he succeeds in dispatching every enemy, but we have brief tension when a cop comes snooping around (this becomes another opportunity to showcase Wick's mystique as the cop spots the bodies, asks if he's still working, then backs away--we are shown that Wick has a reputation that goes above the law). In the nightclub, he is stabbed in the gut and thrown off a mezzanine--he limps back to the hotel to be healed by a doctor, but not without the warning that his stitches could rip open again. So for the next round of action scenes, we see that he puts his own flesh and mortality at risk (especially when Perkins repeatedly punches him in his wound, presumably tearing it open again). In the following sequences, Wick is hit by a car or two, and is captured and beaten. He loses his allies and is betrayed by Viggo. It takes all this effort just to get to Iosef--everything seems to conspire to turn on Wick and kill him, and this is what makes the story compelling even if you know his sheer skill will win out in the end. It's the challenge and struggle that makes this work.
• On the flipside of the above, there's another reason why it's exciting to watch Wick even when you know he'll live on in the end--when he does overcome his challenges and get back up, you are pumped to see him take out the bad guys (because we've been onboard with him from frame one) and we are interested to see exactly how he's going to get Iosef (and then Viggo) in the end. When we do see it all unfold, we become wowed by what he does.

Details Matter

What makes this film most palatable is not in how much is told to us with the dialogue, but how much is unspoken. So much of the film is shown to us and not told, and it works perfectly for many reasons.

• As mentioned in detail above, everybody's reactions to the mere mention of Wick paints him as a legend without having to explain away who Wick is and why he's so feared. By seeing the reaction, we understand.
• The rules and mechanics of management and the underworld are never explained in detail. We see Wick give out these gold coins--since these aren't ordinary currency, we understand that this is something exclusive to the Continental and the powers that be. When we see the things he uses this money on (cleaners, a hotel stay, a doctor who doesn't ask questions, a drink even), we see that there's an entire infrastructure operating invisible to the rest of society. Is it plausible? The film makes it look plausible, and that's all we need to see.
• Codes and rules are hardly ever recited to us. All we hear is something along the lines of "don't do business in the hotel," but since we know whose these people are and what they do, we know that business doesn't mean mergers and such. When Perkins breaks those rules, we see the consequences, so we see that the higher powers have the pull and means to enforce their rules. Wick respects and obeys these standards, which not only shows us his place in this world, but also helps characterize him even further--he's a man who can show discipline, restraint, and honor.
• And yet, we see at least two characters who chose to disrespect the rules: Iosef and Perkins. Iosef in particular is a punk and a coward--these traits are never told to us, but are shown in the way he whines, pouts, runs and hides. We already want to see him knocked off because he killed Wick's puppy--as the movie goes on, he just digs his grave deeper as he fumbles around. Perkins blatantly says "f**k management" and does whatever she wants to, killing one of Wick's allies in the process. Unsurprisingly, she pays for her disrespect. Little more needs to be said--all of this plays out before our eyes.

Be Seeing You

John Wick proves that you don't need much to make a great action-movie experience. As great as it is to see a movie loaded with pyrotechnics, special effects, and the like, Wick pulls it off with just a bunch of guys with guns in interesting locations going through fantastic stunt choreography, and filmed with style. But it all works because of the script, and the clean way it shows us the story instead of shoving exposition down our throats. It all unfolds in a way that lets us become drawn to the character's pain, before we follow him on his rampage and root for him to overcome his enemies and finally find peace.

Of course, with the sequels Wick may never truly find peace. His future struggles show how he continues to dig himself deeper into his own personal hell, unable to escape the past. But one can always watch the first film on its own merits, since it reaches satisfying closure. Wick got his payback, adopted a new dog--there's nothing more gratifying than to see that last shot where he's finally able to walk away with his business completed.

Book Review: Annihilation (Jeff VanderMeer)

What could happen if an alien ecology invaded ours? Imagine how horrific, uncanny, and unreal it would be to watch nature transform into something completely alien. The process of doing so means wiping out what existed before--hence, annihilation.

Jeff VanderMeer's Annihilation follows the path of a biologist who ventures into Area X along with a team of other scientists, all women, all of varying disciplines and skills. Area X is a piece of the American south that's slowly being eaten away by an invisible force that mutates life, and it's the goal of the Southern Reach to observe the phenomenon with the science teams they send out.

It's not a story I found all that palatable, unfortunately. The 12th Expedition falls apart from page one as each team member mistrusts each other and inevitably lunge for each other's throats. I struggled to understand why this happened to each character--it's as if they're all written to be scheming, conniving a-holes. I suppose it's implicit that Area X affects everybody's senses and thoughts to become this way, but I feel the plot didn't really progress naturally in that direction.

In fact, I found no discernible plot at all. All sense of narrative momentum is bogged down by way too much introspection, which fills up the majority of the book. The progress that does happen amounts to characters moving around a tower or something, with lots of running around, fighting odd monsters, and then themselves. I never had a good sense of where acts begin and end, when characters make those story-defining decisions. Pacing is slow and the structure is abstract.

What bothered me more was the writing style, but I have to admit that if it wasn't for the Internet I would have never guessed that this book was written in the style of a field journal. To me, this simply read like a book with an awful lot of exposition--it is a necessity for epistolary novels, but it made this a chore to read. Part of the problem is that the voice is long-winded, dry, and devoid of personality or passion. I had zero emotions reading about the biologist as she observed her weird surroundings, reflected on her troubled past, and inevitably killed her teammates. It was all a cold and detached experience that I found droll.

To be fair, there is some value to the book and the more open-minded readers will probably enjoy the ideas, the atmosphere, and the tension of the story. There were moments where I found the sentence structures elegant, the descriptions deep, and the character flashbacks compelling. Can't complain about the world-building, Area X is a freaky place that will invoke uncanny images that may creep under your skin.

It is a unique piece of weird fiction that many have enjoyed, but it's not one I particularly liked. It may have been that I didn't understand the author's intention with the format, but even if I did, I doubt I would have followed it any better given the overabundance of introspection. For those that follow, read at your own discretion.

2/5

Film Review: Godzilla (1998)

If it's a big-scale disaster movie you want, check out those guys who blew everybody away with 1996's Independence Day! Man, that movie seemed to have it all--huge explosions ripping down city streets, jet fighters battling alien ships, and in between plenty of heart and story to glue it all together into a sentimental, awe-inspiring package.

The same formula is applied to 1998's Godzilla, courtesy of director Roland Emmerich and writer/producer Dean Devlin. This time around, they spin a fantastic yarn in which nuclear testing in the Pacific mutates a common lizard into a new species. It finds its way to New York, where it stomps its way through the city and becomes hunted by the military. In the middle of it all, a nerdy scientist (Matthew Broderick--I don't think anybody asked for Ferris Bueller to be an action hero), his GF (Maria Pitillo--I thought she was cute, shame this film may have ruined her career), a camera guy (Hank Azaria), and the Frenchiest Frenchman who ever Frenched (Jean Reno) all join forces to stop the monster with nothing more than their amazing power to run around and say funny things...and sometimes their wits.

If you're a fifteen-year-old living in the 90s like I was once, this movie would have hit all the right notes. As a Emmerich/Devlin disaster flick, it does what it wants to just fine. The CGI has not aged well at times, given how soft and unrefined a lot of it looks, but when married with the countless explosions, practical stunts, and model work, it becomes bombastic. Biggest highlights are in the first half, when Godzilla makes landfall and steps on everything. Then, he takes on the military in quite a few big setpieces.

Under scrutiny, the whole thing falls flat when you realize that the story gluing all this together just doesn't stick. All of the characters are as one-dimensional as they come. The lead's sole note is that he's a nerd with a Greek name nobody can pronounce. Broderick plays him like a very very nice version of Sheldon from Big Bang Theory. As the film goes on, it sidelines the Godzilla threat in favor of romantic tension between him and the GF, who decisively uses their connection to get ahead in the reporting business, but at certain costs. All of this will induce more yawns and groans than thrills, not because it's boring necessarily but because it's so sappy and doesn't even need to be in the movie. All of the film's excesses--the sap and the bombast--are amplified by David Arnold's score. As much as I love the man's Bond music, it's just a little too 90s in this.

Most of the writing is horrible. Even Devlin, who rushed the script within five weeks, will admit to its shortcomings. Every line feels like a cliche of some kind, with zero depth or personality given to the characters. What makes it palatable on any level is the lighthearted tone--I can appreciate what the levity aims for, and the humorous lines come so frequently that it turns the film into something of a goof-fest. Unfortunately, this strips away the gravitas of the military, who essentially become trolled by Godzilla (and after a rather respectful portrayal in ID4, this just feels stupid). Godzilla himself becomes a ninja for some weird reason, able to hide in the city and sneak-attack helicopters and cars from the most unlikeliest of places.

That may be the film's greatest weakness--its failure to treat Godzilla as a character. The film explicitly labels him as an animal, nothing more and nothing less. Godzilla's sole motivation is to reproduce (um yeah, turns out he can lay eggs all by himself, so...yeah) and find fish. That is all. He becomes vulnerable to gunfire and missiles. He has no atomic breath per se, he simply roars and things explode. Contrast this to the traditional Japanese vision, in which Godzilla is an invincible atomic-powered beast that can either be our greatest enemy or most powerful ally. Emmerich's vision aims for neither--he's simply a problem that the characters deal with, and they do. It becomes a kind of fake Godzilla--one that's so Americanized that it's devoid of symbolism and awe. As the creators of Godzilla: Final Wars noted, they "took the God out of Godzilla."

This script really ticks me off the more I think about it (and let's not even talk about Jean Reno, whose sole role in this film is to be on a never-ending quest for the perfect coffee, because that's how French he is by golly. Such a waste of talent--I kinda wish he would have been in a Bond movie or something, how awesome would it be to see him next to Pierce Brosnan instead of this junk?). But as a spectacle film, it looks halfway decent, and the goofy tone makes it an apt companion next to other 90s disaster flicks like ID4, Twister, and Armageddon. If you can ignore previous Godzilla lore and accept that he could just be a giant, ugly iguana-thing, then the film becomes a fair popcorn flick. Upon growing up a little, I've come to see how shallow and silly this all is. I suppose most monster movies are anyway, but at least the original Gojira persisted for 20+ sequels. Tristar couldn't even get one together for theirs.

Sixteen years later, Gareth Edwards would prove that Hollywood can make a decent Godzilla picture, so watch that one instead.

2.5/5

Film Review: Avengers: Endgame (2019)

Earth's mightiest heroes lost the Infinity War. A mighty titan used the ultimate power of the cosmos to obliterate half of all life in the universe. And that was that--balance was achieved, but at horrific costs.

Entering the Endgame, the surviving heroes now linger in a pseudo-apocalyptic world where mankind grieves over the vanished. In a state of defeat, the Avengers splinter apart to their separate ways, each one losing their edge. It lingers for five years, before a one-in-fourteen-million chance emerges. Once the gang is aroused to the possibilities of undoing the damage and restoring what was lost, they assemble once more for a seemingly-outlandish scheme to steal the infinity stones from the past so they can seize control of their future.

Endgame is the dramatic counterpart to Infinity War, just as Kill Bill Volume 2 backfills the story for Kill Bill Volume 1. Endgame spends much of its middle acts capturing the characters at their lowest--Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr., dependable as ever) hangs up the suit and opts for a humble family life. Having lost his family, Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner) becomes a ninja-like vigilante, contrasting with the Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) and her efforts to keep Shield glued together. Thor (Chris Hemsworth, displaying incredible flexibility in drama and comedy) lets it all go as he recedes to his new digs in Norway. Hulk (Mark Ruffalo) mellows out. Only Captain America (Chris Evans) maintains the optimism to reunite all these pieces, all thanks to the sudden reappearance of Ant-Man (Paul Rudd) and the breakthrough information he carries with him. Let us not forget that Rocket (Bradley Cooper), Nebula (Karen Gillan), and War Machine (Don Cheadle) also become part of the team, and yes indeed, Captain Marvel (Brie Larsson) pitches in her help when most needed.

The Marvel universe now embodies dozens of characters, and even with half of them missing, the script takes the time to scrutinize the remaining leads as they experience fallout. The film is at its best with the dramatic weight bearing down on each hero as they gradually learn to rise from failure, and reconcile lingering heartaches with their loved ones (Tony Stark and his father, Thor and his mother, Scott Lang and his daughter, and even Rocket and his shipmates). Just like with Star Wars and The Fast and the Furious, this is a series about families, and we see how many families are torn apart, brought together, and ultimately patched following the damage caused by a tyrant who never had a family and created a fake one through conquest.

The most remarkable thing is that Endgame doesn't have to do so much heavy-lifting--as the twenty-second film of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, it's simply the payoff for twenty-two films' worth of setups. Every film has contributed to the "endgame." Details, characters, plot progression are never wholly lost, retconned, or revised as the films progressed. With the Back to the Future inspired "time heist" going on, the film goes so far as revisiting old films to show new angles on past events and make certain connections that provide closure to certain character arcs. For the main Avengers team--Iron Man, Captain America, Hulk, Thor, Hawkeye, Black Widow--this is their swansong and each character is sent off with a sense of gravitas. The result is a cascading catharsis. The emotions are what makes the film stand out, moreso than the humor (which doesn't hit its mark as well as previous films) or even the action.

Oh boy, there is action to behold and the final battle is a magnificent sight that'll satiate those who've sat through twenty-two films to see the end-all-be-all superhero brawl. When it happens, it's a magical, cathartic moment that reminds me why battles in Star Wars or Lord of the Rings seemed so grandiose and magnificent. I do have to call it out for having too many shots that are dark, confusing, and sloppily edited. It's also the mother of all deus ex machinas--the logic behind it eludes me.

The logic in the story overall is rather hard to grasp, especially since the writing seems to handwave our preconceived notions of causality and time travel, suggesting that the characters can screw with history all they want without consequence. I feel like it's more of a free pass for the writers and directors to skimp out on those details so we can buy into the larger twists. There are one or two parts where it felt like the writers painted themselves in corner and tried to patch over some plot holes in clunky ways. It is also easy to nitpick on how the world is portrayed, which is not quite apocalyptic enough considering half of all life was obliterated previously.

If you're going into this blindly without seeing the other twenty-one Marvel films, you may come out of it overwhelmed by the sheer number of characters, arcs, plotlines, and worlds that are braided together. If these movies were a TV series, then Endgame would be like the season three finale. But instead, it's the payoff for eleven years' worth of films. It is captured with steady and confident cinematography and editing. Props, costumes, sets, locales, and special effects look polished and pleasing, and aligns with past movies sublimely. Alan Silvestri's score sets the valiant mood and tempo as reliably as ever. A fair quality film, but your impression of it will hinge entirely on your familiarity with the series.

The uninitiated would undoubtedly just see a noisy mess in all of this, but for the fans who have kept up, this is your reward for being part of the MCU family--a truly epic and emotional experience that brings together every hero one last time to make everything right. It's not perfectly-written, perfectly-thought-out, or perfectly-balanced, but this is a case where the story overrides the plot for the better. The sheer catharsis and closure this film provides makes the last eleven years worth it. Thank you Avengers--everything is as it should be now.

4/5

The Fourth Is With Us: A General Appreciation of Star Wars

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, a farm boy's family was obliterated by an oppressive military force as they hunted down fugitive robots. Hooking up with a space smuggler, a wizard, and a princess, this kid went on a sweeping adventure across a universe of diverse worlds, populated by thousands of fantastic aliens and creatures. Uniting them all was the Force--the spiritual power that united all living things and guided them towards their destinies.

A simple, fundamental adventure full of wit, danger, action, romance, sleaze, camp, pomp, and gravitas. To say nothing of the emotional impact as characters discover important truths that change the dynamic of the story. By the end, one generation passes and a new one will change the future. In extremely broad terms, this is what the original Star Wars trilogy is.

These three films captivated audiences for forty-two years, and you'd have to be living on Dagobah to have never heard of it. Those who lived and grew up seeing the originals on the big screen were undoubtedly blown away by a film experience never before seen--a fast-paced blockbuster with eye-popping special effects, quick-fire action, and enough passing story beats to glue it all together. Hundreds more movies would emerge following the same patterns and trends, but Star Wars persists because it embodies more than just a movie experience--it's a sense of magic, whimsy, and adventure that everybody can love and appreciate.

I did not experience the hype of the originals, but I've been told that I was still in the womb when my parents saw The Empire Strikes Back (they were actually not impressed, they thought the big twist was so stupid). I was a rather strange kid when I was born--I was drawn to the TV every time Slimer appeared on Ghostbusters, or whenever Axel Foley tumbled around the back of a truck on Beverly Hills Cop. But Star Wars? Meh, it's always been there, so what?

A Totally Fly Franchise for the 90s

I don't think I really embraced Star Wars fandom until middle school, during the 90s. And that was an awesome time to be a fan--novels galore were pumped out, and I was thoroughly enamoured by Kevin J. Anderson's Jedi Academy Trilogy (I got to see Anderson in in person during a conference in Utah--he signed one of those books for me and gave some good talks about writing). I also gave Timothy Zahn's Thawn Trilogy a shot (should give it another try, see if I'll appreciate it more as an adult), along with several other books.

The games were enthralling: Dark Forces made Doom-style gameplay accessible to us youngsters, while its sequel Jedi Knight blew me away with all the Force powers, lightsaber combat, and its branching story paths based on moral choices (future games would do it better, but at the time I was impressed, and I found the Dark Side ending quote sobering). I would go on to edit levels with Jedi Knight (and its expansion pack), going so far as designing a whole campaign based on my first novel. It was cheesy, but it worked. On top of that, I spent many fine hours engrossed by Rebellion, X-Wing, TIE Fighter (until it kept crashing), and for one magical summer, Episode One Racer. Later in life, I'd play lots of Galactic Battlegrounds, and I gave Republic Commando a quick playthrough.

I had a pretty meaty collection of cards from the Star Wars Customizable Card Game, and I played it often with my dad and my best friend. And the toys, of course, were way cool. Had my fair share of action figures, old and new, but it was the Micro Machines that excited me the most. I had enough small figures and ships to wage an all-out war against the Micro Machine city I had collected years previous. Combined with all the Star Trek ones I had, it might be the closest a kid can come to seeing the two franchises cross over in an awesome way.

I watched the original three movies regularly. Even after seeing so many other sci-fi and fantasy films, I decided that Star Wars had the best action of the lot and was therefore very exciting. The only other thing that enthralled me as deeply was Independence Day, which in the summer of 1996, felt like the event film of my generation. It still wouldn't hold up nearly as well as Star Wars.

By the late 90s, I was rather well-versed in most things Star Wars. By 1997, I was thoroughly pumped for the Special Edition re-releases of the original trilogy. It was the eighth grade, and even though I was fairly well-versed in quality cinema, I really didn't give a hoot about Han shooting first, rocks blocking R2, or even Jedi Rocks. I soaked up every change and marveled at the then-groundbreaking special effects. Lost scenes were restored. Images were refined. The galaxy became more populated and vivid. Kids asked me (sarcastically) "did you enjoy the extra eight minutes?" I did.

I was some kind of a fan and I loved the whole thing, warts and all.

Current artifacts of my own fandom.

A Saga Begins...Again?

Summer of 1999. I in was high school. I had moved halfway across the world and was a new kid on the block. I was a loner, but other people seemed to dig me that way and all my Star Wars doodles seemed to delight them. I half expected a hellish time until graduation, but it was anything but. My years there were bright and optimistic, for we had so much to look forward to.

Somewhere along the way, I caught wind of some incredible news: George Lucas was working on more Star Wars films. I had heard the rumors that he wanted three whole trilogies to make a nine-movie saga, but the prequels would have been impossible with the sheer amount of special effects involved. Modern movie-making made it a possibility, and we would finally see the full story as it was meant to be seen. I started following the Star Wars website often, and would marvel at the scant pieces of news and screenshots they gave. Everything I saw foretold a picture unlike any other. They'd finally bring Coruscant--an immense city-planet I had only seen in books--to the big screen for all to see. They shot luscious scenes all over Italy and Tunisia, They were creating the world's first all-CGI main character--a walking, talking, breathing, photo-realistic alien that would interact with all the other actors and play an important part. They were going to expand the boundaries of the galaxy and its history, bringing to life the full saga of the original antihero, Anakin Skywalker.

When the first teaser dropped, it was the first one I had ever seen on the Internet. To watch video online seemed like a marvel (especially with AOL and dial-up). Everything I saw left me in a state of awe and wonder. The build-up of images, story beats, and music made it a cathartic piece in itself, and it left its mark. In the months leading up to the film's release, I listened to John Williams' score fervently until I memorized all its theme. "Duel of the Fates" became my jam that year. I gawked at the booklet and artwork often, feeling hyped for a grand adventure with podraces, Sith lords, Jedi, and more.

Later in the year, it happened. I would have seen the movie with my parents in a packed theater, where the movie was met with cheers and applause (I don't remember anybody applauding the original trilogy's Special Edition releases). I settled in and let the experience wash over me, and I was not disappointed. Not even Jar Jar Binks or Jake Lloyd's acting dampened the overall experience. The battles were enthralling, with the podrace scene standing out as an incredible action centerpiece. I was amazed by all the special effects that painted vast new worlds on the screen. I loved the sleek new ships, droids, and tech. The whole time, I was excited, intrigued, entranced and I couldn't wait to see how the Clone Wars would play out.

To date, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace is one of the only two movies I've seen more than once in a cinema (the other being 2009's Avatar). I would see the movie again with other family members, and the film remained just as enthralling. I'd beg my parents to obtain the special Widescreen VHS edition (and they obliged--came with a film cell and art book), and I even had the chance to bring it to class once for all to enjoy (I forget why--movie day I guess). With DVDs so new at the time, we waited a long time until a handsome two-disc edition came out.

My fandom might have been at its highest then, and I perused the Internet to see if other people shared my excitement and opinions. I was exasperated to find divisive film reviews--maybe half the audience bashing it as boring, with weak writing, a weak story, bad acting, and above all, Jar Jar Binks ruined everything. For every review like this, there were counter-arguments--one that I remember is a woman stating simply "it's a fantasy." I decided to not let the critics sway my opinion--it is just a fantasy, much of the camp is (maybe?) intentional, and I wouldn't let Jar Jar's doofiness ruin my experience. To me, the movie could do no wrong.

A year later, I would become a fan of Battlefield Earth. I enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed The Perfect Storm, American Beauty, The Sixth Sense, and The Green Mile. Back then, no film could do me any wrong. It would take years for me to differentiate quality. Um...yeah...

A Saga Continues

The next few years were rough. Nothing in school really prepared me for the working world, and I struggled to meet the expectations of my perfectionist boss and experienced coworkers. I entered this world in a daze, not really comprehending the hiring process as I whizzed office-to-office before settling into a schedule of running mail and doing other things--all tasks I had no idea how to do.

By 2002, I improved marginally. Maybe it was the work, maybe it was the college courses, but somehow I totally missed all the hype for Attack of the Clones. I never saw a trailer for it. Did pick up the soundtrack, but didn't listen to it as religiously as its predecessors (I mean, the "Love Theme" is great, but other tracks didn't hook me much). I was excited for the scant images I had seen, and I was excited to hear that there'd be a chase scene in Coruscant. What I wanted the most was to see the Clone Wars brought to life, but I knew that this chapter would have a romantic plot, and that Anakin would inevitably become evil somehow.

I did see this film with my father in the cinema, and we were reasonably happy with it. Me being so easy to please, I actually thought it was a grade better, with its refined effects, a story that made more progress, and its incredible finale. Parts of the film sagged, but I was captivated by the chase scene (I knew it would be cool), the Obi-Wan and Jango Fett fight, the asteroid field chase (so what if it's a rehash?), and the droid factory shenanigans. What pushed the film over the top was the final battle (followed up by a wild four-way duel nonetheless). Just when I thought the film would end on some small-scale (but kinda cool) arena fight, it became an all-out Jedi brawl. Then it became a warzone. Then it all spilled over, and I watched in awe for a good twenty minutes as Jedi, clones, and droids clashed on Geonosis. This was the scene (or rather, an entire last act) that put the "Wars" in Star Wars.

I was left a little bewildered through. The politics of the movies left me cold, and I couldn't tell where they were going with all this talk about trade taxes and separatists. I couldn't quite grasp the conspiracy that the characters unraveled, and it was even harder to foresee how exactly things would be resolved. Few things became clearer after rewatches and contemplation, but I didn't want to admit that the film in general didn't make sense.

On my next move (into a job that was thankfully more merciful, where I learned more, became better at things, and lightened up a bit), Revenge of the Sith dropped and tied up the saga once and for all. I felt a little more hype for this, and went so far as to watch Genndy Tartakosky's Clone Wars cartoon a few times beforehand. Once again, I saw the film with my father in a packed theater, as close to the screen as I could. I might never forget the kid next to me, dressed in a Superman costume, who kept shouting "I will destroy Lex Luthor!" before the show started.

I felt the movie delivered, and even after all these years it remains my favorite of the prequels. It has its fair share of chilling scenes, and it still resonates to this day. It didn't matter how predictable certain reveals and scenes were. I was pleased to see so many loose ends tying up with the original trilogy. There were plenty of dazzling space battles and fights, but the one thing that I looked forward to the most was the inevitable duel between Anakin and Obi-Wan. Some folks might say this fight doesn't make sense, but I always figured it was a given since their reunion in A New Hope showed they had a score to settle. It was a long and ridiculous fight perhaps, but its sheer scope and fury is what made it such a cathartic, powerful clash. It was the climax of the series, and it succeeded in plucking my heartstrings.

Special Effects Kid

By high-school, I had a rabid obsession with watching films. But it was more than that--our computer had a Hauppage video capture card connected to the living room hi-fi. I spent hours combing through VHS tapes, LaserDiscs, and eventually DVDs to take screencaps, record movie lines and sound effects, and even record entire video segments. All of these I'd categorize and file in a particular program. Not just any entertainment utility--a Star Wars one, which came loaded with clean, high-quality stereo files that would automatically play anytime Windows did something. Much to the chagrin of my parents, I had all kinds of obnoxious lines, sounds, music loops playing every time they opened a program, closed a program, hit Enter, or anything else imaginable. Booting up and logging off gifted everybody with a video clip--could be anything from the Titanic sinking to the Death Star exploding.

Special effects caught my eye the most in spite of this hobby, and the 90s was the most exciting time--CGI had become all the rage thanks to many small experiments (Tron, Young Sherlock Holmes, Star Trek movies), and a couple of huge leaps (The Abyss and T2: Judgment Day--thanks James Cameron!). CGI was an uncanny thing to behold--it brought things to life that you wouldn't think possible, from the silly aliens in Men in Black to the elaborate, Hitchockian camera movements in What Lies Beneath. Back then, I didn't care how well the effects looked or aged--I was dazzled by the smooth, slick textures, the colors, and above all, the inventive ways CGI things meshed with the live actors.

You could nitpick a lot of the CGI done in the original trilogy's Special Edition. Even I'll admit that the altered Han-shoots-first scene looks ridiculous, the added Jabba the Hutt (then and now) looks like a fat glob of grease, and adding pupils to the Ewoks makes them look like little psychopaths on heroin. And yet, I adored the updated Yavin battle scenes and the added space/shuttle shots in Empire Strikes Back. I even geeked out over the assault shuttle that takes off  when the Stormtroopers search for the droids (was shocked to see the shuttle cut out of the movie on a full-screen VHS tape--thus I learned what Widescreen really means and why the Original Aspect Ratio matters. Cropped information on a film stuffed with detail is just abominable).

Of course, I practically lost it when the prequels came out and there were just thousands of beautiful new frames to capture. Special effects seemed so slick, sharp, clean, and incredible at the time. I was also smitten by Naboo's exotic backdrops, Coruscant's massive skylines, and the vast array of worlds in between. I spent hours combing through the prequels, finding beauty in its CGI, locations, and set designs. This hobby also had the uncanny side effect of making me pay attention to how films are cut, framed, and composed. Say what you will about George Lucas, the man was a solid editor and all of his films are handsomely composed. Shots from his movies usually make for good backdrops.

As the years went on and CGI became more and more of a thing, I just couldn't keep up. There were too many movies to buy or rent just for an image or two. This hobby did few things helpful (was able to use some images, sound, video for class presentations), but was mostly just a digital collection of random junk. By 2004 or so, I fell out of practice and stopped video capturing altogether.

And that's for the best. Here it is thirteen years later, and I'm finally realizing the folly of Hollywood spectacle. CGI alone is boring--there are a bazillion films released yearly now that are just loaded with spectacle and effects, and they just don't dazzle or wow like they used to. You could blame it on overuse, or too many films abandoning practical effects. Nowadays, I realize that the vast majority of films succeed or fail on the merits of their scripts. Special effects for a movie with a crummy script does nothing--you'll watch it in a daze then forget about it the next day. This has happened to me for countless movies now. But marry a good script with good talent that uses special effects in creative ways, and that's what makes a film like Star Wars shine for years on end.

Films That Do No Wrong

From 2005 to 2015, I would have adamantly put all six Star Wars movies on a pedestal. It was part of a holy trinity of film franchises (the other two being Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy, which eclipsed Star Wars as my favorite saga. The Matrix trilogy came in third). By 2012, this would be amended into a holy quadrilogy (The Dark Knight trilogy coming in fourth). And that shall be set in stone forever!

Until it isn't. Here it is, 2019, and I've seen over 4,500 movies. I finally determined that my favorite things are not exactly perfect, perfect things are not necessarily favorites, and there are some things that hit me harder than Star Wars. This reevaluation happened because between 2013 and 2017, I finally learned some major truths about the craft of writing. Once you figure out what "show don't tell" really means, most Hollywood scripts wind up leaving a bad taste in one's mouth.

Unfortunately, Star Wars is no exception. It is not perfect by any means, although the original trilogy stands up to scrutiny quite well. I attribute most of its strengths to whatever magic was achieved as the scripts were revised and fine-tuned by Lucas and Lawrence Kasdan. Who knows what kind of goofy things were cut out in all the back-and-forth critiquing and revisions these scripts went through? Chances are that you can see glimpses of Lucas' naked visions in the prequels, which are often debated as the result of scripts that receive little-to-no revisions and are signed off by yes-men. Really, between the prequel and original trilogies you can see two different creative processes--one where limitations and control lead to a really good final product, and another where unbridled, excessive creative freedom leads to dubious results.

I've finally admitted to myself that none of these movies are infallible masterpieces by any measure. Not even the originals, really. But most certainly not the prequels, and the sequel series has yet to be seen. I've finally admitted to myself that, yes indeed, the scripts for episodes I, II and III needed some serious fine-tuning (episode II had some help from Jonathan Hales, but it was whipped out within a week and I question how much more of the plotting could have been fleshed out). Each of the prequel films are just slathered in exposition and infodumping--very much the worst qualities of a "tell don't show" style that plagues Hollywood scripts. Wooden acting made it even worse--laughable at times, cringey other times, or just plain droll. Even though there are excellent story beats and Revenge of the Sith ties things up nicely, the films sag heavily and became unpalatable. Even though The Phantom Menace's childish tone (force-multiplied by Jar Jar Binks) makes it a little embarrassing to mention, I find myself let down more by Attack of the Clones. Its plot strikes me as extraordinarily convoluted, choppy, hole-ridden, and ultimately kinda weird.

Scripts for IV, V, and VI do manage to nail the story spot-on. There are things to nitpick, but even the things I see many fans gripe about (like the Ewoks triumphing against stormtroopers) still strike me as minor non-issues. I could complain about various infodumps and exposition (especially in A New Hope), but even then I can forgive most of it because it's brisk, spoken with character voices, and is kinda necessary. If there's anything I despise about the originals, it's all in The Empire Strikes Back. Yes, the one film that everybody and their mamas say is the best of the lot. The one with all the world-shattering reveals that staggered everyone's minds and made the series work. I can't deny that the story is perfect. Nor can I deny that the cinematography, performances, writing, production, and music score are perfect. Everything about it is on the nose--even the funny parts. And for all that perfection, the film just bores me. Strange as it sounds, I've grown tired of this part of the saga. Since it is the part where the heroes have to fail, the villains triumph, and lessons are learned, it sags after the Hoth scenes. The film keeps things lively with all its action, but they're ultimately just chase scenes. Everybody loves this movie, but personally, I've grown tiresome of everybody putting it on a pedestal above all other films--it's the middle of the overall story, and it sags in its own way.

You know what I do love about A New Hope, Return of the Jedi, the prequels and sequels? Imperfection. The Empire Strikes Back is a perfect film, but even with its grand reveal it never really surprised me (and when my parents saw it for the first time, they thought it was stupid beyond belief). The comedy doesn't make me laugh anymore. The drama of it doesn't really hold my interest. The romance between Han and Leia doesn't quicken my pulse. But when you look at A New Hope and see how campy and jovial the lines are delivered, there's a greater chemistry that seems to unite the characters in a more endearing way. Goofy moments, intentional and unintentional, actually elicit laughter. All the chasing and fighting remains captivating because the story moves swiftly and molds the characters from ruffians to heroes. And Return of the Jedi maintains a rapid-fire pace in its own way, most notably by entwining three different climaxes together into a seemingly-epic finale. It also has its goofy moment that elicit charm and chemistry. These sort of things genuinely contributed to the experience, adding levity to the formula. Just as a great painting might have a missed brushstroke, or a great song might have something off-key, most of Star Wars remains entertaining, endearing, colorful, and spirited precisely because it's imperfect. Too perfect, and much of that is lost.

I would extend this to the Disney-brand movies as well. The Force Awakens is far from a perfect picture--many have griped about Rey being a "Mary Sue," and how its plot carbon-copies A New Hope too closely. What I find more imperfect is the fast-and-loose plotting, which is a pretty standard pace and style for JJ Abrams. But it's a quality that works because the man does succeed in giving us what we need: a proper introduction to the characters (intros that show and don't tell nonetheless--I am still awed by how Rey's slice-of-life scenes play out), set-ups for all the new conflicts, reunion of old heroes, and the promise that more is coming. There are answers I wish the film could have provided, but I am grateful for its many imperfections, including the addition of Daniel Craig's stormtrooper character, the scene with TR8R, the inclusion of Poe Dameron (a character who was meant to be killed off right away, but stuck around because Abrams decided he was just too damn lovable), and many other cool, funny, silly moments.

The Last Jedi? The more people complain, the more imperfect it seems, and the more I love it for going against the grain. There's no hiding that it does this on purpose, leading us to believe some things will happen before pulling the rug from under us. Understandably, most of us become upset when something like that happens, and we imagine Rian Johnson mocking us while doing it. Except, I doubt that's the intention. I prefer to view the film as a post-modern work that deconstructs the typical Star Wars film (or blockbuster in general). Much of it feels so polished and on-the-nose that it ought to be on the same level as Empire Strikes Back, but it might come off as the worst movie of the lot because it doesn't give audiences what they want (namely, Luke coming back as a great hero, and explanations behind Snoke and Rey's backstory). It's been a frustrating watch for many, but most issues I've read and debated about online have been non-issues for me. I will concede that some things really don't work, but for the most part, I admire the film for what it tried to do, the messages it had, and the overall experience. If it carbon-copied Empire Strikes Back, I think it would have been a disservice to us all, so I'm glad for a taste of something different. That's also why I'm generally pleased with the anthology films (Rogue One and Solo), which offer more Star Wars goodness in other flavors from different talents.

The thing I fear with the sequels is that commercialization and the desire to win fans' hearts will override storytelling priorities. Looking back on The Force Awakens, I can't deny that I was a little let down that the Starkiller base became a thing--it is no different than another Death Star, even though the script tried to tell us otherwise. The general beats of the movie copied A New Hope and it showed an unwillingness to be different. The Last Jedi, despite its divergence from formula, did borrow some broad structure from Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. I have a bad feeling that Rise of Skywalker will not only riff Return of the Jedi hard, but could also reverse some decisions made in the last film. We already see in the trailers that Kylo Ren repairs his helmet and wears it again, and it bugs me because I felt he made a decision to destroy his helmet and become his own person--to go back on that feels like the character is regressing, and I fear it's because of branding rather than a genuine character decision (unless the script addresses this, which it could). I will not be surprised if they go back on Rey's parentage--maybe she's a Skywalker after all. Kylo could have been lying to her when he said they were nobodies. It happened before when Obi-Wan gave his point-of-view excuse to Luke concerning his father, so why not? Lando's coming back. It sounds like Palps is coming back. One of the old Death Stars is coming back. The film might double-down on nostalgia, and it could do so by hitting all the marks and checkboxes too perfectly. No surprises, no spontaneity or pop, just business. And that might be rather dull.

A Saga Continues...Again

When Lucas sold his franchise to Disney in 2012, I was intrigued and hyped, albeit not quite as obsessively as when I was a teenager. After all, I started to see how the prequels fell short and was learning to see the flaws in the originals. To bank all my hopes and dreams on the new cast and crew would have been a good way to set myself up for disappointment.

And yet, I wound up walking into The Force Awakens in 2015 feeling giddy when the Lucasfilm logo gleamed on the big screen. Despite its faults and imperfections (or maybe in spite of them), I walked out of the movie pleased and hungry for more. Many questions remained that demanded answers, but I put my faith in Lucasfilm that they'd deliver sooner or later.

2016, Rogue One came out and struck me as a hit-and-a-miss. I do wish some things about it could have been different, especially since its trailer led me to think it would have been more of a Dirty Dozen type of movie for the franchise. Watching it the first time felt oddly disengaging for its first-half, and I came to realize that it had all the elements of a good story, but they weren't really clicking for me because of all the tell-don't-show type of writing. But then the second half kicked in, so full of awesome action and peril, and it felt like a genuine Star Wars movie again. I came out of it with mixed feelings, but warmed up on a rewatch.

Watching The Last Jedi was a different kind of experience for me. It happened when I moved from one state to another--I had left one job believing I had let people around me down, and I ruminated often about my self-worth. I felt like a failure, even though all evidence suggested I wasn't and people still liked me. In retrospect, I may have let other people's attitudes affect me, and I might have had a bad habit of perceiving pressure and criticism as being worse than they actually are. It's doubly troublesome for writers, and I've had my works picked apart quite a bit back then. It was the path that led me to improve some aspects of my writing, in addition to my temperament, attitude, and personality. But the whole time I made the move to a new position, I had quite a few uncanny inspirations from the media around me. I picked up various songs that spoke to this theme of failure, overcoming darkness, and finding strength. Few movies would speak to me on the same level, and The Last Jedi is one of them. The film directly addresses failure as its core theme--just about all of the heroes fail in this movie, including Luke. Its entire plot revolves around him overcoming the past and moving on, and he eventually does rise to face his mistakes. I felt for him for the entire arc, and by the film's end I felt that his story had reached a satisfactory, cathartic conclusion. To say nothing of the film's other strengths: its phenomenal battle scenes, its sheer density of plot, its pacing.

I left the theater gratified, but was shocked when I hopped online and saw that many viewers were giving the film a brutal thrashing. I pored over thousands of words that highlighted how ridiculous "Leia Poppins" was, or how terrible the Rose/Finn relationship was, how unnecessary Canto Bight was, how Holdo and the gang perpetrated a SWJ agenda and made all the men look bad, how her hyperspace maneuver broke all the rules of stellar warfare and logic, how bad it was that Luke milked an alien, how bad Porgs are, how cringey it was that Poe laid down a "yo mama" joke on Hux, and I forget what else. Just as it was in 1997, 1999, 2002, and 2005, the franchise was ruined. Again.

I had my share of debates on a movie forum, and I came out acknowledging that some things are flawed. But I can't connect or agree with many other complaints. So much of it can be easily handwaved, if not directly explained by the movie's script and performances. Some people seem hellbent on nitpicking and burning this franchise to the ground. You'd think Rian Johnson and Kathleen Kennedy personally visited each of these fans' homes and soiled their carpets.

Episodes VII and VIII succeeded in keeping me invested in the series, despite all the outcry. I am hyped to see Episode IX, because I want to see the payoffs for all the different story threads that were set up. With so much ground to cover, I have a feeling something's bound to go wrong (especially regarding my previous musings that it might be "too perfect"). But as it was watching Avengers: Endgame, seeing Rise of Skywalker is simply a must, to see how this saga will cap off eight films' worth of story (covering three generations of Skywalkers).

Oh yeah, I also caught Solo on the big screen with my dad. It didn't thrill me at first, but after the train scene it got better and I found it fairly enjoyable. Not necessary, but fun all the same.

Influence of a Lifetime

It's easy to lose sight of what makes Star Wars a seminal favorite for decades on end when so much discussion focuses on the Special Edition changes, the commercialization and artistic directions of the sequel trilogy, and the extreme highs and lows of the prequel trilogy. When all these nitpicks are absent from my mind, I find myself dipping back into this familiar universe of favorite characters, settings, and mythology. I've used Star Wars examples in school papers. I once tried to remix Puff Daddy's "Come With Me" with Darth Vader's dialogue to give the song a more sinister meaning (mind you, I had no musical tools or talent to change the actual song, all I did was add dialogue and lightsaber effects). I used to doodle the Rebel starbird on my school folders and notebooks, and I still embrace it as a symbol (it's even on my car). I will play the occasional game, read the occasional book, build one or two Lego sets, and listen to the music whether it be John Williams' original scores, tributes, or joke songs. Star Wars has a subliminal way of leaking into everyday life.

Despite the small amounts of joy and solidarity these things bring, it's not all cosmetic or materialistic expressions of fandom. On a larger level, Star Wars has been a life-long inspiration for many key reasons.

• For a writer, Star Wars remains one of THE go-to examples of storytelling done right. As I've observed at conferences, panels, and workshops, Star Wars is brought up as frequently of an example as Lord of the Rings is. The biggest reason is the story structure--the movies perfectly execute the classic hero's journey template. As a trilogy, it also executes a twist that recontextualizes the series and deepens its meaning. On a micro level, the movies also embody good examples of how to world-build, show character, build chemistry and relationships, stage action, and create personality. Even though there are some examples of bad writing in other places, the original trilogy remains a wellspring of storytelling inspiration.
• The more I learn about the writing process, the more I can see how limitations, critiques, feedback, and rewrites can benefit a story and make it better, whereas unlimited control and egoism can hurt a story, and excessive group-thinking or fan-pleasing can water it down. The results from all of these processes can be seen across the franchise, but the best results (the original trilogy) seem to have stemmed from revisions and fine-tuning.
• As mentioned above, there is perfection through imperfection. Sometimes, a goofy line is just what a scene needs. Sparks of personality are more valuable than stiff melodrama. Even with the production, many of the ships, sets, models, props and such were made scrappy and imperfect specifically to give the movies a lived-in look, which is creditable. Slick and polished things would have only made it a glacial, alienating experience. As it is, the movie and all its flaws has a comforting, easy-going vibe, in addition to looking characteristic.
• There are nuggets of wisdom scattered throughout the series, which could become life lessons. Some of the best advise the movies can give are:
• Do or do not, there is no try.
• Trust your feelings.
• You can't win, but there are alternatives to fighting. 
• Your focus determines your reality.
• Size matters not.
• On top of all these passing platitudes, the movies' stories and characters support overarching themes concerning good and evil, destiny, love and hate, balance, war and peace, societal changes, personal growth, overcoming failure, and dreams. All of which can speak to anybody at any given time.
• These movies persist for the same reason we have nine Fast and Furious movies and over twenty Marvel films. All the best and long-lasting sagas stick around because of their characters, who become so endearing and connecting that they become families. The family of Star Wars stretches across generations, each one bringing back familiar faces with deep backstories that are either explicit or implied. There are also new characters introduced all the  time who capture our imaginations. We can call them by name easily, and know exactly what makes them tick. Star Wars works because we know, understand, and love the characters. All stories work the best when we understand the characters and care for them. We might not care about plotting, special effects, revisions, and countless other distracting issues, but even the worst of them can't stop Luke, Anakin, Rey, Han, Leia, Yoda, Obi-Wan, Chewbaca, all the droids, and countless other characters from capturing our hearts and minds. They bring the whole universe to life.

A Saga of My Own?

I think every writer who loves a popular story will want to write something just like it at some point. Imitation is the best form of flattery, and Star Wars itself is an imitation of Lucas' favorite things (namely Akira Kurosawa's Hidden Fortress, and a whole genre of pulp sci-fi serials). There is an endless sea of novels and stories, many officially published as licensed merchandise, and countless more as fan fiction.

I have been inspired to write my own Star Wars stories at times. It's never actually worked out. My high-school writing would have been rather sloppy and weird to begin with. Much later, I had the notion to challenge the saga's black-and-white morality system by writing novels about a possible other Force discipline that was neither Jedi or Sith. I envisioned a gritty and gory revenge saga in which an antiheroic character used the Force this way--it would have been like a Star Wars and Kill Bill crossover. Star Wars being a family-friendly brand, this sort of thing would have never worked (although, adult novels do exist). At the time, I decided that making it a Star Wars novel was not in my best interests--doing so confined what I could write to a very specific universe and mythology, whereas I branched off and developed a galaxy run by corporations with warrior groups who knew martial arts, among other odd things. It became its own thing (albeit not a very good one for many reasons, but it does have the distinction of having a main character who argued with himself all the time because of a brain parasite that gave him Force-like superpowers).

Around 2011, after visiting Germany and learning about Operation Valkyrie during WWII, I was inspired to write a Star Wars novel in which a group of ruffians banded together and staged a plot to assassinate the Emperor Palpatine. A quick Google search would show that this had already been done in a comic. I also couldn't quite get the pieces of the story to align with the timeline of the movies in a canonical way (and Rogue One throws another wrench into that plan). After some consideration, I wound up making this its own universe of my own design. It would share much in common with Star Wars, but as political events occurred over the years I'd evolve the worldbuilding to reflect what I've observed within America, North Korea, China, the Middle East, and other areas to give the stories a different dynamic. To date, I've only written a few chapters, but I have thought about it on and off again and it could be a viable brand for me. Regardless of whether it's Star Wars or not, I have given it the working title of Black Harvest.

Every time I consider writing a Star Wars story, it winds up evolving into its own thing. That's probably for the better, since my imagination is typically bleaker, more intense, and more radical than the Star Wars brand demands. It's also liberating to go from writing from another person's creation to having a creation of my own, where I can control all the world-building and its rules. I've only found freedom in deviating. In its own way, the process does let me see through the surface-level aesthetics and formulas to discover what it is that makes my work mine, and what makes Star Wars its own thing.

Happy May Fourth

Being a Star Wars fan today feels more complicated than before. Things have changed--I changed, society changed, fans changed, and even the films themselves changed. Knowing more about what goes on behind the scenes only fuels the debates on the films' merits, and it elicits more cynicism than admiration.

And yet, it's not a series I can just grow out of. I am enamored by the characters and their epic journey. The action and imaginative effects drew me in as a kid, but the stories resonated throughout the years. Chances are I might not have learned to appreciate cinema as an art and storytelling tool if it wasn't for Star Wars. And as a writer, it is one of the core stories that has embedded its influences into my subconscious, altering my writing style and the kinds of stories I produce.

There is a kind of magic and spirit to the movies, and fans everywhere are receptive to it despite this age of haters and trolls. These stories will be with us for generations to come as the magic passes on. More will be inspired, and perhaps more great stories will emerge, within and beyond the brand. It is an essential influence for me in many aspects of life. I hope you find value in the films too.