An Open Letter to Ron Howard

Dear Ron (Can I call you Ron?)

Earlier this month you released your latest picture Cinderella Man, and I’ve felt guilty ever since. You see, I didn’t go see it. I’ve heard nothing but good things about the film and you’ve proved yourself to be one of the most reliable filmmakers in recent years. In the past fifteen years you’ve given us Backdraft, Apollo 13, Ransom, and A Beautiful Mind. You’ve even served as a producer on two of my favorite television shows – 24 and Arrested Development. Most importantly to me, when I was eight you gave me Willow. Though I’m now aware of how derivative the film was, that doesn’t change the fact that I dressed up as Madmartigan for Halloween in third grade.

I point all this out for two reasons: I want you to have proper perspective on my intense guilt and I want to explain how my absence from the theater has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I just don’t have the drive to go to the theater anymore.

That doesn’t mean my romance with film has ended. Far from it. I love film as much today as I ever have, but I can’t help feeling that the days of the public consumption of cinema are on the decline. Since this week marked the culmination of the longest box office slump in the history of film, I’d say I’m not the only one who feels this way.

Just five years ago, calling any film a “rental” was a brutal jab, but now calling a film a “rental” has little to do with the quality of the film. “Rental” is now a reflection of the type of film; some films just don’t need to be seen in a theater to experience all they have to offer. Romantic comedies – all of them – are now “rentals.” Many, if not most, dramas (yes, including Cinderella Man) are now “rentals.” Regardless of how good or entertaining these films are, we don’t lose anything by waiting a few extra months to enjoy the movie in the comfort of our own homes isn’t asking much. The movies that are now must-see theatrical releases are action films and adventure films and sci-fi epics, only because they play best on the big screen with the expensive sound systems. Even those of us who take great pride in our home theater set-ups can’t match what the theaters offer.

Have you been to a theater recently? I don’t mean premieres or test screenings. I’m talking seven o’clock on a weekend at some 24-screen multiplex in a suburban mall. Ever taken in one of those shows? It can be a most unpleasant experience. Because of diminishing returns for the theaters, they’ve been forced to sell screen time to advertisers, giving patrons one more reason to turn to Blockbuster for their entertainment. Before the coming attractions roll we have to deal with ten to fifteen minutes worth of Coca-Cola and General Motors ads. When television first caught fire in America, the theaters did all they could to differentiate themselves from the boob tube. When did that stop? So, we contend with ad revenue even as admission prices get more and more outrageous. We’re definitely getting screwed from both ends there.

But now there’s competition. For the twenty dollars that it costs most of us to take in an evening show with popcorn and soda, I can pay for a month’s subscription to Netflix. Even with moderate diligence in watching DVD’s and returning them, we’re talking about 10-12 movies for the price of one. With my 4-at-a-time plan, it’s closer to 20-25. How can the theaters compete with that?

But it’s not just the theaters that are making things harder. The movie-going public must accept some blame as well. Let’s be honest. Many of us can be pretty brutish and unmannerly at the movies. Whether it’s the chatters, or the noisy eaters, or the wireless infants who can’t go two hours without sucking at the teat of their cell phones, the movie theater is no longer the most conducive place for the total immersion in fantasy that you filmmakers would like from us. Even with bombs and pyrotechnics blowing through thousand dollar sound systems, it just takes one R2-D2 version of In Da Club to throw us completely out of your film. For film snobs like me, it doesn’t even take that much.

Another equally important element to the dwindling theater attendance hits closer to your home. This really isn’t directed at you; as I mentioned before, your track record over the past ten or fifteen years has been pristine. Yet, many of your peers seem to be churning out bile by the bucketload and charging us ten bucks a piece to ingest it. I wish I could find the problem in one area so you and your pals could focus on fixing that, but the problems in the Hollywood production process seem designed for their movies to fail more often than they succeed. Most films are rushed to screens as if simply getting them into the theaters is the key to making money. The writing process lacks any sort of cohesive vision thanks to the hand-me-down nature of rewriting. The problem with too many cooks is not only the spoiling broth, but the inability to weed out those cooks who are weaker than the others. Hence you have directors who routinely punish the movie-going audience continuously returning to work. Paul W.S. Anderson who still-bore the Resident Evil franchise before killing two extra-terrestrial birds with one stone in Alien Versus Predator is working on sequels to both. That makes no fucking sense. This is the guy who has Soldier on his resume, too. Are you kidding me?

Sorry Ron. Just thinking about that guy gets my blood pressure up. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I know one man only has so much power in Hollywood, but even you must be able to see that things need to change. We’re losing confidence in the cinema. The odds of being satisfied by a given film have dropped so low that Vegas is raising its eyebrows, and many of us no longer want to assume the risk. Instead, we’ll sit at home with our Netflix DVDs (that we essentially pay a dollar or two for) and even if the movie sucks we won’t have as bitter a taste in our mouths when it’s done. Sure we may have lost 90 minutes of our lives that we’ll never get back, but we’ll have saved 8 bucks doing it.

I know that in the end this will have very little effect on you. You guys are still making a killing on DVD’s, but many of us, despite our displeasure, still want the option of spending an evening in the theater. Even the best home systems just can’t compete with the flicker of film and that special dark that you can only get in the cinema. We just want to stop feeling fleeced after the lights come up. And we all have a little responsibility in that. I’ll do my part. You continue to do yours.

As for my absence from Cinderella Man, don’t worry. I can’t wait for it to come out on video.

Sincerely,
Phil Rockwell

When Experts Shrug

I can’t say for certain what gave birth to the noise, but I have my suspicions. Thanks to a monstrous but clearly fragile cypress tree in my uncle’s front yard, it would not have been prudent to leave my Ford Taurus in the driveway for the hurricanes that welcomed me to Florida. So as the first rain bands whipped across the I-4 Corridor, I drove my car to Magnolia Plantation golf course to get as far away from trees as I could. My uncle felt confident in my car’s safety, but a part of me knew that despite minimizing the threat of falling forestry I was still leaving my car to endure the brunt of days worth of incessant rain and wind (with the occasional triple-digit gust).

Therefore, it didn’t surprise me when I retrieved my car and found the mechanics a tad dodgy. I heard a rush of water when I first put the car into gear, and the brakes were more sensitive than a supermodel on a public scale. I didn’t sense that the car was on the verge of breaking down or anything, but the drive back to the house was still touchy, clumsy, and awkward. It was like I was losing my virginity again.

Once the hurricane season waned and I began my daily routine in the Sunshine State, my car shrugged off its battle with Frances and Jeanne and operated as it always had. It wasn’t until my brother came to visit that the noise was brought to my attention. Because I usually turn my habit car into a speeding karaoke bar, abnormal sounds go unnoticed beneath the din of Robbie Williams and Kelly Clarkson (That’s right! Kelly Clarkson! What?). Unless a problem results in some sort of driving difficulty, I don’t notice. But as the courteous chauffeur that I am, I turned the radio off when I transported my brother and my uncle to Uno’s for dinner. It barely took my brother a block to point out the malady.

There’s nothing much to the sound, really. It’s not the definite squeak of worn brakes or a more foreboding grinding of engine parts. It’s just this repetitive thrumming (almost like a flat tire but more metallic sounding) most noticeable in the lower gears.

I gave this description to the mechanic when I took the car in for an oil change, and he took a drive around the lot to see what he could find. After the work was done we met to discuss the problem; they could clearly hear the noise, but they couldn’t locate its source.

“Has it caused any driving problems?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s just the noise.”

He nodded and recommended continued observation. If the sound got worse or if I started to have operational problems, I should bring it in for a second look. I left the dealership knowing something was not right with my car, but also knowing that at the moment there was nothing I could do. Though accepting his advice meant I would continue to drive with shaky confidence, I had no choice but to swallow that pill and move on. It’s really not a major concern. Even if something does go wrong with the car down the line, I’m looking at a few annoying bills and most likely an afternoon’s worth of inconvenience. It’s not life or death.

Yet, there’s something about this plot that bears a striking resemblance to another area of my life, one that’s life and death at its core. In high school I was diagnosed with IGA Nephropathy, or Berger’s disease, a devilishly vague and inconspicuous condition that is characterized only by (microscopic) blood and protein in the urine. Despite my everpresent awareness of the disease, there are no physical indicators to remind me of it. I’m taking somebody’s word on my condition. Considering the adjustments I’ve made to my life to stay this internal attack, it’s asking a lot without being able to see results (negative or otherwise).

Though I feel relatively well from day to day, I’m my knowledgeable yet horribly frigid doctor annually reminds me of the clouding horizon. So I take his advice: I’ve been taking two fish oil pills a day since college, and have spent the past two years on an extremely rigid and difficult low-protein diet that has devastated any attempts to preserve my ex-linebacker physique. I put up with these insanely frustrating requirements and what I basically get in return is the promise that it might help. If it doesn’t? Well, we’ll know when something catastrophic happens.

For a proactive problem solver like me, this strategy is maddening. I’m sure my doctor knows his stuff (my mechanic too for that matter), but the expected peril has choked my life with incessant dread and a colored view of my future opportunities. How does one commit to the future with determination and passion when they are programmed to expect the other shoe to drop any minute? Now that I am in the final days and weeks of my time in Florida, the dangling shoe of my health has become Shaquillean in size.

If I am earnest about pursuing a career as a writer (and I am) it means accepting that a luxury like health insurance may be years in coming, if it is coming at all. I’m no longer the type of person who can hedge his bets when it comes to my dreams. I cannot live a life where I hunt down a job and then write in my down time. I have to live a life where I write and then get a job to fill my spare time. If I want to write, it’s at the risk of living without health insurance. I could be suffering from severe myopia in this case, but I know what it's going to take to get myself in the right frame of mind to write every single day and having a full-time job (that would supply me with health coverage) does not fit into that plan. Some might call this laziness, but they’re mistaken. It’s about priorities; I want to spend every waking moment working on what I feel I am meant to do. That means no health insurance, possibly none for several years (I’m either in the Writer’s Guild or I’ve given up).

This seems sort of silly considering I did the same thing, giving up my health insurance, a year ago when I left home for Florida, but unfortunately my first horrifying experience with the health care industry shattered the naiveté that made moving down here so simple. As I watched the claims list for one night in the hospital grow (the submitted charges reached nearly $20,000), I couldn’t help but think how a person without insurance would manage not just a one-time anomaly, but a devastating illness. Thanks to some personal research, I’ve learned the answer: they wouldn’t. Nearly 18,000 people die in this country each year because of inadequate health coverage. For those who get treatment without coverage, many of the following years are spent digging out from under oppressive debt. Many will file bankruptcy. In fact, the majority of bankruptcies in America are filed to relieve medical debt. This is one of the pictures I paint for myself and my future. It's a watercolor, and I call it Sick and Uberbroke.

I wasn’t scared when I left home for Florida, but I’m terrified of leaving. One completely unnecessary night in the hospital rattled me in a rather unexpected way: health insurance means something now. And living without it means even more. As I walk through each day wondering whether today is the day my body decides to turn on itself, it seems somehow irresponsible to avoid preparing for that. But how much can you prepare before your preparations become your entire life. Should something catastrophic happen down the line, will I find some solace in this upcoming attempt? That's the hope that I take into tomorrow. I can't stand to see the picture of Sick, Uberbroke, and Regrettful. Regret has become quite the powerful motivator in my life. Since I piled up so much of it in my past, I want to eliminate it from my future. Carpe diem, etc. etc.

In a way, my fear is encouraging. It means I believe I can succeed in this next stage in my life, even as I’m waiting for something to undercut those pursuits. Waiting for life to smack me back to reality in horribly dramatic fashion. Waiting for that peculiar noise to finally reveal itself.

Batman Begins

Revenge of the Sith worried me. The last installment of Star Wars was a solidly appealing film that should have benefited from its historical significance; it would forever close a highly influential chapter in my life. And yet when I walked out of the theater film I felt numb and disjointed instead of sad but satisfied. I thought perhaps I was broken; perhaps age and cynicism had corroded my ability to suspend disbelief and lose myself in the world of film. I mean, if I couldn’t lose myself in Star Wars after years of conditioning, what films are out there to effortlessly transport myself to another time and place for two hours?

The answer is Batman Begins – quite simply the best comic book film ever made. In terms of quality, I would say it is virtually tied with Spider-Man 2, but Batman the character, with his deep-seeded guilt and angst, proves a much more compelling individual than your friendly neighborhood webslinger. Bruce Wayne is a broken man, if he can be considered a man at all. The death of his parents in a seedy black alley at the hands of a lowly mugger permanently poisoned his heart, and on that day, as one character points out at the end of the film, Bruce Wayne became the mask for Batman to hide behind.

Comic book films have enjoyed quite the cinematic renaissance during the past decade. The X-Men and Spider-Man franchises realized the potential for these larger-than-life characters on the big screen, and they were a success simply because – inconceivable! – the directors of these films did the characters justice. The stories and histories of these figures were there from the beginning; what Singer and Raimi were able to do was mine the depths of those histories and simply morph the medium. I do not mean to belittle what those two directors did (Spider-Man 2 was my favorite film of last year), but their main task in those films was not to screw up what was already there. To say they went for par instead of pulling out the big dog sounds condescending, but it’s not. X2 and Spider-Man 2 were exceptional pars. But Christopher Nolan never thought twice about pulling out his driver, and he got himself a breathtaking hole-in-one.

Twenty years ago Frank Miller forever changed the character of Batman in comics with The Dark Knight Returns. Now, with Batman Begins, Nolan has done the same for Batman in film. No more frilly costumes, over-the-top villains, or nippled batsuits. This Batman is dark, disturbed, and best of all – frightening.

Batman’s intention from early on in the film, under the tutelage of Henri Ducard (Liam Neeson), is to “strike fear into those who prey on the fearful.” He studies ninjitsu and learns to hide in the shadows and rely on stealth, stalking his adversaries with agonizing patience before striking with animalistic speed and ferocity. This Batman could have his own horror movie, if he wasn’t on our side.

And that’s exactly the mood Nolan establishes with this Batman. He is the boogeyman that chases petty thieves and crimelords through their nightmares. If they’re lucky enough to see him (which most of them don’t) what they see doesn’t make sense, doesn’t seem real. It can’t be. In one of the more ingenious moments in the film, Dr. Johnathan Crane a.k.a. Scarecrow (Cillian Murphy) has his own hallucinogenic toxin used on himself and we get a chance to see what most of these villains think Batman looks like when he’s not hidden by shadows. It's horrifying.For a film that clocks in at about 135 minutes, it moves at a clip. We open with Bruce Wayne in an Asian prison where he proceeds to pummel six or seven fellow prisoners before being carted away to isolation:

“Isolation? For what?” Wayne says.

“Protection,” the officials respond.

“I don’t need protection.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for them,” they say, indicating the half dozen men groaning in the mud.

In isolation he meets Ducard, who recruits him to train with the League of Shadows, a secretive militia group run by the mysterious Ra's Al Ghul, played with a sinister quiet by Ken Watanabe. The training here moves so fast that it could be considered a montage except that it’s so densely layered with the themes of the rest of the film that I don’t want it to be confused with other “training” montages. After being offered membership in the clan, things fall apart quickly and Wayne returns to Gotham – a gritty metropolis slowly crumbling into dust. Crime is rampant. The bad men run the town. And those who would fight are so sparse as to have no allies. Batman changes that equation, turning the power to the other side.

Shot on location in Chicago, the city is both familiar and new. But most importantly it feels real. The difference between Batman Begins and a film like Revenge of the Sith is striking. I can imagine setting foot in Gotham (because I have in many of the places the shot), but that same sense of reality is nowhere to be found in Star Wars -- everything feels constructed. That is the blessing of this film and what will separate it from most of the other summer films (and certainly every other Batman ever made). Nolan grounds his Batman in reality, so much so that the first time he jumps off a roof its result is clumsy and painful, very un-superhero. Despite the subject matter, Nolan strives for realism in his surroundings and especially the performances.

For convincing performances, you can’t get much better than the supporting cast. Watanabe, Neeson, and Murphy all chew into their villainous roles without ever going over-the-top (or at least inappropriately so). Rounding out the nefarious side of the cast are Rutger Hauer as Earle, the acting head of Wayne Corp, and the wonderfully vile Tom Wilkinson as Carmine Falcone, Gotham’s reigning druglord. Wilkinson’s Falcone is so nasty that I found myself smiling through every one of his scenes.The good guys don’t catch short shrift in the acting chops department either. The heart of the film belongs to Michael Caine, as Alfred the butler. His mourning of Bruce’s parents, as well as his real time concern, for the Wayne heir gives Batman a human face even as he goes to very dark places. Morgan Freeman has fun as Lucius Fox, Batman’s gadget guru, and Gary Oldman plays a weather-beaten Captain (soon to be commissioner) Gordon with such quiet you have to remind yourself after the film that it was Gary Oldman. The only weakness in the cast comes from the future Mrs. Tom Cruise (God help me) Katie Holmes, whose puppy dog eyes can’t help but draw you in. But aside from her final scene with Bruce Wayne, her character doesn’t break any new ground in the female foil department.

But all of this would be for naught if Christian Bale wasn’t able to fill the cape and cowl. Well, not only did he fill it, Bale fucking owns it. I’m afraid to go back to the first Batman film (which I enjoyed), because after Bale’s ferocious imagining of the Caped Crusader Michael Keaton is going to look neutered. It seems stupidly obvious for a superhero named after an animal, but Bale is the first actor to play Batman as if he were one. When Bale finally announces to the world “I’m Batman” in a vengeful snarl, nobody would argue with him. He shakes and growls like a man possessed by something wild, something feral. His performances inches so close to the edge that it makes the audience uncomfortable; there are moments of interrogation in this film when I felt like Batman may unhinge his jaw and swallow a man whole. That’s the Batman we’re dealing with here.

I’ve spent all this time talking about character but I should mention that the film does not lack action in the action department. Still, it plays more like a thriller than the banal action fare we usually get during the summer. This is closer in tone to Silence of the Lambs than it is to Batman and Robin. Batman Begins is tense, dark, and powerful. Everything one should expect from the Dark Knight.

Grade for Batman Begins: A

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith

It’s over. I feel numb.

As if the hype for this adventure weren’t already monumental, I went and made it even more so by waiting to see the film until I could see it with my baby brother. I’m quite thankful that that desire fulfilled itself so smoothly. Four days before my brother began his Bradley fighting vehicle training he managed to get a four day weekend for Memorial Day. I convinced him to make the trip down here so he could enjoy a couple days fishing in Florida, and we could wrap up the Star Wars franchise together.

When I walked out of the theater, I turned to him and quietly sighed “Thank God.” Episode III was the film the fans had been waiting for. High on action and high on pathos, Lucas finally put all his tools and talents together to walk Star Wars off into the twin sunset in a satisfying manner.

But I found it all somehow anti-climactic (and you all probably will feel that way about this review as well). I expected to feel more – during the film and after. I expected to feel some sense of completion, some closure, but somewhere towards the end of the film I realized I had closed myself to Star Wars long ago.

It’s a little like that relationship or friendship – and we’ve all had them – that lasts well beyond its prime. You can remember the fun and thrills you shared in the past, you still relish their memory, but you’ve slowly come to realize that the only commonalities you now share are those memories. It’s just the natural course of life; you both grow and change. You become different people than you were at the start. Neither of you have changed so much that you hate each other (things might have been easier that way), but the fire of the past is but a spark in the present. You part ways, and as you do you realize how long overdue that break may have been.

I find myself with very little to say about this last film. It’s just… done. I feel a mite guilty that I’m not doing more gushing; it really is an exceptional film. Everybody involved stepped their game up big time for this conclusion. In fact, as well put together as Revenge of the Sith was, it makes both Episode I & II look like rough drafts or practice runs for this film, the film that counted. That makes for a great ride this time around, but it doesn’t save the films that preceded it (especially Attack of the Clones) from mediocrity.

Though this review won’t go as in-depth as the others, I definitely want to applaud a few things in this film that I particularly enjoyed:

Ian McDiarmid's Palpatine/Darth Sidious – Though it’s dramatically unfortunate for the character of Darth Vader, this is McDiarmid’s movie. The future Emperor’s delicious manipulations of a naïve and temperamental Anakin are the highlights of the film. His dialogue is smart and sharp and twisted, and you can see the fun McDiarmid is having in the part. He stands so far above every other character in the film that one wonders why that attention couldn’t have spent on everyone. The only moment in this film that gave me chills was the moment Senator Palpatine pulled his hood over his head and became Darth Sidious for the first time. His face dimmed and his eyes lit up, just as they did in Jedi. Darth Vader’s debut was well crafted, but my investment in Anakin as a character was so diluted by that point that it was almost an afterthought to Sidious’s reveal.

The Opening Shot – If you look back on my critique, I said that the flaw of the battles in Attack of the Clones was that there was nothing to focus on; it was just a bunch of noise. Well, it was like George Lucas predicted my criticism, and gave me a long take within a massive space battle that completely focused on Anakin and Obi-Wan. This shot was everything that the prequels should have been. Exciting, imaginative, and (dare I say it?) stylish. Where was this sort of ingenuity in the first two prequels?

Yoda Lives – Yoda is as fully realized a character as any other in the film. His first appearance in a shaded room of the Jedi Temple is a wonderful combination of exceptional digital effects and brooding atmosphere. The performance of Yoda in this film ranks a close second behind Gollum as the most masterful creation of a digital character in film history. We’ll see if this rank holds up after King Kong debuts later this year.

Anakin vs. Obi-Wan – The battle we’ve all been waiting for delivers, even if it does go on several minutes too long. I didn’t think that Lucas and Nick Gillard could top the furious few moments in Episode I with Obi-Wan and Darth Maul, but they did in the opening minutes of this battle. I started to lose interest once the fight moved to the river of lava, but the fight through the control center was the best of the franchise – passionate, skillful, and fucking fast! Kudos to both McGregor and Christensen for putting together the end-all-be-all of lightsaber duels.

I don’t want to focus on the negative, because now that it’s all over, much is forgiven. Who wants to fall back into the dirt after all we’ve been through these past 25 years?

I’m gonna close on a positive note. This is a great film, and I highly recommend it. It is gritty, atmospheric, and the characters once again become the center of the Star Wars universe. Lucas closes his opus in grand style, and I’m finally thankful that he chose to come back and tell this story. We have closure.

Now, I have no further reason to avoid growing up.

Shit.

Final Grade for Revenge of the Sith: B+

Star Wars: Attack of the Clones

There’s this phrase in writing circles that I both love and loathe:

Kill your darlings.

I loathe it simply because it’s hard, sometimes damn near impossible. It’s always excruciatingly painful. I’d compare it to getting your teeth drilled, but that doesn’t quite do it justice. More like getting your teeth drilled with a rusty Black and Decker and dilluted novocaine. Killing your darlings means removing everything that doesn’t completely service the story, no matter how much you may love it. Very often the scenes that are easiest to write, the ones I get excited about, will be excised by the end of a story. Many times the scene I started with, the one that shattered my writer’s block with its invigorating content, ends up being redundant or gratuitous when all is said and done. I’ve avoided stories for months at a time because I didn’t want to go through with one of these executions. Even when I knew it had to be done, I figured if I avoided it for a time perhaps the scene would gain some relevance (i.e. justification) in the grand scheme of things. Alas, it rarely does, and I’m forced to tearfully cut away those moments I had grown to love.

Discipline is the operative word here. Good writers have it. Bad writers don’t. And good writers can still catch the bad bug from time to time. I immediately think of Thomas Harris, whose Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs are tremendous macabre thrillers without an ounce of fat on them. Everything serves the story. But Harris’ Hannibal is nothing if not gratuitous; what else would one call a scene in which Hannibal serves Starling her partner’s brains for dinner (while he is still alive)? Hannibal is proof that even the best of the best lose control of their creative instrument from time to time.

Nobody in their right mind would ever consider George Lucas a great writer. A great imagination? Absolutely. A visionary? Sure. But focusing grand ideas and mythologies into relevant scenes and exchanges of dialogue? Please.

Lucas writes dialogue as if it were an unfortunate requirement of modern cinema. Considering the number of references Star Wars makes to the silent film Metropolis, I get the impression Lucas would much rather be working in that era. Modern filmgoers expect genuine human emotion expressed in their dialogue. Lucas probably would have been much better served with one or two grandiose clichés splashed across silent film placards rather than the agonizing exchanges in Attack of the Clones.

The scent of sloth and apathy in each line of Clones’ dialogue sparks like ammonia. I specifically recognize the aroma because I fell victim to “character indifference” in my early days of writing. Who wants to worry about boring things like character and dialogue when in just a few pages you have that huge battle with a thousand Jedi and tens of thousands of robots and… You get the idea.

Lucas might just as well have put in “blah blah blah love” and “blah blah blah Force” and “blah blah blah Dark Side” considering how much time and care he seemed to put into his dialogue. One scene early in the film perfectly demonstrates this laziness. Obi-Wan and Anakin are talking after arriving on Coruscant to guard Padme. Obi-Wan comments that Anakin looks exhausted, and the young Jedi confirms that he has not been sleeping well because of frequent nightmares.

“About your mother?” Obi-Wan asks, to which Anakin nods.

“I don’t know why I keep dreaming about her,” he responds.

Well, gee, I don’t know. Why would you be dreaming about her? It’s not like you left her on a desert planet ten years ago, confined to slavery, while you went off gallivanting through the galaxy with your drinking buddy. Oh wait. Yes you did. This dialogue makes no sense. It's like Lucas knew he needed some dialogue there, so he inserted whatever sounded passable and moved on.The proper question for Anakin to ask would be “Why wouldn’t I be dreaming about my abandoned mother?” It should be all he thinks about. He should have gone back to retrieve her long ago. And why didn’t he? Well, because there’s that whole thing with the plot. The plot requires that she die horribly.

And ironically, the prequels’ tragic flaw is that slavemaster called predestination -- the requirements these films must fill in order to meet up with A New Hope. These requirements immediately hamper the creative process. The best writing flows organically from the characters’ actions, leaving infinite possibilities for a plot's trajectory. An author may have a vague idea of where the story is going, but a good writer won’t force a story in a direction it does not want to go. Lucas, from the get go, has to.

Lucas is basically playing a rigged game of Plinko, that perennial favorite from The Price is Right. Nobody would find Plinko appealing (save those fortunate enough to play) if the contestant got to stand in front of the board and knock the chips in a favorable direction if they got off track. Where’s the drama in that? The drama comes from those times when the chip swings all the way to the side of the board, with the audience screaming “No!” before it slashes its way back across and lands in the grand prize slot. Even with the destination set in stone, Lucas still could have taken us all over the map before bringing us back to center. Instead, he drags the characters and their performers around by a leash, servicing the plot at the expense of everything else.

Anakin’s mother is one of the most glaring examples of this. A writer with any sense would have had Shmi Skywalker living in the suburbs of Coruscant when Episode II began. Why the hell didn’t the Jedi step up and say, “Don’t worry about your mother. We’re living large here and we have more than enough to pay for her freedom?” Shoot, they could have paid double just to make sure that they freed her with no hard feelings. “Clouded, this boy’s future is,” Yoda said. Well, it probably would have been a little sunnier if his mother wasn’t enslaved.

I understand that Lucas planned on using Shmi’s death to exacerbate Anakin’s fear of losing Padme in the third film. That still could have been done without digging this immensely illogical plot hole. To me, losing his mother by chance would be much more rattling and horrifying than losing her because of blatant disregard for her well-being. For Anakin, the great hook of the dark side is the promise of saving his loved ones from the inevitability of death, not the danger of it. People die. We try as hard as we can to prolong lives, to protect and heal, but in the end we’re just delaying the inevitable.

Shmi’s death at the hands of Tusken Raiders spoils numerous dramatic possibilities because it’s logically inexplicable and thematically misguided. I’ve already detailed the ridiculousness of Shmi’s continued enslavement. The fact that she remains a slave as her son grows in power is absurd. But the real unfortunate part of this plot turn is how Lucas misses a more compelling (and logical) way of leading into Anakin’s dark turn after his mother’s death. In the third and final prequel, we learn that the major crux of Anakin’s turn is his desire to save his loved ones from death. By having Shmi die such a preventable death, Anakin’s concern and fear lack depth and scale. What would have been much more compelling from a dramatic standpoint would have been to rescue Shmi from her slavery, only to have her die from a natural illness once she avhieves freedom. Anakin would try everything he could to cure her, except for one thing – turning to the dark side. Having eventually failed to save his mother, his rising fear of Padme’s demise would then push him over that final line. We can empathize more with Anakin having watched him do all he can to save his mother. But the way Lucas wrote it, we simply wonder what he was thinking leaving his mother in the desert.

For a perfect illustration of how this theme can be played to perfection, check out season five of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In an Emmy-winning episode titled “The Body,” Buffy, the chosen one, the mighty hero, after dedicating her life to saving people from the external threats of vampires and demons, comes home to find her mother dead on the sofa having suffered a lethal aneurism. It’s blunt, immediate, and cold. The type of death that would scare the hell out of Anakin, and it would have made Palpatine’s promise of sustaining Padme eternally that much more appealing and comforting.

Of course, we might understand Anakin’s desire more if Lucas had given us a convincing love story to follow in Clones, but instead it feels like these two fall in love only (again) because the plot requires it of them. Whether this love plays convincingly to an audience clearly runs secondary to the story going where it needs to go. That’s very unfortunate considering the talents Lucas has in his leads. Portman made a name for herself over the past decade in The Professional, Beautiful Girls, and Cold Mountain, but watching her in Attack of the Clones it is hard to believe that is the same girl who won raves this past year in Garden State and Closer. Since Hayden Christensen came from virtual obscurity to play Anakin Skywalker, people got a poor introduction to his talent. Shattered Glass and Life as a House are more indicative of his abilities and proof of Lucas’ inability (or unwillingness) to work performances out of his actors. He’s more fascinated with the world of blue surrounding his leads.

And that’s the crux of my displeasure with Attack of the Clones. Forget the story and the “dialogue,” as much as they may have pained me. My main displeasure with Clones comes from that word I mentioned at the beginning of this article: discipline. Lucas has so many digital toys at his disposal, he has all the restraint of a six year-old on a Toys R’ Us shopping spree. And though it takes hours, if not days, to create digital representations of people in a computer, Lucas seems much more willing to go that route than to put a person in a costume and march them onto a set.

I have something of an aesthetic allergy to computer animation. Lucas and the wizards at ILM are clearly at the top of their “art” in the prequels, yet something essential is still lacking from today's digital effects. There’s a detachment between those effects and the audience, no matter how convincing the effects may be from moment to moment. No matter how convincing the texture of an alien’s skin may look, or the way their hair falls, there's an absence behind those unnaturally sparkly eyes that is unmistakable. They the eyes are the window to the soul. Never is that more true than with Lucas' digital creations.

One must concede that filmmaking as a whole is about pretense; nothing is truly real. Sets are constructed, lighting manipulated, and performances coordinated. Whatever makes its way to film is the product of thousands of hands doing their parts in big and small ways. But when filmmaking is at its best, we forget the façade and accept it as “real.” Unfortunately, in computer animated spectacles like Attack of the Clones, the façade draws too much attention to itself to allow for full immersion.Everyone heaped praise on the epic battle that concluded Attack of the Clones, but I found myself taken completely out of the film by it. By that point I was already slipping away after an hour and a half of two-dimensional writing and acting, but when Episode II suddenly became a glorified Xbox game I abandoned any hope for the film whatsoever.

One need only look at Lucas’ compositions to know that he heavily favored his beautiful vistas and elaborate settings over the emotions of his characters. Much of the film is shot in wide or medium shots, devoting 70% to 90% of the frame to background elements while keeping us at an emotional distance from the characters. I doubt the number of close-ups in this film is greater than twenty, and I would guess that half of those are devoted to Lucas’ digital creatures like Jar-Jar and Watto and Yoda.

(It should be noted that the most subtle and nuanced performance in the entire film comes from Watto, the stubbly cross between elephant and dragonfly, who used to own both Anakin and his mother. The moments where Watto discerns Anakin’s identity after ten years is the most convincing acting in the film).

Special effects always work best when they revolve around the films characters. For proof of that, compare the final battle of Attack of the Clones with the podrace from The Phantom Menace. The podrace is centered on one character, Anakin, and it is shot accordingly. We alternate between close-ups of young Anakin working in the cockpit to Point of View shots from inside the cockpit forward. We’re with Anakin through the entire ride, and it is one of the most visceral sequences in any of the Star Wars films – pure inventive, exhilarating fun with a character at its core.

The final battle of Attack of the Clones is shot in wide shots with thousands of computer generated “troops” battling with no coherent objective other than to blow stuff up real good. The battle goes several minutes at a time without a single human onscreen. There are lots of representations of humans, but very few real human beings. It’s just a big mess with no focus.

Compare that to the opening sequence of Saving Private Ryan. That sequence is every bit as grand in scale as the Kamino battle in Clones, yet it finds a way to focus each moment on characters, most notably Tom Hanks’s captain. When a bomb goes off near him and we lose the sound just as he loses his hearing, we’re taken into the battle with him. We absorb the horror of everything he sees, as he sees it, while the low drum of sound dissipates and his hearing returns.

In Attack of the Clones, the ground war is a completely gratuitous experiment in special effects; all of the major characters flee the battle almost immediately to pursue Count Dooku. What is the consequence of any of this noise then? People were impressed by this? Ok. But did the audience care? Were they concerned at all? Not like in Saving Private Ryan. And not like in Return of the King. Why not? Because the characters weren’t there to be concerned about. This is what Lucas has in mind for a climax? That’s like taking your starters out in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. What point is there for spending twenty long minutes in the guts of this battle if it has no direct consequence for any of the characters we’re supposed to care about?

I talked to a guy in L.A. who once got a meeting with Steven Spielberg about one of his scripts. I anxiously asked him what it was like. Apparently, Spielberg just kept asking the same question over and over as he went through this man’s script:

“What does the audience feel here?”

Simple. Direct. The purpose of every scene ever put on film – to make the audience feel something. If Lucas had any integrity, he could answer this question only one way.

“Hey George, what does the audience feel during this massive battle between the droids and the clones?”

“Nothing, Steve.”

Final Grade for Attack of the Clones: D

Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

So here’s the thing. I talk. A lot. I opine. I debate. I both entertain and irritate with my clever diatribes. Topic rarely matters to me; I have something to say about most everything. Most times my comments are carefully considered, studied, and crafted – comments that do not cause me to wince moments later.

But there are occasions, however rare, where my observations and opinions bypass my mouth and escape into the world through that puckered place on my backside. I’ve let slip some monstrously dumb remarks over the years. Very often these comments will aggravate me for a considerable time. That itch will recede only when I’m convinced my brain holds exclusive rights to the memory of my egregious stupidity.

I treat my writing differently though. As carefully as I construct the majority of my essays and articles, there is no excuse for any of my writing to ever border on foolishness (unless that is its intention).

Yet here I am, confronted with the sad reality that the first time my name found its way into a national publication, a genre film and TV magazine called Cinescape, it was to guarantee that Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace would be the greatest thing to hit the big screen in over twenty years. A month later, I submitted a similar essay to my hometown paper, the Rock Island Argus, on why Star Wars meant so much to me. By this time the film’s teaser trailer had dropped jaws nationwide, further bolstering my confidence in the film to come.

It’s interesting to watch how my anticipation for the Star Wars prequels has taken on changed as the films have been released. With Phantom Menace, I had nothing but confidence. By the time the trailers for Episode II premiered, I had downgraded that confidence to a reluctant hope. Now, on the eve of Revenge of the Sith, despite relatively positive reviews, I am overcome by severe trepidation.
Attack and Revenge will get their due. Let me first address the return, after 16 years, to that galaxy far, far away. In order to get proper perspective on what the return of Star Wars meant, I watched the trailers before I sat down for the entire film. The hype that preceded Phantom cannot be ignored.

It was weird watching the teaser trailer and recalling how awestruck I was when I first saw it. Even though many of its images have been spoiled by the film’s weak script, I still remember their initial impact. That first hazy shot of the Gungans riding to war. John Williams’s opening chords striking with all its historic gusto as we drop into the seat of Anakin’s podracer. And who can forget the first time we saw Darth Maul’s painted mug and two-sided lightsaber?

I had this trailer on my desktop for months as I tried to advance my Quicktime copy a frame at a time to extract whatever kernels of story I could. I leaned in close to my computer screen, examining meticulously several times a day. Each frame exploded with dazzling, near overwhelming visuals. And all of it was so new. There was no context for a podracer or the droid starships that walked straight out of The War of the Worlds. Everything was mystical. Everything was fantastic. Hell, even the sparse dialogue in the trailer worked. The final theatrical trailer ended with Darth Sidious growling an order to “Wipe them out. All of them.” How grand! And Obi-Wan’s passionate “Noooo!” as a dizzying array of rapid-fire shots bombard our eyes. How exquisite! These were masterful previews.

So, the trailers sat at our fingertips for infinite viewings and the wait began. I finished up the last semester of my freshman year in college while finding time to write two regrettably naive e-mails to Cinescape and the Argus. As May 19th approached, the hype hit unprecedented levels. The pathetically dedicated masses outside theaters began to reek like the living dead, many of them further embarrassing themselves with improvised lightsaber battles. The barrage of merchandise was slurped up by eager young Jedi (and many not so young). And clips and previews became more plentiful.

With all of this fanfare, I became concerned about getting tickets. It was paramount that I attend the midnight show. Waiting an entire evening to see the first new Star Wars film in 16 years seemed like heresy. Who calls themselves a fan and sits at home for the maiden screening? The increasingly large party who wished to accompany me made the quest for tickets much more urgent. Star Wars resided in the hearts of not just me, but my entire family. So, it would be me, my brother, mom, and dad (we’d force him, pardon the pun), and my best friend Steve (Episode I debuted on his birthday) burning the midnight oil on May 19.

But alas, some logistical issues needed to be worked out. I was stuck in Carbondale finishing up the school year during the prime ticket purchasing time. By May 19th, I would be home, but I did not want to cut it that close. I needed somebody to purchase tickets for me. My mother graciously volunteered to stop by the Showcase Cinemas and snag us some tickets for that first showing.

Sending her may have been a mistake. My next phone call home dealt me a tremendous shock.

“Ok. I got four tickets to the midnight show. Your dad won’t go to the midnight show.”

“Well, that’s –“

“So, I also got four tickets to the ten o’clock show the following morning. You can take him to that one. Plus, whoever else.”

“Ok, that should –“

“AND I got you four tickets to the seven o’clock show on Friday night.”

“I’m sorry. What now?”

Despite my mother’s extreme overzealousness, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the job she did. So, I thanked her for the tickets, and resigned myself to watching Episode I three times in its first 24 hours of release. It proved much more daunting than my back-to-back-to-back theatrical viewing of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

Now, I have a general philosophy about determining the quality of uber-hyped films, and though I can’t be certain of what exactly my mother was smoking when she bought all those tickets, it did play right into this philosophy. The optimum number of times a film must be seen before an informed testament can be made to its quality is three. The first viewing is mainly to deflate the balloon of expectation. When one considers the unprecedented level of hype leading up to The Phantom Menace, it would be nearly (note nearly) impossible for any film to live up to that.

So, the first viewing is to say “Ok, I’ve seen it.” Provided you were not horribly repulsed by the first viewing, the second viewing is so you can say “Ok, now I’ve watched it.” A proper opinion begins to take shape with this second run-through. Most often, if you left Viewing One questioning the quality of the film, Viewing Two will answer many of your questions. If you felt a bit letdown by Viewing One, chances are you will find yourself enjoying the second a bit more. The film will move considerably more speedily and if there is fun to be had in a film, it will really shine in the second go-round.

The third, and final, viewing may or may not be necessary. If you find that neither viewing met with a proper “Thumbs Up” you may discontinue your study of the film. A third viewing will not save a doomed film. However, if you ended up with either a Thumbs Up and a Thumbs Down, or a Thumbs Up and an “Eh,” one final viewing is in order.

I first noticed this pattern with Titanic. I saw Titanic opening weekend with a good friend and my girlfriend, and I found the film inexcusably melodramatic and insufferably boring up until the ship began to sink. How Star Wars can get savaged by critics for its dialogue Titanic was lauded with its mercilessly unconvincing romantic storyline is beyond me. But I digress.

The second time I went to Titanic it was with a new girlfriend (yea, this was the one month in high school I found myself trapped in a playa’s world). On my way to the theater I had backed into a friend’s car with the family minivan, so I was bedraggled by shame and embarrassment as I watched the film slumped in my seat with my hand on my forehead. Even with my pissy attitude, I couldn’t help but notice the film played much better upon the second viewing. It moved a good deal quicker without the anticipation of the impending disaster, and the memories of my first dreadful experience with the film somehow felt unjustified.

So, with one thumb up and one thumb down I watched the film for the third and final time when I purchased it on DVD. After starting on the negative side and swinging to a moderate but sincere positive, the third viewing decided it for me.

The film is dreadful. It’s so many degrees of awful I struggle to understand how it remains the highest grossing movie in history. It is very nearly the most overhyped asswipe ever put on celluloid (The Passion of the Christ will likely wear that Crown of Thorns for eternity). It took three passes, but I eventually landed on an opinion I feel quite confident about.

My experience with The Phantom Menace would be similar in some respects and quite different in others. The course of opinion through the three viewings worked very much the same way. The main difference was the time frame. My three viewings of Titanic took place over the course of at least a year, but I would see The Phantom Menace three times within 24 hours. That makes forming an opinion a fairly unique experience.

Most of my memories of that first showing come in brief snippets. I’m certain there were costumes amongst the patrons; a few lightsabers without question. I specifically recall a shoddy, white-trash Boba Fett. As far as the film goes, I remember taking particular delight in Qui-Gonn’s ingenious use of lightsaber as lockpick/smelter. Aside from Jar-Jar’s incessant squealing, I loved the mammoth creatures inhabiting the planet core. And the angry flurry between Obi-Wan and Darth Maul, shot mainly in long-shot, remains unmatched in the entire series. I specifically recall turning to Steve and offering my eloquent appraisal of the exchange:

“Holy shit.”

The film ended to applause and my family and friends returned home just before 3. We hopped into bed to get a few hours sleep before we would return for round two. I spoke enthusiastically of many moments in the film, but I couldn’t hide the flat feeling the film had left me with. I couldn’t say what it was specifically. I knew the presence of poor Jake Lloyd irked me, especially trying to prop up the ridiculous midichlorian idea (does this concept remind anyone else of scientology?). But I hold no ill will towards that poor child who probably killed his acting career with a shockingly thankless role that should have been a sure thing. I found myself rendered indifferent to Natalie Portman, one of my most bewitching and enduring crushes (I cannot understate how horrifying that was). Of course, since we had two more chances to experience this film, my family and I dismissed the cracks we felt forming in our favorite franchise, focusing instead on those things we enjoyed.

The undeniable adrenaline of seeing a new Star Wars movie kept us up longer than we would have liked, and with less than four hours sleep under our belts Steve and I (along with both of our fathers and I believe my mother) returned to the theater for round two. We got there early (I’m a freak about sitting in good seats) and already found a healthy line snaking down the handicap ramp. We took our place in line and chatted with those around us.

Coincidentally, a smallish, twerp of a man whose face I found strikingly familiar crawled up in line behind us. After a moment, I realized who it was: Sean Leary, the editor of the Life section of the Rock Island Argus, the man who quoted me in his Star Wars feature article. I introduced myself and he offered an indifferent handshake. I carried a worthless conversation for a few moments before a redneck in a beaten-down dodge pick-up screamed “Star Wars sucks!” out his window.

“Nice car,” I yelled back, to the approval of the masses. Not one of my best retorts, pretty weak actually, but the crowd appreciated it.

The comment rescued me from my conversation with Leary, a deluded snob who clearly felt he was debasing himself by waiting in line for a Star Wars film. William Forsythe is the only other man who ever stared at me with such contempt (yes that was a gratuitous name-drop, but I’m still tickled that Flat Top from Dick Tracy looked like he wanted to rip my throat out), and at least he had reasonable justification for it. Leary on the other hand, was just a prick.

Even with my lack of sleep, the second trip through The Phantom Menace was much more enjoyable. Of course, I tend to get a little flighty when I’ve had little sleep (it’s why I don’t make major decisions after midnight), so the absurd use of scatology in a Star Wars movie may have struck a chord with me that morning that it wouldn’t have otherwise. I honestly can’t say for certain. But I can attest that I enjoyed the film much more the second time, once the burden of hype had been negated.

The final viewing in our ludicrous triple-header was like an out-of-body experience. The adrenaline that preserved us through the morning showing did not last till our final showing at seven. By the time the opening scroll hit the screen, I thought I was in a different world, and not in that good, escapist way. The lasers. The explosions. The LIGHTsabers. Oh man. It was as close to a bad acid trip as I have ever been on. I didn’t see the film so much as experience it. Usually that’s a good thing. Here, it was just… whoa baby. My head was like a helium balloon with sprinkles.

So, I have to take out this third Phantom Menace in my rule of three. It can’t count considering I probably thought I was Yoda by the end of the film. Instead, we’re going to rely on my most recent viewing of the DVD for my deciding verdict.

The upcoming write-up of Attack of the Clones (I’ve watched it again, too) is largely going to be a comparison between that film and The Phantom Menace, but I’m going to preview it here. Once again I found myself startled by an unexpected revelation. Though it seemed to please more fans and critics than its predecessor, Attack of the Clones is the worst film in the Star Wars canon (holding out hope for Episode III). All of the weaknesses of The Phantom Menace are multiplied many times over in Clones with none of the hidden gems that can be found in Phantom. Granted, the good may be hard to find in Episode I, but I’m going to do my best to enlighten those of you who are still bitter about it.

I think any review of The Phantom Menace must start in one particular spot: Jar Jar Binks. I’m going to take an unusual position here and speak in defense of that floppy-eared doofus. If anything is lacking from the prequels it is character. The majority of the placeholders in Lucas’ universe do very little to distinguish themselves from each other. They’re not well-rounded characters. They speak the same. Their mannerisms are similar. They’re cardboard cut-outs that aren’t even full-figured; Lucas gave them all the same body and cut-and-paste the heads on. At least with Jar Jar, he benefits from having a unique character. Is he annoying? Of course, but that’s who he is. Look at the rest of the Gungans. They have the same reaction to Jar Jar as we do. That should say something about dramatic consistency and consistency of character, even if it’s the consistency of nails on a chalkboard.

Character remains the biggest impediment to (non-certifiable) die-hards embracing the prequels. Not a single character immediately endears themselves to us like Luke did with his passionate idealism, or Leia did with her sass (in her first bit of dialogue she mouths off to Darth Vader!), or Han did with his charming shit-grin. Qui-Gonn and Obi-Wan are sipping tea within five minutes of their introduction. Natalie Portman debuts in a completely impractical costume looking like she just got her spine fused. I mean Yoda never looked that stiff in Empire and he had a hand up his ass. Thanks to the weakness of Lucas’s dialogue and the inherent limitations of child actors’, I’m walking into Episode III still looking for the character of Anakin Skywalker to draw me in.

But my biggest disappointment with the sequels remains the Jedi. In my youth, every kid wanted to be a Jedi. They had the cool powers. They got the lightsabers. They were badasses. The prequels have all but convinced me that this is completely false. The Jedi have no heart in these films. Love, attachment, and passion are taboo, sacrificed at the altar of this arbitrary “good” that they supposedly serve. The Jedi are rigid automatons who blindly adhere to some generic code of chivalry that essentially removes their humanity. With a few exceptions, I felt a stronger draw to the Goberfish in the planet core than I did any of the Jedi.

But there are exceptions. Since Qui-Gonn Jinn has no direct ties to the original trilogy, Liam Neeson’s performance was sadly overlooked. This is not Oscar caliber work. It can’t be with what Neeson was given to work with. But it’s clear that it is the work of an Oscar-caliber actor. Neeson does nothing flashy as the Jedi Master, but manages to eek out sly and amusing moments out of dry and banal situations. His frustrated attempt to use his Jedi powers on Watto is actually quite funny, and Neeson does so little to earn a chuckle. When he realizes he’s in a pickle, he merely flashes a rueful smile and leaves. Small moment, but it showed the hints of personality that all of the Jedi should have been able to project. The most impressive moment came during the duel with Darth Maul, when a red force field separated the two combatants. With this fiendish assailant on the other side, scowling and pacing, Qui-Gonn puts his lightsaber away and kneels. After a moment’s glace, he closes his eyes to meditate. This is Jedi badass in all of its glory, and it came not through clashing of lightsabers or invisible force powers. It came in a half-second glance that Qui-Gonn gave Maul before he closed his eyes. The glance spoke plainly: “I don’t sweat you for a second.”

There is an underlying vibe that Qui-Gonn is a bit of a rebel, but they really don’t play it up as much as they could have. After the council rejects Anakin as a potential Jedi, Obi-Wan pleads with Qui-Gonn not to “defy the council again.” One need only look at his dealings on Tattooine to see that he didn’t mind working in a questionable environment (gambling for parts and such). He clearly had more in common with Luke’s revolutionary Jedi than Mace Windu and his group of elitist tightasses. I loved Qui-Gonn during this recent viewing. I don’t know how Neeson projected confident cool while the rest of the Jedi seemed to be going for snobby aloofness – his character did not seem to be written much different – but he was one Jedi in the prequels who I wouldn’t mind being. Sadly, I didn’t think the pickings would be so slim.

I wish that Qui-Gonn would have stuck around just a bit longer, if only to preserve a much more interesting characterization of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Many complained that Obi-Wan got short shrift in Episode I, but I found him lightyears more interesting under Qui-Gonn’s wing than after his ascension to the ranks of Jedi Master. After the stiff Jedi in Phantom Menace got even stiffer in Clones, I relished returning to Ewan McGregor’s youthful and brash Obi-Wan. There’s a horrible joke after the two Jedi are ambushed at the beginning of the film where Obi-Wan turns to his master and says “Well, you were right about one thing, Master. The negotiations were short.” Sure the joke sucks, but look at McGregor’s face. Obi-Wan is clearly a Jedi who loves this adventure shit.

McGregor saves one of the major characters of the franchise, Obi-Wan Kenobi, with his performance. He’s allowed to be young and arrogant and (oh no! Jedi code!) passionate, before things get all serious in Episode II. Watch Kenobi in his first moments with Jar Jar. They’re not particularly funny, not witty per se, but I find them wonderfully amusing. Upon first seeing the Gungan he asks, dryly “What’s this?” He then proceeds to torture the creature with details of the upcoming threat: “If they find catch us, they’ll blast us into a thousand pieces.” McGregor steps into Jar Jar, joyously needling the dimwit. But by far my favorite line in Episode I comes on the desert of Tattooine, when Qui-Gonn heads back to the town to Kenobi’s weary response: “Why do I get the feeling we’ve picked up another pathetic lifeform?” Again, it’s not the line, but McGregor’s dry, cocky delivery. In Episode I, Lucas seemed to show that the Jedi did not trade in their personality for their lightsabers. Sure, nobody in the film was half the smartass Han was Solo, but that wouldn’t have been in their character anyway. However dry, Qui-Gonn and Obi-Wan both showed a keen sense of humor that Lucas painfully extracted from the “improved” script of Attack of the Clones.

By far the most interesting characters, from a creative point-of-view, were Natalie Portman’s Padme and her regal alter-ego Queen Amidala. I separate these two characters because Lucas wrote them so differently; one apparently had human characteristics, while the other merely replicated them. Queen Amidala must be considered one of the worst written characters in the history of film. Why do I say this? Because Amidala didn’t just make Natalie Portman uninteresting. She also made Keira Knightley, one of today’s fiercest, sexiest film sirens uninteresting. For those who were not aware, Keira Knightley played Amidala whenever Portman was playing Padme. So that’s two of my generation’s most charismatic actresses that could do absolutely nothing to humanize what basically equated to a walking lampshade.

This wouldn’t be so glaring if Portman didn’t somehow find a way to make her “handmaiden” Padme interesting. Her interactions with Qui-Gonn, who is unaware of her royal status, have an amusing undercurrent as the Jedi orchestrates risky and “reckless” ventures to escape their predicament. Padme clearly disapproves, but the secret of her identity won’t allow her to enforce her wishes. Her graceless frustration is inconsistent with the stoicism of Amidala, but the character shift didn’t bother me because I did a tremendous job of blocking out the queen’s existence.

Perhaps I’ve trained myself to do that with much of this film. I certainly enjoyed this film more than I did previously. I may be fishing for these pleasant things in the performances, but I don’t think I’m hunting as hard as many of you may believe. Make no mistake. These parts were horribly written, but at least this film was fresh for its actors. The enthusiasm is clear. Next time you watch the film, pay close attention Neeson’s quiet, rebellious humor. Check out McGregor’s flippant attitude towards all the drama. Give Padme a look and ignore Amidala. There’s good stuff here, if we can put our disappointment behind us.

I know. Some of you think I’m becoming a prequel apologist. Not so, I say. Wait till you see what I do to Attack of the Clones.

Final Grade for The Phantom Menace: B-