“It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note – it’s the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong.”
Miles Davis’ line is too charitable a view on J.J. Abrams. His movie was little more than the regurgitated result of a Markov chain fed on Star Wars movies and script structure. But Rian Johnson’s follow-up managed to force-pull decent themes out of Abrams’ vague hints.
Looking back, one of the things that angered me the most about The Force Awakens was Han.
I was well under 10 years old when I first encountered Star Wars. Han’s rebelliousness had a visceral appeal. He did what he wanted, cared only for his friends and his own well-being.
Luke was searching for structure - of course he’d find the way of an ascetic warrior-monk appealing. He was the one with the raw innate power, and the journey, and the Messiah thing. He was The Hero.
I’ve changed in those 30-something years. Several times over. I’d never articulated this before The Force Awakens, couldn’t have told you if you asked me, but I wanted something new. I didn’t want someone to microwave my childhood expectations and hearing the metal tray clank as they throw it in front of me.
I wanted to see what these people had been up to. If I’ve changed this much even in 10 years and just a few countries, what could have happened to Han and Leia and Luke when the universe is their oyster?
Nothing. No changes but getting older and having shitty kids. Not even the dress code. Han wasn’t even free anymore - he was shackled to his old self by a writer who couldn’t conceive of change, who thought Han still pining for the muscle car of his youth would pass for nostalgic.
God forbid Abrams scared the money by trying something new. Being a magpie has paid off so far, why start creating for himself?
I didn’t want Luke to be old and bitter, but after The Force Awakens, I’d be too. There was no other way to follow up the disjointed notes Abrams had played.
Of course Luke had cut himself from the force. It was the only explanation for why he wouldn’t sense, from across the galaxy, that his friends were in trouble.
Of course Luke wasn’t going to be the father figure who’d fit in the too-neat hole the last movie had left. That’d have been sleep-walkingly easy.
Of course Luke could have stopped Darth Tantrum at any point. The only person capable of preventing that was Luke himself.
Of course Luke didn’t want to get involved. He tried, once, and made things worse.
Of course it was going to end this way, red on white, death everywhere, with two suns in the sunset. Someone capable of showing up mid-session and making music out of Abrams’ tone-deaf scale practice would play the instruments for all they’re worth, then bash them on the stage until they are little but splinters, before the robotical starting act comes back for the close.
Here, have a cymbal. Markov-chain that.
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