Star Wars: The Fairy Tale America Needs
To call Star Wars a cultural phenomenon is to call water wet or the sky blue. With the release of a 2 minute trailer yesterday, Star Wars reminded us that it’s the unquestioned ruler of American popular culture, overwhelming social media and crashing Fandango. Whether the upcoming movie is good or bad is irrelevant at this point because Star Wars is more than a movie, more than a collection of fictional characters enacting scripted events. Star Wars is an American fairy tale and in that role has become a uniquely American cultural institution.
Famously built upon the Campbell-codified Hero’s Journey, Star Wars is originally about as subtle as, well, the Death Star blowing up an entire planet just because Tarkin feels like it.
But of course it’s overt. Star Wars, the original trilogy, wasn’t meant to be plot-driven. The original trilogy is character-driven, and that’s what makes it interesting and that’s what makes it resonate in America.
Fitzgerald quipped that there are no second acts in American lives. For most of the characters in Star Wars this is true as well. The main three characters do evolve, though, and function as both escapist and educational guides.
At the beginning (1977), Luke is innocent and wears white, Han is ambiguous wearing both white and black and mocking hokey superstitions, and Vader is pure evil under his iconic black biosuit. In Empire (1980), the three enter a liminal phase, betwixt and between, figuratively and physically forced into new situations and perspectives, questioning their own motivations and actions. Ultimately, they transition into the final movie, completing the cycle. In Jedi (1983), Luke is powerful and mysterious, Han is leading the Rebellion on Endor and sincerely wishing people “may the Force be with you,” and Vader is literally overthrowing the Emperor and sacrificing himself to save his son.
In the context of the late-70s and early-80s this all makes a lot of sense. The world was beset in binaries in this moment. Political leaders like Reagan drove the narrative of good versus evil, moral versus corrupt, believers versus non-believers. It was necessary then to have this reflected in our popular culture. If evil exists, then we need to believe that evil people can redeem themselves. We need to believe that the meek can become strong. We need the morally ambiguous antihero of the 1970s to enter the 1980s as a reluctant but strong leader on the side of good. This is the exact trajectory that unfolds in Star Wars and this is why the story becomes ingrained in American culture, moving beyond a simple movie and becoming, for some, a sacred narrative. It might take place a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, but Star Wars speaks directly to what it means to be American.
American culture doesn’t really have many fairy tales of our own. Reflecting the composition of American society itself, we tend to import our traditional fairy tales, altering them to our needs. To fill this narrative void, however, we have mass entertainment. It is through popular culture that American society speaks to itself and it is through popular culture that the fairy tale form thrives. This is the role of a production like Star Wars: it’s more than a movie, it’s more than the toys, or Christmas specials. Star Wars, the cultural narrative, allows Americans to speak to themselves, to direct and enforce their morals and values.
Character archetypes, simple plots, stark contrasts of good and evil, repetition of numbers (specifically threes), all of these classic fairy tale ingredients are the backbone of cinema and television production. And just as they did for Charles Perrault and the Grimms, the new popular culture tales teach us about ourselves — our morals, our ethics, our values, our sense of humor. Fairy tales are the place where a culture can challenge itself.
This leads us to the prequels.
Produced in the 1990s and 2000s, the prequels came from a much different cultural backdrop. The binary certainty of the 1980s was gone and economic and technological success was the new normal. The brusque and laconic Reaganesque cowboy was out and Nineties Man was in, sensitive and artistic and vain. The country itself even seemed a bit innocent and naive, especially considering what was about to befall it.
The first prequel, Phantom Menace (1999) is the apex of 1990s culture: technologically impressive but unbearably shallow and boring. The naivete of the decade is personified in the boy Anakin, wide-eyed and completely unaware of the shitshow about to tear the galaxy apart. The plot is devoted to trade dealings and political intrigue, couched in overt desire for multicultural harmony. This was the world of the late 1990s and it is no surprise we see it reflected back at us on screen.
Then 9/11 happens. The Global War on Terror happens. America descends into moral ambiguity. So does Star Wars. The leader of the Republic is corrupt and power-mad. The Jedi aren’t as strong as they wish they were. The use of technology to fight wars becomes paramount, allowing for a galactic population detached from the reality of war. Most importantly, the protagonist is actually becoming evil the entire time.
What was a post-9/11 America supposed to think about these movies? This new narrative embraced our fears and anxieties, instead of our hopes and morals. Lucas himself didn’t shy from the overt politics of it all, when he had Amidala declare: “So this is how liberty dies… with thunderous applause.”
While the original trilogy demanded Americans regain their moral certitude — “Use the Force, Luke” — the new trilogy threw up its hands and lamented that the galaxy had simply succumbed to the Dark Side. Yoda and Obi-Wan fled, leaving civilization to youngling-murderers. As a cultural narrative, this is a powerful indictment of the psyche of 2000s America.
Was that us flopping around on the lava? Were we the fallen Anakin — maimed and limp, seething with uncontrollable rage? With constant stories of war and torture and overreach of executive authority in the news, it’s difficult to see how these movies weren’t a reflection of their time. It became cliche toward the end of the decade to question is America had lost its way. The answer to that was never in doubt, all that was left to consider was how to get back on track.
This is why I’m so excited for the new Star Wars movie.
Fancy visual effects (and lens flares) aside. Dramatic (and beautiful) John Williams score aside. Star Wars is, and will continue to be, a reflection of the state of the American mind.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve got nothing to fight for…”
“The Force, it’s calling for you. Just let it in.”
America’s been through some shit lately. We’ve gone down some morally ambiguous paths (to say the least). We’ve had politicians fail us, and then fail us again. We’re reaping the rewards of a “catastrophic success” in Iraq. The news isn’t exactly bright around the world. Many people are looking to the past for answers — conservatives and liberals alike. We seem to be pining for a lost answer to our problems. Nostalgia is rampant, whether it’s Boomer nostalgia for the Sixties or Millennial nostalgia for the Nineties.
In comes Episode VII. Also nostalgic. Also set amid a chaotic backdrop. Also looking for answers on how to move forward.
Who are you, America? What are you fighting for?
If our politicians cannot answer those questions, if you and I cannot answer those questions, then we are forced to rely on the same thing cultures have always relied on to answer those questions: narratives… fairy tales.
Star Wars isn’t just a movie, it’s a fairy tale, and it’s the fairy tale America needs right now.
