csua.org/u/c8d -> www.newyorker.com/printables/critics/050523crci_cinema
It sounds to me like the noise t hat emerges when you block one nostril and blow through the other, but t o George Lucas it is a name that trumpets evil. What is proved beyond qu estion by Star Wars: Episode IIIRevenge of the Sith, the latestand, you will be shattered to hear, the lastinstallment of his sci-fi bonanz a, is that Lucas, though his eye may be greedy for sensation, has an ear of purest cloth. All those who concoct imagined worlds must populate an d name them, and the resonance of those names is a fairly accurate guide to the mettle of the imagination in question. Tolkien, earthed in Old E nglish, had a head start that led him straight to the flinty perfection of Mordor and Orc. Here, by contrast, are some Lucas inventions: Palpati ne. He made American Graffiti, which yielded with affection to the gravitational pull of the small town. Sinc e then, he has swung out of orbit, into deep nonsense, and the new film is the apotheosis of that drift. One stab of humor and the whole conceit would pop, but I have a grim feeling that Lucas wishes us to honor the remorseless non-comedy of his galactic conflict, so here goes. Obi-Wan K enobi (Ewan McGregor) and his star pupil, Anakin Skywalker (Hayden Chris tensen), are, with the other Jedi knights, defending the Republic agains t the encroachments of the Sith and their alliesmillions of dumb droids , led by Count Dooku (Christopher Lee) and his henchman, General Grievou s, who is best described as a slaying mantis. Meanwhile, the Chancellor of the Republic, Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid), is engaged in a sly bout of Realpolitik, suspected by nobody except Anakin, Obi-Wan, and every singl e person watching the movie. Anakin, too, is a divided figure, wrenched between his Jedi devotion to selfless duty and a lurking hunch that, if he bides his time and trashes his best friends, he may eventually get to wear a funky black mask and start breathing like a horse. We already know the outcomeAnak in will indeed drop the killer-monk Jedi look and become Darth Vader, th e hockey goalkeeper from hellbecause it forms the substance of the orig inal Star Wars. One of the things that make Episode III so dismal is t he time and effort expended on Anakins conversion. Early in the story, he enjoys a sprightly light-sabre duel with Count Dooku, which ends with the removal of the Counts hands. A nice setup, with Palpatine egging our hero on from the background. The troubl e is that Anakins choice of action now will be decisive, and the remain ing two hours of the filmscene after scene in which Hayden Christensen has to glower and glare, blazing his conundrum to the skieswill add not hing to the result. This is especially worrying for his wife, Padm (Natalie Por tman), who is great with child. What can you say about a civilization where people zip from one solar sys tem to the next as if they were changing their socks but where a woman f ails to register for an ultrasound, and thus to realize that she is carr ying twins until she is about to give birth? Mind you, how Padm got pre gnant is anybodys guess, although Im prepared to wager that it involve d Anakin nipping into a broom closet with a warm glass jar and a copy of Ewok Babes. After all, the Lucasian universe is drained of all referenc e to bodily functions. Smoking and cursing are out of bounds, as is drunkenness, although p ersonally I wouldnt go near the place without a hip flask. Did Lucas le arn nothing from Alien and Blade Runnerfrom the suggestion that oth er times and places might be no less rusted and septic than ours, and th at the creation of a disinfected galaxy, where even the storm troopers w ear bright-white outfits, looks not so much fantastical as dated? What L ucas has devised, over six movies, is a terrible puritan dream: a morali ty tale in which both sides are bent on moral cleansing, and where their differences can be assuaged only by a triumphant circus of violence. Ju dging from the whoops and crowings that greeted the opening credits, thi s is the only dream we are good for. The general opinion of Revenge of the Sith seems to be that it marks a distinct improvement on the last two episodes, The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones. True, but only in the same way that dying from n atural causes is preferable to crucifixion. So much here is guaranteed t o cause either offense or pain, starting with the nineteen-twenties leat her football helmet that Natalie Portman suddenly dons for no reason, an d rising to the continual horror of Ewan McGregors accent. Another hap py landingor, to be precise, anothah heppy lendinghe remarks, as An akin parks the front half of a burning starcruiser on a convenient airst rip. The young Obi-Wan Kenobi is not, I hasten to add, the most nauseati ng figure onscreen; nor is R2-D2 or even C-3PO, although I still fail to understand why I should have been expected to waste twenty-five years o f my life following the progress of a beeping trash can and a gay, gold- plated Jeeves. May I take the opportunity to enter a br ief plea in favor of his extermination? Any educated moviegoer would kno w what to do, having watched that helpful sequence in Gremlins when a small, sage-colored beastie is fed into an electric blender. A fittingly frantic end, I feel, for the faux-pensive stillness on which the Yoda l egend has hung. At one point in the new film, he assumes the role of cos mic shrinksquatting opposite Anakin in a noirish room, where the light bleeds sideways through slatted blinds. Anakin keeps having problems wit h his dark side, in the way that you or I might suffer from tennis elbow , but Yoda, whose reptilian smugness we have been encouraged to mistake for wisdom, has the answer. Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose, he says. If you ever got laid (admittedly a long shot, unless we can dig you up some undiscerning alien hottie with a name like Jar Jar Gabor), and spaw ned a brood of Yodettes, are you saying that youd leave them behind at the first sniff of danger? Deepest mind in the galaxy, apparently, and you still express yourself like a day-tripper with a dog-eared phrase book. The prize for the least speakable burst of dialogue has, over half a doze n helpings of Star Wars, grown into a fiercely contested tradition, bu t for once the winning entry is clear, shared between Anakin and Padm f or their exchange of endearments at home: Youre so beautiful. For a moment, it looks as if they might bat this one back and forth forev er, like a baseline rally on a clay court. And if you think the script i s on the tacky side, get an eyeful of the dcor. All of the interiors in Lucasworld are anthems to clean living, with molded furniture, the tran quillity of a morgue, and none of the clutter and quirkiness that signif y the process known as existence. Illumination is provided not by daylig ht but by a dispiriting plastic sheen, as if Lucas were coating all priv ate affairsthose tricky little threats to his near-fascistic rage for o rderin a protective glaze. Only outside does he relax, and what he rela xes into is apocalypse. Why show a pond when CGI can deliver a lake that gleams to the far horizon? Why set a paltry house on fire when you can stage your fin al showdown on an entire planet that streams with ruddy, gulping lava? W hether the director is aware of John Martin, the Victorian painter who s pecialized in the cataclysmic, I cannot say, but he has certainly inheri ted that grand perversity, mobilized it in every frame of the film, and thus produced what I take to be unique: an art of flawless and irredeema ble vulgarity. All movies bear a tint of it, in varying degrees, but it takes a vulgarian genius such as Lucas to create a landscape in which ac tions can carry vast importance but no discernible meaning, in which sty le is strangled at birth by design, and in which the intimate and the ir onic, not the Sith, are the principal foes to be suppressed. It is a vis ion at once gargantuan and murderously limited, and the profits that awa it it are unfit for contemplation. I keep thinking of the rueful Obi-Wan Kenobi, as he surveys the holographic evidence of Anakins betrayal. Wise...
|