Ask JKM a Question #1: Why don’t I *hate* Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace?

This morning, I’m commencing a new-style post that will be informed and shaped by you, the stalwart and thoughtful readers of this blog.  

“Ask JKM a Question” will allow you to decide -- at least some -- the content and shape of our online movie or TV conversation week-to-week, so I hope you’ll contribute.  

If you feel inclined or interested, e-mail me a question at my business e-mail, Muirbusiness@yahoo.com, and let me know in your correspondence if I can use your real name in the posted response.  Title your question “Ask JKM a Question” and then fire it off.  I would prefer you use a real name in the post, and I reserve the right not to post anonymous questions if they are out-of-line.

Pretty much any topic is fair game.  Ask me about a review I wrote, a movie, a TV show, my books, writing, publishing, The House Between, or collecting.  It’s your ball.

I'll start us off today with an e-mail question I actually received this weekend.

This particular reader sent me an e-mail that said -- now paraphrased to omit overt snark -- “Given the widespread critical condemnation and hatred for Star Wars Episode I, why don't you hate it?"

Okay, then: The Phantom Menace (1999).  It's not a favorite film, or anything like that.  But it's true, I did write it a positive review in my Star Wars blogging series way back in 2005.

Here is the quality I appreciate most about the film, and which I believe makes it a better -- or at least far more intriguing -- effort than some fans suggest:

The film's Art Direction and Production Design tell the story.  They convey the meaning behind The Phantom Menace in visual terms.  Thus, style and form reflect thematic content.

The Phantom Menace is set a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. But it is actually a film about life here on Earth in the early twentieth century, particularly the so-called “Inter-Bellum” or “Inter-War” period between 1918 and 1939.

This was a gilded age of Art-Deco-styled architecture and design, and apparent peace and prosperity in America. Yet if you remember from history what came next, economic ruin was on the horizon, racism still thrived, and the “phantom menace” of Fascism and tyranny lurked in the shadows.  

Through carefully-crafted, beautifully-rendered imagery, The Phantom Menace recreates this very age, but on other planets, and in another time.  We’re all familiar with the lived-in look of Star Wars (1977) where the universe is kind of…junked.  But by important contrast, The Phantom Menace is set at the apex of the Galactic Republic, an epoch of riches and wonders, a span when even the finned, chrome spaceships reflect the glory of an advanced civilization at its pinnacle.  

And yet, of course, it is not a perfect Republic, is it?  Slavery still thrives in far corners of the galaxy, and even the noble Jedi Knights turn a blind eye towards this corrupt institution.  And on the rise is wily Senator Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid), a man who will deceive the unsuspected advanced society to achieve a completely despotic, totalitarian state.

In short, The Phantom Menace’s story is a perfect metaphor for the lead-up to World War II and the global fight against fascism in Europe.  Accordingly, the rich imagery in the film explicitly recalls this battle of civilizations.  Consider just for a moment the scenes set on the planet Naboo, a kind of quasi-European state in another solar system.

At least twice in the film, we spy a building in the capital city of Naboo that resembles the Arc De Triomphe (or Arc of Triumph) in France.  In 1940, Nazi troops invaded Paris, and marched the pavement of the Champs-Elysees as a sign of strength and domination.  In 1944, the Allies liberated the nation from Hitler’s troops, and on this occasion there was a parade of victory and freedom at the Arc de Triomphe.

The Phantom Menace features two similar moments at an Arc-like structure, once at the commencement of the Droid Army/Trade Federation occupation and then again after their expulsion, during a celebration or parade. If you gaze closely at the imagery, it’s impossible to deny the significance of these visual allusions or comparisons. 

If Naboo represents a foreign nation endangered by the outer space equivalent of an Axis power, then Coruscant clearly represents New York City of the same age...a popping hub of culture, diversity, and freedom.  As you may recall, Coruscant is a planet-wide metropolis, a city beyond all others.  This urban city-scape stretches to the horizon, and nearly right to the cusp of space itself.  In appearance and style, Coruscant conforms perfectly to the Italian architectural style of “Futurism” popular during the 1930s.  In fact, the Futuristic aesthetic -- an always-growing city upon a city upon a city – was in some corners considered a coded critique of Fascism, and that’s an idea visually reflected by the depiction of the Republic’s capital.

And yet, by the same token, Futurism is seen as stylistically compatible with Art Deco, a school of design often considered “purely decorative." It therefore represents the art of a people very satisfied with the social status quo.  The form is important for itself (for aesthetics), not for the social message behind it. This description not only describes Coruscant aptly, but her satisfied people. They don’t perceive the “phantom menace” in their midst, nor the threat to their very liberty.  They're too busy enjoying a time of peace and prosperity.

So this is Lucas’s selected thematic terrain: a metaphor in a galaxy far, far away comparing the last epoch of the Republic to the Inter-Bellum period on Earth.  But then Lucas stretches his comparison a step further and connects that period in Earth history and in the Star Wars universe to the period in which the film was actually made, the 1990s. The Phantom Menace was released at the end of the Roaring Nineties, a period of genuine peace and prosperity in the U.S., and a time – we now know – before the gathering storm of the War on Terror.  Lucas was prophetic in describing how American politics would soon change to face a grave and gathering threat. In Lucas's vision,  Supreme Chancellor Valorum (Terence Stamp) -- a name which features the same number of letters as Clinton -- would see his leadership and plans for governance stamped out by pervasive accusations of “scandal” from his political enemies and the enemies of progress.   Accordingly, Valorum is impeached by the bureaucratic Senate when a vote of no-confidence is held.  That's what happened to Clinton too.  We were all focused intently on his scandals, and the very public investigation of those scandals, while overseas, terror grew...

And, of course -- as I’ve written before -- one important though subordinate villain's name in this film is Nute Gunray.  Nute = Newt (Gingrich), the leader of the Republican opposition during Clinton’s Presidency.  And Gunray = Ray Gun = Reagan.   So a villain here is Newt Reagan, essentially. You needn't agree with Lucas’s viewpoint or political slant to acknowledge that such an undercurrent is present.  And I'm not arguing that Lucas is either right or wrong in his statement, either.  I'm merely noting the existence of the pointed social critique.  As further evidence, I note that the social commentary in Phantom Menace as I've spelled it out in this essay is consistent with Anakin’s 2005 Bush-esque declaration in Revenge of the Sith that “Either you’re with me, or you’re my enemy.” 

Regarding the film's other lush visuals, I also wrote in my 2005 review that "The Phantom Menace shows us a Tatooine that is not unlike Humphrey Bogart's Casablanca, a meeting place and trading square for different alien races with varied motivations; where a criminal underbelly operates. But more to the point, I believe that the Pod Race is a direct allusion to William Wyler's Ben Hur (1959), and in particular, the central set-piece: a chariot race. Here, Lucas has co-opted the spectacular imagery of a well-attended race, but colored it with a technological sheen, to update a classic Hollywood movie moment. And notice too that both movies are overtly religious in nature."


So why don't I "hate" The Phantom Menace?  My most important critical requirement for any film is that form must in some fashion reflect content. Imagery should buttress, reflect, or augment our understanding of the story presented. A good film can’t merely carry deeper meaning around on a character’s tongue…or else the movie becomes radio with pictures.  And yet surprisingly few films these days effectively manage this (I think, necessary) feat; to truly deploy visuals in a manner that makes pictures convey thematic meaning. 

The Phantom Menace succeeds admirably in this particular aspect of its tapestry.  The images convey important thematic information about the film’s narrative, and how we should interpret that narrative. In other words, the visuals reinforce the comparison the director wants to make, the point he wishes to transmit.

At the very least, I believe that George Lucas embarked on a complex and ambitious visual aesthetic in this first prequel.  He makes the images of his fictional world connect to a time of apparent peace and prosperity (but phantom danger) in our past, and then makes modern audiences understand that we were at a similar juncture in the 1990s.  Were our eyes open to the "Phantom Menace" back then, or were we turned inward, mired in accusations of scandal and corruption?  If you consider the decade 2001 - 2010, I think you'll have your answer.

The rather unfortunate yang to this yin, however, is also encoded, at least partially in the films visuals.  Many character designs, voices, and characteristics in The Phantom Menace appear, in fact, based on racist stereotypes that existed and flourished in the Inter-War period. 

Watto the money-grubbing Toydarian with his hook-nose is an amalgamation of the offensive “money mad” Jewish stereotype. 

The Trade Federation representatives like the Viceroy speak pigeon English and have – literally – slants in their eyes.  They thus serve as the embodiment of negative stereotypes about the Japanese. 

And finally, the much hated Jar-Jar Binks with his Stepin Fetchit, “Feet-Don’t-Fail-Me-Now” routine is alarmingly representative of the prevailing caricatures of black men in the media of the same, between-wars age.

I’m not yet convinced that there’s an entirely worthwhile point in creating a universe in which characters apparently conform to offensive stereotypes from the Inter-War period.  While it’s true that these characters also hark back explicitly to that specific period on Earth and thus sub-textually remind viewers of that time, I’m not certain that’s a strong enough motivation to revive racist imagery. In this case, it's possible that Lucas overreached, or that his artistic conceit flat out failed.

I would very much prefer to believe that Lucas’s depiction of such “ethnic” characters in The Phantom Menace points out, again, that The Galactic Republic is not really the Utopian paradise of equality that many believe it is.  Not only is slavery present in some corners, but certain “pathetic” life forms (to quote Obi-Wan directly) are looked down up, explicitly…even by the Jedi.   Perhaps this is the reason the Republic falls.  There’s some level of hypocrisy and arrogance there.  Also, at least in terms of Jar-Jar and the Gungans, there seems to be a positive message underneath the racist-seeming stereotypes.  The Gungans are derided as primitive goofballs by everyone until they mount an army that saves Naboo from tyranny.  In this case, the pre-existing prejudice is proven wrong.  I wish I had a pro-social explanation for the role that Watto or the Viceroy play in the proceedings.

So is Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace the film I hoped it would be, on the eve of its release?  Not exactly. The film is poorly paced, and Jar-Jar's biggest problem is not that he's an annoying boob, but rather that the CGI artists who created him feel, for some reason, that they must show off, making him catapult and dive like a cartoon superhero when he should move a lot more...subtly.  Were he bound more directly to forces such as gravity, he might have seemed more acceptable.  And yes, some of the film's dialogue is incredibly wooden.  On the plus side, I'd argue that the final light saber duel against Darth Maul is the greatest and most impressive such battle in the franchise, and that Liam Neeson projects enormous dignity and grace throughout the film as Qui-Gon Jinn. Overall, I'd say he's the most likable Jedi Knight in the saga.

From the vantage point of a dozen years later, there is ample opportunity to gaze at the film again now, only without all the original expectations and pre-conceived notions that once surrounded it.  There's the chance to consider what the film does well, in addition to those many things it admittedly does poorly.  Given that rubric, I can discern, as I hope you might, that  – warts and all – The Phantom Menace possesses more than a modicum of artistic merit.  That's why I have no hate in my heart for this prequel.  After all, as disappointed fans have proven for a decade, hate only leads to suffering.  And we know where suffering leads, right?