Why is George Lucas peddling an elitist, anti-democratic
agenda under the guise of escapist fun?
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By David Brin
Well, I boycotted "Episode I: The Phantom Menace" -- for an
entire week.
Why? What's to boycott? Isn't "Star Wars" good old fashioned
sci-fi? Harmless fun? Some people call it "eye candy" -- a
chance to drop back into childhood and punt your adult cares
away for two hours, dwelling in a lavish universe where good
and evil are vividly drawn, without all the inconvenient
counterpoint distinctions that clutter daily life.
Got a problem? Cleave it with a light saber! Wouldn't you
love -- just once in your life -- to dive a fast little ship
into your worst enemy's stronghold and set off a chain
reaction, blowing up the whole megillah from within its
rotten core while you streak away to safety at the speed of
light? (It's such a nifty notion that it happens in three
out of four "Star Wars" flicks.)
Anyway, I make a good living writing science-fiction novels
and movies. So "Star Wars" ought to be a great busman's
holiday, right?
One of the problems with so-called light entertainment today
is that somehow, amid all the gaudy special effects, people
tend to lose track of simple things, like story and meaning.
They stop noticing the moral lessons the director is trying
to push. Yet these things matter.
By now it's grown clear that George Lucas has an agenda, one
that he takes very seriously. After four "Star Wars" films,
alarm bells should have gone off, even among those who don't
look for morals in movies. When the chief feature
distinguishing "good" from "evil" is how pretty the
characters are, it's a clue that maybe the whole saga
deserves a second look.
Just what bill of goods are we being sold, between the
frames?
* Elites have an inherent right to arbitrary rule; common
citizens needn't be consulted. They may only choose
which elite to follow.
* "Good" elites should act on their subjective whims,
without evidence, argument or accountability.
* Any amount of sin can be forgiven if you are important
enough.
* True leaders are born. It's genetic. The right to rule
is inherited.
* Justified human emotions can turn a good person evil.
That is just the beginning of a long list of "moral" lessons
relentlessly pushed by "Star Wars." Lessons that starkly
differentiate this saga from others that seem superficially
similar, like "Star Trek." (We'll take a much closer look at
some stark divergences between these two sci-fi universes
below.)
Above all, I never cared for the whole Nietzschian
�bermensch thing: the notion -- pervading a great many myths
and legends -- that a good yarn has to be about demigods who
are bigger, badder and better than normal folk by several
orders of magnitude. It's an ancient storytelling tradition
based on abiding contempt for the masses -- one that I find
odious in the works of A.E. Van Vogt, E.E. Smith, L. Ron
Hubbard and wherever you witness slanlike super-beings
deciding the fate of billions without ever pausing to
consider their wishes.
Wow, you say. If I feel that strongly about this, why just a
week-long boycott? Why see the latest "Star Wars" film at
all?
Because I am forced to admit that demigod tales resonate
deeply in the human heart.
Before moving on to the fun stuff, will you bear with me
while we get serious for a little while?
In "The Hero With a Thousand Faces," Joseph Campbell showed
how a particular, rhythmic storytelling technique was used
in almost every ancient and pre-modern culture, depicting
protagonists and antagonists with certain consistent motives
and character traits, a pattern that transcended boundaries
of language and culture. In these classic tales, the hero
begins reluctant, yet signs and portents foretell his
pre-ordained greatness. He receives dire warnings and sage
wisdom from a mentor, acquires quirky-but-faithful
companions, faces a series of steepening crises, explores
the pit of his own fears and emerges triumphant to bring
some boon/talisman/victory home to his admiring
tribe/people/nation.
By offering valuable insights into this revered storytelling
tradition, Joseph Campbell did indeed shed light on common
spiritual traits that seem shared by all human beings. And
I'll be the first to admit it's a superb formula -- one that
I've used at times in my own stories and novels.
Alas, Campbell only highlighted positive traits, completely
ignoring a much darker side -- such as how easily this
standard fable-template was co-opted by kings, priests and
tyrants, extolling the all-importance of elites who tower
over common women and men. Or the implication that we must
always adhere to variations on a single story, a single
theme, repeating the same prescribed plot outline over and
over again. Those who praise Joseph Campbell seem to
perceive this uniformity as cause for rejoicing -- but it
isn't. Playing a large part in the tragic miring of our
spirit, demigod myths helped reinforce sameness and
changelessness for millennia, transfixing people in nearly
every culture, from Gilgamesh all the way to comic book
super heroes.
It is essential to understand the radical departure taken by
genuine science fiction, which comes from a diametrically
opposite literary tradition -- a new kind of storytelling
that often rebels against those very same archetypes
Campbell venerated. An upstart belief in progress,
egalitarianism, positive-sum games -- and the slim but real
possibility of decent human institutions.
And a compulsive questioning of rules! Authors like Greg
Bear, John Brunner, Alice Sheldon, Frederik Pohl and Philip
K. Dick always looked on any prescriptive storytelling
formula as a direct challenge -- a dare. This explains why
science fiction has never been much welcomed at either
extreme of the literary spectrum -- comic books and "high
literature."
Comics treat their superheroes with reverent awe, as
demigods were depicted in the Iliad. But a true science
fiction author who wrote about Superman would have earthling
scientists ask the handsome Man of Steel for blood samples
(even if it means scraping with a super fingernail) in order
to study his puissant powers, and maybe bottle them for
everyone.
As for the literary elite, postmodernists despise science
fiction because of the word "science," while their older
colleagues -- steeped in Aristotle's "Poetics" -- find
anathema the underlying assumption behind most high-quality
SF: the bold assertion that there are no "eternal human
verities." Things change, and change can be fascinating.
Moreover, our children might outgrow us! They may become
better, or learn from our mistakes and not repeat them. And
if they don't learn, that could be a riveting tragedy far
exceeding Aristotle's cramped and myopic definition. "On the
Beach," "Soylent Green" and "1984" plumbed frightening
depths. "Brave New World," "The Screwfly Solution" and
"Fahrenheit 451" posed worrying questions. In contrast,
"Oedipus Rex" is about as interesting as watching a hooked
fish thrash futilely at the end of a line. You just want to
put the poor doomed King of Thebes out of his misery -- and
find a way to punish his tormentors.
This truly is a different point of view, in direct
opposition to older, elitist creeds that preached passivity
and awe in nearly every culture, where a storyteller's chief
job was to flatter the oligarchic patrons who fed him.
Imagine Achilles refusing to accept his ordained destiny,
taking up his sword and hunting down the Fates, demanding
that they give him both a long life and a glorious one!
Picture Odysseus telling both Agamemnon and Poseidon to go
chase themselves, then heading off to join Daedalus in a
garage start-up company, mass producing wheeled and winged
horses so that mortals could swoop about the land and air,
like gods -- the way common folk do today. Even if they
fail, and jealous Olympians crush them, what a tale it would
be.
This storytelling style was rarely seen till a few
generations ago, when aristocrats lost some of their power
to punish irreverence. Even now, the new perspective remains
shaky -- and many find it less romantic, too. How many
dramas reflexively depict scientists as "mad"? How few
modern films ever show American institutions functioning
well enough to bother fixing them? No wonder George Lucas
publicly yearns for the pomp of mighty kings over the drab
accountability of presidents. Many share his belief that
things might be a whole lot more vivid without all the
endless, dreary argument and negotiating that make up such a
large part of modern life.
If only someone would take command. A leader.
Some people say, why look for deep lessons in harmless,
escapist entertainment?
Others earnestly hold that the moral health of a
civilization can be traced in its popular culture.
In the modern era, we tend to feel ideas aren't inherently
toxic. Yet who can deny that people -- especially children
-- will be swayed if a message is repeated often enough?
It's when a "lesson" gets reiterated relentlessly that even
skeptics should sit up and take notice.
The moral messages in "Star Wars" aren't just window
dressing. Speeches and lectures drench every film. They
represent an agenda.
Can we learn more about the "Star Wars" worldview by
comparing George Lucas' space-adventure epic to its chief
competitor -- "Star Trek?"
The differences at first seem superficial. One saga has an
air force motif (tiny fighters) while the other appears
naval. In "Star Trek," the big ship is heroic and the
cooperative effort required to maintain it is depicted as
honorable. Indeed, "Star Trek" sees technology as useful and
essentially friendly -- if at times also dangerous.
Education is a great emancipator of the humble (e.g.
Starfleet Academy). Futuristic institutions are basically
good-natured (the Federation), though of course one must
fight outbreaks of incompetence and corruption.
Professionalism is respected, lesser characters make a
difference and henchmen often become brave whistle-blowers
-- as they do in America today.
In "Star Trek," when authorities are defied, it is in order
to overcome their mistakes or expose particular villains,
not to portray all institutions as inherently hopeless. Good
cops sometimes come when you call for help. Ironically, this
image fosters useful criticism of authority, because it
suggests that any of us can gain access to our flawed
institutions, if we are determined enough -- and perhaps
even fix them with fierce tools of citizenship.
By contrast, the oppressed "rebels" in "Star Wars" have no
recourse in law or markets or science or democracy. They can
only choose sides in a civil war between two wings of the
same genetically superior royal family. They may not meddle
or criticize. As Homeric spear-carriers, it's not their job.
In teaching us how to distinguish good from evil, Lucas
prescribes judging by looks: Villains wear Nazi helmets.
They hiss and leer, or have red-glowing eyes, like in a
Ralph Bakshi cartoon. On the other hand, "Star Trek" tales
often warn against judging a book by its cover -- a message
you'll also find in the films of Steven Spielberg, whose
spunky everyman characters delight in reversing expectations
and asking irksome questions.
Above all, "Star Trek" generally depicts heroes who are only
about 10 times as brilliant, noble and heroic as a normal
person, prevailing through cooperation and wit, rather than
because of some inherited godlike transcendent greatness.
Characters who do achieve godlike powers are subjected to
ruthless scrutiny. In other words, "Trek" is a
prototypically American dream, entranced by notions of human
improvement and a progress that lifts all. Gene
Roddenberry's vision loves heroes, but it breaks away from
the elitist tradition of princes and wizards who rule by
divine or mystical right.
By contrast, these are the only heroes in the "Star Wars"
universe.
Yes, "Trek" can at times seem preachy, or turgidly
politically correct. For example, every species has to mate
with every other one, interbreeding with almost compulsive
abandon. The only male heroes who are allowed any
testosterone are Klingons, because cultural diversity
outweighs sexual correctness. (In other words, it's OK for
them to be macho 'cause it is "their way.") "Star Trek"
television episodes often devolved into soap operas. Many of
the movies were very badly written. Nevertheless, "Trek"
tries to grapple with genuine issues, giving complex voices
even to its villains and asking hard questions about
pitfalls we may face while groping for tomorrow. Anyway,
when it comes to portraying human destiny, where would you
rather live, assuming you'll be a normal citizen and no
demigod? In Roddenberry's Federation? Or Lucas' Empire?
Lucas defends his elitist view, telling the New York Times,
"That's sort of why I say a benevolent despot is the ideal
ruler. He can actually get things done. The idea that power
corrupts is very true and it's a big human who can get past
that."
In other words a royal figure or demigod, anointed by fate.
(Like a billionaire moviemaker?)
Lucas often says we are a sad culture, bereft of the
confidence or inspiration that strong leaders can provide.
And yet, aren't we the very same culture that produced
George Lucas and gave him so many opportunities? The same
society that raised all those brilliant experts for him to
hire -- boldly creative folks who pour both individual
inspiration and cooperative skill into his films? A culture
that defies the old homogenizing impulse by worshipping
eccentricity, with unprecedented hunger for the different,
new or strange? It what way can such a civilization be said
to lack confidence?
In historical fact, all of history's despots, combined,
never managed to "get things done" as well as this
rambunctious, self-critical civilization of free and
sovereign citizens, who have finally broken free of
worshipping a ruling class and begun thinking for
themselves. Democracy can seem frustrating and messy at
times, but it delivers.
Having said all that, let me again acknowledge that "Star
Wars" harks to an old and very, very deeply human archetype.
Those who listened to Homer recite the "Iliad" by a campfire
knew great drama. Achilles could slay a thousand with the
sweep of a hand -- as Darth Vader murders billions with the
press of a button -- but none of those casualties matters
next to the personal saga of a great one. The slaughtered
victims are mere minions. Extras, without families or hopes
to worry about shattering. Spear-carriers. Only the
demigod's personal drama is important.
Thus few protest the apotheosis of Darth Vader -- nee Anakin
Skywalker -- in "Return of the Jedi."
To put it in perspective, let's imagine that the United
States and its allies managed to capture Adolf Hitler at the
end of the Second World War, putting him on trial for war
crimes. The prosecution spends months listing all the
horrors done at his behest. Then it is the turn of Hitler's
defense attorney, who rises and utters just one sentence:
"But, your honors ... Adolf did save the life of his own
son!"
Gasp! The prosecutors blanch in chagrin. "We didn't know
that! Of course all charges should be dismissed at once!"
The allies then throw a big parade for Hitler, down the
avenues of Nuremberg.
It may sound silly, but that's exactly the lesson taught by
"Return of the Jedi," wherein Darth Vader is forgiven all
his sins, because he saved the life of his own son.
How many of us have argued late at night over the
philosophical conundrum -- "Would you go back in time and
kill Hitler as a boy, if given a chance?" It's a genuine
moral puzzler, with many possible ethical answers. Still,
most people, however they ultimately respond, would admit
being tempted to say yes, if only to save millions of
Hitler's victims.
And yet, in "The Phantom Menace," Lucas wants us to gush
with warm feelings toward a cute blond little boy who will
later grow up to murder the population of Earth many times
over? While we're at it, why not bring out the Hitler family
album, so we may croon over pictures of adorable little
Adolf and marvel over his childhood exploits! He, too, was
innocent till he turned to the "dark side," so by all means
let us adore him.
To his credit, Lucas does not try to excuse this macabre
joke by saying, "It's only a movie." Rather, he holds up his
saga like an agonized Greek tragedy worthy of "Oedipus" --
an epic tale of a fallen hero, trapped by hubris and fate.
But if that were true, wouldn't "Star Wars" by now have
given us a better-than-caricature view of the Dark Side?
Heroes and villains would not be distinguished by mere
prettiness; the moral quandaries would not come from a comic
book.
Don't swallow it. The apotheosis of a mass murderer is
exactly what it seems. We should find it chilling.
Remember the final scene in "Return of the Jedi," when Luke
gazes into a fire to see Obi-Wan, Yoda and Vader, smiling in
the flames? I found myself hoping it was Jedi Hell, for the
amount of pain those three unleashed on their galaxy, and
for all the damned lies they told. But that's me. I'm a
rebel against Homer and Achilles and that whole tradition.
At heart, some of you are, too.
This isn't just a one-time distinction. It marks the main
boundary between real, literate, humanistic science fiction
-- or speculative fiction -- and most of the movie "sci-fi"
you see nowadays.
The difference isn't really about complexity, childishness,
scientific naivet� or haughty prose stylization. I like a
good action scene as well as the next guy, and can forgive
technical gaffes if the story is way cool! The films of
Robert Zemeckis take joy in everything, from rock 'n' roll
to some deep scientific paradox, feeding both the child and
the adult within. Meanwhile, noir tales like "Gattaca" and
"The 13th Floor" relish dark stylization while exploring
real ideas. Good SF has range.
No, the underlying difference is that one tradition revels
in elites, while the other rebels against them. In the
genuine science-fiction worldview, demigods aren't easily
forgiven lies and murder. Contempt for the masses is pass�.
There may be heroes -- even great ones -- but in the long
run we'll improve together, or not at all. (See my note on
the Enlightenment, Romanticism and science fiction.)
That kind of myth does sell. Yet, even after rebelling
against the Homeric archetype for generations, we children
of Pericles, Ben Franklin and H.G. Wells remain a minority.
So much so that Lucas can appropriate our hand-created
tropes and symbols -- our beloved starships and robots --
for his own ends and get credited for originality.
As I mentioned earlier, the mythology of conformity and
demigod-worship pervades the highest levels of today's
intelligentsia, and helps explain why so many postmodernist
English literature professors despise real science fiction.
When Joseph Campbell prescribed that writers should adhere
slavishly to a hackneyed plot outline that preached
submission for ages, he was lionized by Bill Moyers and
countless others for his warm and fuzzy "human insight."
Indeed, his perceptions were compassionate and illuminating!
Still, a frank discussion or debate might have been more
useful than Campbell's sunny monologue. As in the old fable
about a golden-haired king, no one dared point to the bright
ruler's dark shadow, or his long trail of bloody footprints.
I admit we face an uphill battle winning most people over to
a more progressive, egalitarian worldview, along with
stirring dreams that focus on genuine problems and heroes,
not demigods. Meanwhile, Lucas knows his mythos appeals to
human nature at a deep and ancient level.
Hell, it appeals to part of my nature! Which is why I knew
I'd cave in and see "The Phantom Menace," after my symbolic
one-week boycott expired. In fact, let me confess that I
adored the second film in the series, "The Empire Strikes
Back." Despite Yoda's kitschy pseudo-zen, one could easily
suspend disbelief and wait to see what the Jedi philosophy
had to say. Millions became keyed up to find out, at long
last, why Obi-Wan and Yoda lied like weasels to Luke
Skywalker. Meanwhile, the script sizzled with originality,
good dialogue and relentlessly compelling characters. The
action was dynamite ... and even logical! Common folk got
almost as much chance to be heroic as the demigods. Clich�s
were few and terrific surprises abounded. There were fine
foreshadowings, promising more marvels in sequels. It was
simply a great movie. Homeric but great.
You already know what I think of what came next. But
worshipping Darth Vader only scratches the surface. The
biggest moral flaw in the "Star Wars" universe is one point
that Lucas stresses over and over again, through the voice
of his all-wise guru character, Yoda.
Let's see if I get this right. Fear makes you angry and
anger makes you evil, right?
Now I'll concede at once that fear has been a major
motivator of intolerance in human history. I can picture
knightly adepts being taught to control fear and anger, as
we saw credibly in "The Empire Strikes Back." Calmness makes
you a better warrior and prevents mistakes. Persistent wrath
can cloud judgment. That part is completely believable.
But then, in "Return of the Jedi," Lucas takes this basic
wisdom and perverts it, saying -- "If you get angry -- even
at injustice and murder -- it will automatically and
immediately transform you into an unalloyedly evil person!
All of your opinions and political beliefs will suddenly and
magically reverse. Every loyalty will be forsaken and your
friends won't be able to draw you back. You will instantly
join your sworn enemy as his close pal or apprentice. All
because you let yourself get angry at his crimes."
Uh, say what? Could you repeat that again, slowly?
In other words, getting angry at Adolf Hitler will cause you
to rush right out and join the Nazi Party? Excuse me,
George. Could you come up with a single example of that
happening? Ever?
That contention is, in itself, a pretty darn evil thing to
preach. Above all, it is just plain dumb.
It raises a question that someone should have asked a long
time ago. Who the heck nominated George Lucas to preach
sick, popcorn morality at our children? If it's "only a
movie," why is he working so hard to fill his films with
this crap?
I think it's time to choose, people. This saga is not just
another expression of the Homeric archetype, extolling old
hierarchies of princes, wizards and demigods. By making its
centerpiece the romanticization of a mass murderer, "Star
Wars" has sunk far lower. It is unworthy of our attention,
our enthusiasm -- or our civilization.
Lucas himself gives a clue when he says, "A long time ago,
in a galaxy far, far away."
Right on. "Star Wars" belongs to our dark past. A long,
tyrannical epoch of fear, illogic, despotism and demagoguery
that our ancestors struggled desperately to overcome, and
that we are at last starting to emerge from, aided by the
scientific and egalitarian spirit that Lucas openly
despises. A spirit we must encourage in our children, if
they are to have any chance at all.
I don't expect to win this argument any time soon. As Joseph
Campbell rightly pointed out, the ways of our ancestors tug
at the soul with a resonance many find romantically
appealing, even irresistible. Some cannot put the fairy tale
down and move on to more mature fare. Not yet at least. Ah
well.
But over the long haul, history is on my side. Because the
course of human destiny won't be defined in the past. It
will be decided in our future.
That's my bailiwick, though it truly belongs to all of you.
To all of us.
