Much of the response to the long-awaited Star Wars: The Force Awakens has been a combination of relief and excitement — relief because the film avoids the gross miscalculations (the stilted dialogue and serpentine plot structure, not to mention the infamous Jar Jar Binks) of the franchise’s previous three installments, excitement because it seems primed to advance the story for the first time since 1983’s Return of the Jedi. After seeing the movie, I can understand both of these sentiments. The Force Awakens is a well-paced popcorn flick, which nicely blends a cast of both old and new faces. Moreover, it ends with a gripping scene, which promises more of the same in the not-too-distant future.
And yet, despite its relative success, The Force Awakens fails to address what I take to be a decisive problem: why was it made at all? Of course, in terms of box-office receipts, this is an easy question to answer. But it becomes more complicated if one attends to the narrative arc of the series itself. After all, Return of the Jedi ends with the redemption of Darth Vader, the destruction of the Death Star, and the overthrow of the Galactic Empire. It is a denouement that presupposes a linear history, from the rise of Emperor Palpatine (Darth Sidious) and his Sith henchmen (including Vader) to the rebellion led by Jedi such as Yoda and Vader’s son, Luke Skywalker, to the Untergang of the Emperor and his plan to rule the galaxy according to the Dark Side. Thus the celebration on Endor at the conclusion of Return of the Jedi does not mark the end of a battle but, rather, the end of a war, that is to say, the end of Star Wars. Good has triumphed over evil.
The very existence, then, of The Force Awakens means that this celebration was premature — a point that may explain why series founder, George Lucas, has stated that the new film is more of a vehicle for fan interest than a continuation of his own vision. It is tempting to reason that Lucas’ view here is simply a matter of sour grapes, but, I suspect, he is also concerned with the narrative and thematic unity of Star Wars. It has always been an overtly religious series, promoting what Lucas himself terms “spirituality” and inspiring at least one prominent figure in contemporary philosophy of religion. Thus the victory of the Jedi, who serve the Force through the knowledge and practice of the good, implies the primacy of light over darkness. Yet, of necessity, The Force Awakens calls this story into question, and its title — to the extent that it is coherent at all (could the Force, which “binds the galaxy together,” ever actually go to sleep?) — even suggests that the Force is metaphysically neutral. Rather than an ultimate source of good, the Force is simply a power that can be exploited however one wishes, without eschatological repercussions.
Intriguingly, this new way of conceptualizing the Force may shed light on one of the more common criticisms of The Force Awakens — namely, that it’s closer to a collage of the previous installments than a film in its own right. As Kyle Smith of the New York Post has put it:
[R]ight about the time I was thinking, “Surely they’d never trot out another Death Star,” they trotted out another Death Star. There’s also another dramatic confrontation on a catwalk, another wise old soul who urges the heroes to return to Jedi ways, a “These are not the droids you’re looking for” moment, another Empire (renamed the First Order), another Emperor (the Supreme Leader), another Darth Vader type (Ren, played by Adam Driver) and a starting point that kicks us back to the beginning of the original film: The Jedi are nearly extinct and the Empire (oops, First Order) is being completely unreasonable.
In short, the plot of The Force Awakens is redundant, even circular. But this circularity follows from its metaphysics, which, as noted, no longer understands the unfolding of the galaxy in linear terms. On the contrary, what we now have is something closer to paganism’s cyclical understanding of time, where divinity is found in an ongoing alternation of life and death, light and darkness. With this in mind, it only makes sense that the story would repeat itself, for that, in fact, is the story — the eternal repetition of the same.
Ironically, the possibility of this sort of interpretation rests on the shoulders of Lucas himself, who, over the years, has struggled to clarify the nature of the Force. Yet, if his ideas were muddled, his story was not. Now, that has been lost as well.
But look on the bright side: there are already three more Star Wars films in the works. While Hollywood and its business interests can’t do much with a benevolent, triumphant Force, they can certainly take advantage of a disinterested one. I’ll probably go along for the ride too, though, on these terms, Star Wars means something different than it once did. And that’s okay. At least the One Ring has been safely destroyed.