The Acolyte

1. Lee Jung-jae as Sol is A+. A precursor to Liam Neeson’ Qui-Gon Jinn. Check.

2. Charlie Barnett as Yord, aka “but what if a Jedi Knight were a tool?,” is a great call. Even from the commercials you could see the stilted self-regard, which out of context presented as CW-quality acting, but in context is a nice in-universe joke. The Jedi are the worst! And Yord is the worst of the worst.

3. I’m fine with the twins plot, not least given the Sith’s Rule of Two and the Light and Dark sides of the Force. Already in the first episode we’re hearing about this, plus the episode titles make the subtext text. Will Amandla Stenberg’s characters be anything more than a literal outworking of this metaphor on screen? TBD.

4. I’m curious as to the show’s depiction of the Jedi’s inner workings. Are they sclerotic and bureaucratic? Or democratic and therefore unhurried (if possibly too slow to meet the urgency of the moment)? If the latter, then they are more like the Ents, and thus to be admired. If the former, then we’re back with Qui-Gon and d-e-c-a-d-e-n-c-e. But if the former because the latter, well, then you’re just making Palpatine’s argument for him.

5. I do not mind at all (unlike Alan Sepinwall) that the decadence, sclerosis, and institutional blindness on evidence in the prequels is already evident here, a century before the Empire. These things takes time. Moreover, Qui-Gon will be born some fifty years after the events of this show, and there will be living memory of whatever transpires in the rest of the series when he’s being trained as a child in Coruscant. I am eager to see whether Leslye Headland et al can make thematic or narrative hay of these matters beyond “Palpatine-versus-the-Jedi avant la lettre.”

6. See further Timothy Burke on the difficulty of nailing down the Sith’s concrete motivations in Star Wars lore.

7. There are intriguing hints. “Our political enemies” says one Jedi to another. Who are they? What do they want? What is their brief? But these questions raise a whole new set of questions, as does The Acolyte as a whole…

8. Boil them all down this: How is it possible that the Jedi kept the Republic from war for a thousand years? Remember, Star Wars is not a Star Trek: this isn’t meant to be utopian. Life isn’t perfect. Greed and lust and wrath and gluttony and pride and all the other sins prevail; the Republic is not the Federation. This isn’t communism minus Lenin and Stalin. It’s just ordinary civilizational life projected onto the stars. How, I repeat, was there absolutely zero war—no conflict beyond the local, the petty, the private—for a full millennium? Across how many solar systems in an entire galaxy? Even contained on a single planet? None, zero, zilch? Are we committed, canonically, to this necessarily and strictly being true? For real?

9. Now think about the Jedi. They are a tiny religious minority of celibate wizards who forsake emotional attachment, are taken from their families while very young to be trained by a secret order on the galactic capital planet, wield magic spells at a whim, brandish laser swords, and carry an imperial (sorry, republican-senatorial) remit to investigate, subdue, arrest, and (if necessary) kill any and all suspected of breaking the law or making trouble. In effect, Jedi are medieval monks, knights, and sheriffs, all in one. They leave family behind, they neither marry nor have sex nor have children or households, yet they possess occult powers that intimidate and discipline a galactic population of trillions. How, I ask once again, did such a tiny, terrifying, and unrepresentative group preserve, much less enforce, peace and justice in the galaxy? As Obi-Wan remarks at one point in the prequels, the Jedi are not soldiers. Who wouldn’t feel burning resentment at these magical universe policeman? “The Jedi live in a dream,” the acolyte’s master says. I’m inclined to agree.

10. I failed to mention that, in this galaxy, there is no God, only the Force. No one worships the Force, not exactly. The Force has servants and students (a la Chirrut Îmwe), but the Force itself is neither good nor evil, only the balance of the two. Why should any ordinary people “believe in” the Force, or respect or admire or even care about it? And by extension, the Jedi?

11. I suppose a postmodern debunking of Obi-Wan’s “more civilized age” as just so much nostalgic hokum could be interesting. But I’d prefer a deeper answer on this score. Even during the Jedi’s (and by extension, the Republic’s) high tide of peace, politics was never extinguished. What was going on? How did they preserve it? By what maneuverings? With what shenanigans? Who, after all, initiated the Jedi doctrines about detachment, much less celibacy? Are they necessary? Or are they part of the problem? And thus part of what led to Sidious, Maul, Anakin, Snoke, Ren? Could Rey’s new Jedi order correct for these past mistakes, as Rian Johnson’s film implied? If Disney makes good on a new series of films focusing on her efforts—as well as a biblical epic, directed by James Mangold, depicting the Jedi’s origins in the distant past—could these form a kind of narrative thread, even an inclusio, centering less on Luke and Leia’s family drama and more on the High Republic’s failures, the Jedi’s decadence, and Palpatine and Qui-Gon’s shared critique of the status quo? In order too forestall repeating history, which would doom the galaxy (and moviegoers) to an endless cycle of Sith/Dark-versus-Jedi/Light?

12. Fat chance. But in theory, it could work.

NOPE, BCS, TOM, MCU

Some pop culture odds and ends…

Nope. I’ve got little to add to the Discourse here, just a few scattered thoughts. (I saw the film with friends and processed it with them; I’ve not done any online reading besides skimming—and being disappointed with—this article.) First, Daniel Kaluuya remains Jordan Peele’s not-so-secret super-weapon. What an actor. Second, it’s nothing but good for the movies that Jordan Peele productions have become events unto themselves. That’s a happy world to live in, even when Peele doesn’t quite hit the mark, as here. Third, the problem with Nope is the opposite of what ailed Us. Where Us worked at the visceral level of story and characters, it failed at the symbolic or metaphorical level. In Nope, by contrast, the allegory is what’s potent and compelling, whereas the literal narrative has gaps and questions. At times it feels like the plot does X or Y because that’s what the Meaning requires, rather than the significance arising organically from the story. When the allegory calls for the same signifier to mean two or more contrary things at once, the plot becomes unmoored. Having said that, fourth, a couple minor interpretive ventures. What’s up with that shoe? What came to my mind was the monolith in 2001, whose presence always signals a powerful evolutionary or technological shift in a group or species’ agency—and whose first appearance involves apes, tools, violence, and a jump to spaceships (re the last, the dad in the sitcom appears to be space-related in interests or profession). I wonder if, on a re-watch of Nope, mention or flashback or appearance of the shoe would similarly signal not only Gordy’s turn but also key turns in the narrative and/or Jean Jacket’s behavior. I’ll also add, mostly tongue in cheek, that when wondering aloud about the title of the film, what came to mind was Knope, as in Leslie. If Get Out (still his most successful film) was Peele’s rejoinder to the fantasies of well-meaning Obama-era white-liberal post-racism—though it understandably took on new force when someone other than Hillary was elected—perhaps Nope is a rebuttal of the same phenomenon, only applied to Hollywood instead of Washington, D.C. It’s Peele’s Nope to Poehler’s Knope.

Better Call Saul. I’ve been on the BCS bandwagon from the beginning. I’ve written about it briefly before, but mostly I’m just here to stand in awe. Like MBD, I anticipate these final episodes like each is Game 7 of the NBA Finals. Be sure to be reading what Alan Jacobs writes about it. Even DBH is in on the glories of Saul:

I became genuinely addicted, however, to Breaking Bad, which was so much better written than any of the television of my youth—and better written than just about every studio film made since the 1970’s—that it astonished me. It was the perfect balance of Dostoyevsky and Ed McBain, with just a hint of Lawrence Sanders here and Charles Portis there. I did not even mind the somewhat fantastic conclusion of the series. When, however, its sequel (or “prequel”) Better Call Saul came out, I was hesitant to watch it, fearing it would prove to be an inferior product that would only diminish my memory of the original program. But I watched. Now, in its final season, having just returned from its mid-season break, the show is dwindling down to its end over half a dozen episodes; and I am prepared to say not only that it is the better of the two programs, but that it may be the finest wholly original program ever to grace American television (or television anywhere). Like its predecessor, it is a grim portrayal of the gradual destruction of a soul, though now perhaps with somewhat greater subtlety and nuance, and with a richer range of characters. Comparisons aside, though, the quality of the writing has proved consistently astounding, and never more so than in these concluding chapters. Anyone who has followed the story—and I will give nothing away—will know that the final episode before that mid-season break was at once shocking and brilliant. It arrived in its closing minutes at a denouement (ominously announced by the slight flickering of a candle’s flame) that made perfect sense of the entire narrative of the series up to that point, and of the current season in particular, but that was (for me, at least) wholly unexpected until the moment just before it occurred. The construction of the story was so ingenious, and its moral and emotional power so unexpectedly intense, that I was left amazed. I do not know what it tells us about the current state of our culture that good writers have more or less been banished from the movie industry and have had to take their wares instead to television; but I am glad the medium as it now exists can make room for them. I also do not know what to make of the reality that there are television programs so much more competently written than most novels today. But, whatever the case, I can at least assure my three correspondents that, yes, I do watch television, even sometimes when something other than baseball is on; and that, moreover, in the case of Better Call Saul I feel positively elevated by having done so, because the program is a genuine work of finely wrought art.

I’ll add that, though Alan Sepinwall is usually reliable, his most recent recap of the show is strange, and it worries me he might know something about the final three episodes and be unintentionally telegraphing it to readers. He’s done this in the past, where he interprets an episode’s implications in ways no normal viewer would, because screeners or confidential information tugs his mind in an unpredictable direction. All that to say, he suggests over and over both (a) that this is probably our last glimpse of Gene’s future story and (b) that it provides a “happy ending” to Jimmy/Saul/Gene’s story.

A happy ending? What could that possibly mean? Deceiving and abusing an elderly woman and her loser son with a meaningless heist that could get the latter sent to jail, thereby reminding Jimmy of “the good old days” when—wait for it—theft, fraud, drugs, and murder were part of his daily life … this is a “happy ending”? Huh? The story is explicitly and intrinsically a fall narrative, a decline into moral squander and misery. The eminently wise and trustworthy writers and showrunners of BCS may or may not have more Gene in store for us. But even if we don’t return to him, his ending is as far from happy as one could possibly imagine.

The Old Man. Shows like The Old Man are more or less factory-produced for my tastes: The Honourable Woman, The Night Manager, The Americans, Fauda, even season five of Homeland—self-contained, stylish cocktails of spycraft, action, and character, realistic enough to be taken seriously, unrealistic enough to be fun. Le Carré lite, in other words. I was disappointed by the finale of TOM, however, because I thought it was a seven-episode miniseries, not the first of two seasons. I also didn’t realize Jeff Bridges’ battles with lymphoma and Covid brought production to a halt multiple times. Imagine being 70 years old, cancer in remission, Covid finally beaten, and the next day you’re hanging out a window at 70mph playing grandpa-Bourne, shooting back at the bad guys chasing you (and grandpa-driver John Lithgow). Not a bad capstone to a remarkable career.

Marvel. By my count, between May 2008 and November 2025, if Disney has its way, there will have been at least thirty-nine official “Marvel Cinematic Universe” movies. By the time the fifth and sixth Avengers films come out (six months apart) in 2025, my bet is that there will have been even more than what’s currently announced, which means the number will likely cross the threshold of forty movies in a little over seventeen years. And that’s not counting any Marvel characters produced by Sony outside of the MCU. Nor is it counting the Marvel TV shows, which in the same time span should amount to at least twenty-six in toto, which on average run two to three seasons each. So again, in less than two decades, we’re talking one hundred movie hours and hundreds of TV hours.

Now look at quality. From 2019 to the present there have been nine MCU movies. Two have been very bad (Captain Marvel and Eternals), three have been middling (Black Widow, Shang-Chi, and Thor 4), and four have been solid (Avengers 4, Spider-Man 2 & 3, and Doctor Strange 2). People love the Tom Holland Spider-Man movies, but they’re actually pretty forgettable; and although the final Avengers entry provided a cathartic conclusion to the previous two dozen films’ worth of story lines, it was bloated and even sort of boring in the middle act.

All that to say, that’s three and a half years of the world-bestriding Marvel Universe, the most successful film franchise of our (all?) time … and it’s a pretty mixed record, when you step back and look at it. Add in the deluge of Disney+ series and their even spottier quality, plus a narratively unclear and mostly uncompelling “multiversal” saga connecting these films to the coming ones in the next few years, and it makes sense that people are writing about Marvel’s “problem” or “crisis.”

Nevertheless, I think that sort of language overstated. Between one pole, which suggests the MCU will keep on breaking records forever, and the other pole, which suggests the MCU is about to crash, I think the correct position lies somewhere in the middle. When characters and properties that people love are featured in a Marvel movie, people will keep buying tickets; see Black Panther 2, Guardians of the Galaxy 3, Blade, etc. When people don’t care, or the movies are bad, people will start to drift away. Instead of seeing 2019 as a peak followed by a steep cliff, we should see it as the highest peak, followed by only very slowly diminishing returns, with many subsequent slightly smaller peaks, with a cliff awaiting only after 2025. At that point, unless they nail revivals of Fantastic Four and X-Men, which somehow spark another wave, a new generation, a seventh “phase,” and thus a third decade of MCU fandom and culture-wide mania, I think that’s when it all, finally, comes to an end—where “end” doesn’t mean “no more popular comic book movies” but “everyone and their mom ceases to reflexively see most MCU movies in the theater.”

Then again, the almighty Kevin Feige has been doubted before. He knew something no one else did fifteen years ago. Maybe he knows something we don’t today. But count me skeptical.