I sat at a small folding table just inside the entrance of Barnes & Noble with a pile of my books, willing unsuspecting customers to wander over and ask me a question. I wore a retro Star Wars shirt that I’d thrown a jacket over in a gesture toward professionalism. I had brought special Star Wars-themed pens for the occasion—a bulky LEGO Yoda pen from my childhood and a slick, far-more-adult looking one with C-3PO coloring—but so far, I had had limited opportunity to put them to use.
All to say, I was excited when the man walked over and picked up a copy of my work.
“What’s this about?” he asked. He was a tall guy, cut an imposing figure. Animated, too, in his gestures and with a strong, intimidating voice.
“Star Wars and spirituality,” I said, trying to play it cool.
“Oh!” He put the book down—seemingly to free up his hands—and took a step back, giving himself room to maneuver. “You’re speaking my language. So many spiritual themes in Star Wars.” He went on to tell me how he’d seen the original film in theaters in 1977, how it had left an impact, how he’d gone to see it again. “But man, they don’t get it any more with these new shows. They forgot that Star Wars is supposed to be about good versus evil. What are they doing making the Jedi the bad guys?”
I nodded politely, not looking to debate a potential customer in the middle of the bookstore. He talked with me for another five or so minutes, but I was so stuck on what he thought Star Wars was supposed to be that I quickly lost the thread. He walked away without buying a book.
I chewed on our conversation the rest of that afternoon. I didn’t agree with his take—in fact, in the days and weeks since that conversation, I’ve realized I adamantly disagree with that take.
But I can see and certainly appreciate where it comes from.
After all, it’s not long into the original film when we clearly differentiate the good guys from the bad. Princess Leia all in white, rallying a failing force, trying to get out a message of hope. Darth Vader all in black, cutting down seemingly innocent troopers and taking our previously established heroine prisoner. The movie proceeds from there, with Luke Skywalker all but the epitome of naïve (if whiny) goodness and Vader never more than a bully to be cut down.
Sure, the following films in the original trilogy flesh out our characters a bit more, even centering on a redemptive arc—“There is still good in him!”—for our hardened villain, Vader. But there’s never any question of who is supposed to be good and who is supposed to be bad.
That man at Barnes & Nobles—ever the fan of the original film—was right, from a certain point of view. And he’s not wrong when he says that recent Star Wars storytelling has complicated this easy dichotomy between good and bad, light and dark.
The Acolyte is just the most recent and most obvious example. Our usual heroes, the Jedi, make what they think are good, righteous choices but ultimately find themselves reaping rotten fruit. They were blind to their biases, and those so-called good choices were, in fact, quite bad. Are the Jedi inherently evil, forever cast into darkness? No—but they do make poor choices that lead to tragic outcomes, just like we all do at times.
Even before The Acolyte, we’ve seen a muddling of the light/dark dichotomy. Obi-Wan Kenobi was an extended meditation on how a character can make peace with the kind of blind and biased decision-making that was so prevalent in The Acolyte. Kenobi didn’t single-handedly plunge the galaxy into darkness, but he undeniably played a part. Obi-Wan may be the hero of that story, but he’s not without his own dark past, his own poor decisions. How he makes peace with the light and dark warring within him and then emerges back into the galaxy is the heart of the story, a story that resonates with so many of us who try to make peace with a troubled past.
The list goes on: Is Boba Fett a “good” guy? Is Luthen Rael? When we peel back the layers of the stolen Death Star plans—the pivotal plot point of that original Star Wars film—we necessarily find a muddle of good and bad decisions, of light tinged with dark. That’s the point of Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. It’s certainly what we see in Andor. (And I’ve said nothing about any of the stories beyond film or television!)
Here’s the point: We all yearn for an easy good/bad, light/dark dichotomy in our lives. We all wish our daily decision making was as obvious as “stand with the princess in glowing white” and “stand against the robot monster man in sinister black.” It’s not bad to desire that sort of clarity. But we also have to be honest with ourselves: that’s not real life.
And that might be why we become uncomfortable with this new era of Star Wars storytelling: It’s pointing to a hard truth that we necessarily bump up against each day. We don’t always know if the choices we make will ultimately be for the good; all we can do is muddle through and do our best. We discern the spirits and push onward. We circle back and fix what we’ve broken when needed. And we treat ourselves and others with gentleness because we know just how hard and messy this world is.
It's okay to want clarity, to want to know if we’ve acted for the greater good. But it’s necessary to live in reality, where the choices we make are often blurred by a complicated world. If Star Wars stories make us uncomfortable because they hold up a mirror to our own inner lives, then I’d contend they're doing their job—and doing it well.