filmboicole

When George Lucas created Star Wars in the 1970s, it was many things. It was influenced by samurai films of the 60s smashed with science-fiction serials in more of a fantasy style. It was a statement against the American military complex–specifically related to the Vietnam War. It was a massive risk that nobody thought would pay off. And although Star Wars is no longer a financial gamble but one of Disney's cash cows (Solo aside), many seem to have forgotten that the political edge of the franchise has always been central to its identity. While various entries in the long running staple of American cinema have had varying degrees of transparency and effectiveness in terms of making its anti-fascist elements known, the heart is still there. While the face of imperialist threats in the real world have shifted throughout the years thus necessitating a morphing of methods in Star Wars (the prequels are unbelievably prescient these days), the current state of the political climate both at home and abroad present themselves as prime targets for the dormant and sidelined political themes to come out swinging. I wouldn’t qualify Andor as coming out swinging so much as coming out brandishing a pipe bomb.

Andor is a rarity in every sense of the word. It’s a late entry in a forty-five year old franchise that feels fresher than it has any right to. It’s a prequel to a prequel about how a character who played an important role that made the climax of the original film possible. It’s an overtly political, anti-fascist, anti-imperialist narrative made by the largest film production company in the world that somehow still presents itself artfully enough that you don’t feel as though you’ve been beaten over the head with its parallels while also pushing the multitude of nuance with such clarity the emotional beats hit just as hard as (and typically in tandem with) the political beats. It boasts strong writing for character, dialogue, and plot. It’s a Disney+ series that uses a shocking amount of practical effects and looks flat-out tremendous. It features A-list actors bringing their all. But most importantly: Andor never lets its audience forget that the Empire is fascist and that fascism is bad. Full stop.

Whereas in nearly every other entry in the Star Wars cannon that uses the Empire/New Order/Sith as antagonists you understand that those figures are evil for the sake of the narrative, at times these entries lack the guts to flatly present those characters as evil because they represent a regime that pushes a political philosophy directly aimed to minimize individual freedoms, discriminate against anyone different from those in power, and strives for total control of its people and its land. I wouldn’t necessarily call this a failure in other entries so much as a calculated step at times: it would be harder to accept Anakin in the prequels, Vader’s redemption in the original trilogy, and Kylo Ren’s struggle in the sequel trilogy if any of those films were as blatant and explicit as Andor’s portrayal. Those representations do not bely fascist heart of the Empire, but they do downplay the practices of the regime so that heavier lifting for character arcs can be avoided. Andor needs you to feel the oppression. Andor needs you to understand that there is a need for rebellion and that Cassian Andor is not so much a plucky Rebellion member as he is someone who was backed into needing to fight against the Empire because they oppose his very right to exist.

There’s two sides of the same coin here in Andor. Just as we understand why the Empire is evil, we understand why the Rebellion’s guerrilla, go for broke tactics are necessary. Without them, they pose no threat. Without any attempt, the Empire continues to control. But at the same time, there’s an explicit example shown that just as the Rebellion exists because of the Empire, the extended reach of the Empire is necessary for the Rebellion to gain members to fight as well. It's an incredible touch of skill, showing how a rebellion needs to get bleak to succeed.

The writing of Andor is easily its strongest suit. The above paragraphs only begin to scratch the surface in terms of how much depth is mined from the long running franchise. Because in addition to all that’s written above, there’s so much additional nuance and detail the show adds to the Galaxy: we learn how the Empire exerts control, how the Empire builds the Death Star, how the Rebellion gets funded, how the beginning of the Rebellion consisted of so many factions that will eventually give way to that which we see in A New Hope. There’s deep, developed characters, including genuinely positive representation of diversity in terms of gender, queerness, and race. There’s ruminations on political ideologies, the purpose of daily life in the midst of an imperial takeover, how individuals have to sideline their dreams and goals so that people, collectively, have a shot to live better. And it’s no surprise it’s this good either, considering the writing credits include not one, but two Gilroys; Beau Willimon; and The Americans alum Stephen Schiff. If anything, it’s surprising that Disney was able to accrue such a high echelon of talent for a Disney+ Star Wars series. It’s surprising Disney would make a show this grounded, mature, and violent at all. And while I haven’t disliked much that Disney has done with Star Wars (some of the series are really the only complete disappointments for me) and I think The Last Jedi is the best thing Star Wars has ever done, it just shocks me this is what we got considering the state of the House of Mouse and the state of the American political system.

I’ll admit that my expectations were almost rock bottom for this series before it began its release. After The Book of Boba Fett and how reliant The Mandalorian is on fanservice (a series I still admittedly like very much), it was hard to muster too much hope for a prequel to a prequel, even if I did love Rogue One and Andor’s character within that film. I just didn’t have faith that something new could be brought to the table. My fear had been that the backlash to The Last Jedi–the most overtly political and punk entry of the sequel trilogy–had filed down Disney’s teeth, particularly considering the leaked elements of Trevorrow’s canned Episode IX: Duel of the Fates carried on the thematic threads of the unfairly maligned Episode VIII. But instead Andor makes me think that in the interim, Disney (and Kathleen Kennedy, specifically, credit where credit is due) took a step back to take stock of what stories could be told in the franchise. While I won’t ignore the filler that’s come out after The Rise of Skywalker, the strength of Andor gives me hope for the franchise moving forward, particularly considering there’s a Waititi film coming down the line and Johnson’s trilogy is (as of the time of writing) still alive–even if it’s in limbo at this point.

It takes something as fresh, focused, and potent as Andor to bring back this level of confidence. It’s a true testament to the quality of the series’s first season. And while I don’t align myself with the rabid cannibalism of the Star Wars fandom (as probably is evident by my proclamations for the prequels and The Last Jedi), it is nice just to get a win in the franchise. It’s nice not to go on the internet after watching an entry and become immediately exhausted by the sheer multitude of inane debates about it–although there does seem to be a faction of internet users who haven’t quite figured out that Andor’s overt political theming directly points the finger at American conservatism, but at least they like the show.

What really drives home my excitement for this series isn’t just the quality of its initial season, although it certainly helps. It’s that Andor has a planned arc for its second season which has already been greenlit and confirmed to be its last. It cements artistic integrity by its creative team and respects the work put into it by all those involved. Because although Star Wars is a franchise that likely isn’t going away any time soon (not that I’m complaining about that), it’s nice to know that there’s individual entries that can take pre-established elements from it and reinvent the very foundation from which it was created.

I don't particularly feel like either season was particularly groundbreaking. This season was more consistent in terms of getting into each of the characters on the show, but I don't know that we're learning anything deep or interesting here. The main bit of this season is that Dave's path to success is ultimately driving a wedge between everyone around him...but the show doesn't do a great job at showing us that artistically. Instead, it's very very blunt.

What little resolution or patching up that does happen is abrupt and unearned--the bar mitzvah episode stands out like a sore thumb with this because of how it runs contrarian to the rest of the show. Typically speaking, Dave is the narcissistic jerk. This is still true in his relationship with Elz, absolutely, but Elz is also extremely harsh against his friend despite the fact that Dave actually seems to be his most tame around Elz and seems to listen most to Elz in season one. Elz instead goes off on tour with a rapper, which is great for him, but then returns in season two a much bigger asshole as if he's just better than the group. When the resolution hits in the bar mitzvah episode, it's not like there's any resolution. They just become friends again. And this example is the best I can give for the entirety of the season. There's clear cut attempts to do arcs here, but the resolutions rarely feel earned.

All of these shows like this are largely indebted to Atlanta and Curb Your Enthusiasm, but the ways in which Dave blends those two shows makes for something really unnerving. Since Dave is playing a heightened version of himself a la Larry David but writes the show to have character growth a la Earn and company in Atlanta, it feels even more narcissistic when we're meant to believe Dave is a good person now. Atlanta's absence in the TV climate is creating a power vacuum, where all these shows about millennial men are vying for top dog status. Personally, I feel as though Ramy is better written than Dave, but none of them hold a candle to Atlanta.

This is perhaps one of the most difficult to review seasons I've seen because of the vast quality onscreen as well as the extremely varied content. The ways in which Lovecraft Country let me down were on an episode to episode basis. In a lot of ways it reminds me of monster of the week storytelling for the first half with a more conventional three episode arc at the end. All in all, yeah that sounds a lot like The X-Files. Which, if you know me, is a pretty high complement. However, like The X-Files that range in quality has some serious shortcomings. And in Lovecraft Country, those shortcomings become somewhat baffling at times considering this is a show about recontextualizing inequality in a new, fresh lens. It's simultaneously one of its biggest selling points while also being something of a let down because although its messages on blackness and racism in America are consistently excellent, the ways in which it shares that load with other forms of diversity and discrimination are muddled, by Misha Green's own admonition.

I'll start with the good. The aesthetic and acting firmly root the show within pulp science-fiction, nearly without a hitch. We have acting that feels at time intentionally over the top with intentionally cheesy VFX to bolster a general sense that this is not meant to be rooted in reality. It allows some of the more gnarly visuals to have a lessened punch to weaker stomached viewers while also letting the themes boil more to the forefront. Jonathon Majors and Jurnee Smollett are revelations onscreen. Michael Kenneth Williams is (predictably) fantastic. And the rest of the cast fills out the show with a varying degrees of success, but Aunjanue Ellis's arc onscreen is stellar. It feels like a rare form where the cast is actually aware of the subgenre they're in. They're not bringing too much to the seriousness that it roots itself in melodrama, but they also know when the drama needs its gravitas. Majors is clearly on a meteoric rise at the moment, and I am enamored. He rocks.

The writing here becomes a bit of a mixed bag, but Lovecraft Country still delivers two of the best episodes of television that aired in 2020: Sundown and Rewind 1921. Both so excellently weave the weird pulpy-ness of the source material with the thematic weight in a way that internalizes the black experience in America reminiscent of Get Out--which makes sense considering Peele's name being associated with the show. I'm not giving him all the credit though, Misha Green nailed those two episodes. There's a handful of other extremely solid episodes, from Whitey's on the Moon to A History of Violence and a couple that feel a little unsure of how to put forth an overall narrative with Lovecraftian influence when answers in those stories are intentionally hard to pin down.

Here's where I think Lovecraft Country starts to falter the most. It's also one of the oddest things to falter on, too. When you start looking at the show as a whole, the Lovecraft of it all is actually pretty minimal. There's definitely a root of that unknown dread (particularly in the first few episodes) but whereas Lovecraft never really explored specificity (thankfully, because then those stories would be even more xenophobic), Country is keen to show and tell us all about it. And so all these plot threads that feel weird become less weird. But there's less being thrown at you as you go on that matches the heights of the initial states of confusion in the show so we're missing some pretty confounding gaps of what someone might consider necessary from a Lovecraftian narrative.

Listen. Those types of stories are notoriously difficult to adapt properly because of how American storytelling begs answers when Lovecraft basically just answered questions with sentences that borderline made no sense. So we're left with the best instances of Lovecraftian adaptations spread far and wide. I'm probably not the first to say that the best for my money is Bloodborne, a game reluctant to give any concrete answers with a progression that never shies away from being absolutely disgusting and continually throws new stuff at you at every corner. And knowledge is virtually nonexistent because Miyazaki never makes games that give concrete answers. Hell, narratively speaking characters in Bloodborne who search for answers literally go insane. So, match made in heaven.

Lovecraft Country doesn't quite do this. Answers are there because answers are key to the theming and it's key to shine a light to racism. So what we're left with is a show that feels less like Lovecraft and a bit more like Harry Potter. I genuinely don't mean that as an insult, either. I love those books. But it does feel like Lovecraft Country was looking to a second season for things to get really bonkers and pool the wool out from under us. Maybe then we could've gotten a Cthulhu onscreen...but wait, why are there tentacles on the poster?

Ultimately, the dust has settled on the series. It's been canceled despite being one of the most nominated shows of the year. It's highly acclaimed, but also nonexistent (which is kind of ironic for a Lovecraftian show). This is all likely a rabbit hole of information stemming from an initial positive reaction to the series which led Green to seek other offers from other networks which then led to her inking a deal with Apple when some of the mid-season ratings started to dip and then when the deal went through, HBO canceled Lovecraft Country as capitalism's competitive spirit strikes again. I initially watched the show week to week and was enamored. Then I had a big move across the country and fell off the wagon and when I got back on it, I watched an episode that I found so extremely difficult to stomach that I stopped watching again for a very long time. I came back though and remembered why I liked the show so much initially. Because it's a series that was genuinely unafraid to throw the baby out with the bath water. Say what you will about it on an episode to episode basis (I sure have), but this is a series that was constantly able to reinvent itself--sometimes to its detriment--to keep us on our toes. What we're left with is a season that also hedged its bets on a second season to wrap up the narrative in such a big way that the news of its cancelation isn't just disappointing, it taints the (now) series finale with a sense of "uhhh...ok?"

But you know, as I think about it that's how tons of Lovecraft's stories also end. Call it divine intervention. I'll call it Cthulhu.

p.s. I know that this is based off a book. I unfortunately haven't read it, although I'd like to.

What we have here is a ten episode season that could easily be six. It's a common problem in the television format. We order a set number of episodes, typically standardized. I can't really understand why though. Variable season lengths based upon what your story necessitates seems to me like it would smooth out issues across the board.

It all boils down to a conflict of tone, because the beginning of this season starts with a bang. A goddamn powder keg of suspense and intensity. Truly one of the most memorable pilots because we are thrown directly into conflict. What makes the middle of the season so baffling, then, is that it seems to misunderstand that the greatest strength of the pilot is what the rest of the season seems to think is a mistake. Of the ten episodes in season one, the most vital episodes (1, 2, 9, 10) all function as thrillers, whereas the middle six operate as slow burn true crime dramas. And the issue becomes that those middle episodes don't have a lot of momentum to them because the show has already shown us that we don't necessarily need as much of the explanation to get the fuse lit again. Some, but not all. Episode 8 could have been almost entirely thrown out. It's a flashback episode to characters who haven't really earned that level of interest for me. I'm in for the situation not the characters. Episodes 3-7 can be condensed into two episodes. That's five hours of content that could effectively be two.

I think there's a lot of good potential to this show. When placed into the right hands (primarily, Jason Bateman's. This dude carried the entire season on his back both in front of and behind the camera, sheesh), the thing kind of soars off the rails even when the script feels kind of goofy. Hell, there's a good chunk of this season that feels like a dark comedy. In short, it feels like this show is still cooking. It somehow feels too confident and not quite sure enough of itself. It rests too heavily on Breaking Bad without getting that that show did exceptionally well at creating believable characters. We'll see how season two does. I'm on board for more, but I don't know that Ozark has my trust yet.