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.

The state of weird fiction television in 2022 is disparate, confusing, and exciting. The number of projects being released in the genre is increasing, although it might not always feel that way at first glance. Entries in this seemingly fringe genre seem to come out of nowhere and although they rarely seem to garner widespread popularity (Severance aside), they nevertheless exist. It helps, I think, that the definition of the sub-genre is somewhat elusive. Internet searches will insist that you need to be dealing strictly with paranormal elements reinterpreted for the modern age, but this doesn't seem to be the accepted classification. Shows like LOST, The Leftovers, and True Detective (season one, primarily) or films like Annihilation and Donnie Darko all definitely feel related to it but don't fit neatly into the most easily found definition. Outer Range is emblematic of that indefinable quality related to weird fiction. It's hard to describe, but you know it when you see it.

Outer Range is bold, bolder than I anticipated it to be because it keeps its mystery tantalizingly out of reach for most of its debut season. I was immediately interested in the show when I first read about it--although it took me a few months to make the time for it. A lot of this is how it was presented to me: the comparison to Twin Peaks is flying around on the internet all the time. Considering that Twin Peaks is my favorite show, bar none and by a country mile, of course I was interested. But as I watched Outer Range, I found this comparison to be limiting and inaccurate. In fact, most comparisons of the show I've seen online seem to miss the two shows from which it borrows most heavily.

Outer Range slyly mixes elements from two shows on polar opposite ends of the spectrum, allowing for something frequently fresh but not without growing pains. This is the generational trauma, time-twisting family drama of Dark combined with the bleak, pitch-black (and frequently funny) tone of The Leftovers. The tricky part is that it doesn't really start here. The camera work elevates Outer Range and eschews these influences, demanding it also be considered as a western, complete with explorations of masculinity, family, and a longing for the past. It's a lot to take in and although I frequently loved this season, I don't think Outer Range found its voice until well over halfway through the show.

It's likely an intentional choice to skew this shift so deep within the season, but it's one that leads to its middle episodes lacking the same momentum that the beginning and end have. There are a couple episodes in the middle that deal very little with the mysterious hole that is the igniting interest of our time with the Abbott family. And those episodes trade this for character development. It's necessary and pays off, but while you're watching them it feels like you've been short changed. This is where a comparison to Twin Peaks feels most apt: the vast majority of David Lynch and Mark Frost's magnum opus similarly de-emphasizes its central mystery, but as that show expands its characters the tone is doubled-down upon because those characters are so kooky and melodramatic. On the other hand, Outer Range uses these episodes to establish this tone of surrealism. Although it hasn't been completely absent before, they certainly become more prevalent midway through. It can be distracting, for sure, but I found it to be an interesting spin on the western. Whereas the classical western narrative shows its characters struggling to keep old-fashioned values alive in the modern age, Outer Range seems to suggest that those old-world values will literally drive you insane as you try to square them with a rapidly changing present. For that thesis statement alone, I found so much to appreciate within its eight hour runtime and its mid-season tonal shift.

By the time I was watching the final two episodes of Outer Range's debut season, I was treated to satisfying payoffs that tease an expanded sense of that bizarro tone just below the surface in Wyoming. And although the slow parts of this season definitely underwhelm, I'd be hard pressed to say where we landed isn't mostly worth the price of admission. The biggest complaint I can throw at Outer Range thus far is that drifting too close to Dark is likely only to hurt, as Netflix's German mind-melter handles time travel to such a wholly complex and satisfying degree that only a few years out from its conclusion it might still be best to avoid the comparison altogether. That said, I'm on board. Yee-Haw Twin Peaks has claimed a seat at the weird fiction table. Giddy up.

While this show has a similar structure to Wandavision, it struggles to mine the same depths. Instead it opts for a globe-trotting adventure feel that then gets too bogged in the details of its world. The action scenes are frequently weak and the CGI is borderline laughable until the final two episodes where they clearly blew all their money. The most intriguing aspects of this character are tossed aside for a world-ending plot that only becomes more confusing when you consider that no Avengers appear and they’re barely even referenced at all. It’s necessary, I suppose, but if a man was about to wreak havoc on the world and kill a bunch of people, it seems like Arthur Harrow could be taken care of pretty swiftly by Doctor Strange by himself. Throw in a couple other heroes and it becomes pretty obvious why it’s necessary for this show to ignore that entirely.

Rather than build to the level of stakes the finale does, Moon Knight would have been significantly better off as an exploration of reality and mental illness. As someone who has not read a single Moon Knight comic I recognize this could be very off-brand for the canon, but it would have boasted a better narrative and allowed the acting (the best part of this series) to flourish. Instead, somehow in a series with Oscar Isaac twice it still feels like he’s sidelined.

All in all, Moon Knight has the same problems that other MCU shows (aside from Loki) have: absolutely whack pacing and a struggle to retain any sense of relevance when it’s apparent Disney is reticent to put any A-list Avenger in one likely because of budget and fear for lost ticket sales. While Disney+, although a success for the House of Mouse, is still getting off its feet there is a serious lack of emphasis and narrative weight that can be put into individual series. To a certain extent this remains to be seen: Loki’s climax definitely hints at the next major team-up, Hawkeye and Falcon and the Winter Soldier do little more than introduce characters, and I haven’t seen Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness yet so perhaps I’m talking out of my ass but Wandavision definitely cares more about character development than macro plot progression. The fourth phase of the MCU feels part post-script, part extended introduction. Seeing as how Marvel and Feige felt it necessary to move on from our old heroes, we are currently either wrapping up old threads or introductions new ones a la phase one. Moon Knight is the pinnacle of how awkward that can be post-Endgame. I think there’s a sense that we’re gearing up towards something, but when you consider that the Infinity Stones were teased as early as Thor 1, only two years after the first MCU ever. We’re spinning our wheels a bit and it feels like the fans want a little more.

All this said, Moon Knight isn’t all that bad. Oscar Isaac and Ethan Hawke bring the heat as usual. May Calamawy follows up her excellent performance in Ramy her to string results too. I appreciate the introduction of a new set of mythology to the MCU, even if I wish it were handled better. But the six episode structure hampers all development and makes the series feel like a drag. Although it’ll sound contradictory, I think eight episodes would allow each element more time to breath and as a result pace everything up. As it stands, it feels like pacing comes to a standstill because of how awkwardly we are jettisoned from plot to plot so we can’t settle at all.

Absolutely, unequivocally a step forward from season three. In many ways, Stranger Things 4 seems to finally delve deep into the subtext of the premise of the show and as a result gets considerably darker than the series has since it’s initial run. This fourth season is a thrill ride and gets going from episode one with little time to let up, which is surprising considering the behemoth that this season is.

The episode lengths have long been discussed and although I never felt like any episode dragged aside from the wrap-up in the 2.5 hour finale, it does feel like it’s long to be long. Many of the longer episodes do feel like there is an opportunity to either be split into two regular sized episodes or to be shortened. Although none of it feels like a waste, some plot threads are less interesting than others—namely Mike, Jonathan and Will’s even though it does end up connecting in an important way.

Overall, I have to commend the Duffer Brothers for course correcting so strongly from the misstep that was Stranger Things 3 to create a season much more in line tonally with what audiences came to expect from this show, even if the lore is a little messy and all over the place. What it lack in finesse, Stranger Things 4 makes up for in sheer power and intensity, with several episodes leaving me on the edge of my couch, white-knuckling through the action. Can’t wait to see how this series ends in the next season.

Special shout out to David Harbour, who kind of carried half this season on his back. Hopper has long been one of my favorite characters on this show and it is incredible to see him back to his brooding roots.

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.

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.