Review: REVENGE OF THE SITH

Revenge of the Sith is about as good as it could ever have been possible for this movie – being episode three of these Star Wars, and also (not coincidentally) the long-storied episode in which The Bad Shit Goes Down – to be. And Episode III’s fabled history is an important point, because as much as the prequel trilogy as a whole came inextricably loaded with an unfair crate-full of expectations and preconceptions – a veritable laundry list of every question that every Star Wars fan has asked for 28 years – really, everything we wanted to see can be boiled down to exactly one key, elusive point: we want to see that fight. We want to see Obi-Wan Kenobi kick Anakin Skywalker’s ass on the edge of a great molten pit, and ultimately cause him injuries severe enough to doom young Skywalker to a lifelong imprisonment in the big, black, walking iron lung that is Darth Vader. It’s the stuff of dreams. It’s the scene worth waiting a lifetime for.

The degree to which Revenge of the Sith succeeds in this single, obtrusive desire, is so phenomenal that it has the power to make a Star Wars fan feel like a born-again. Because at the end, this is a film that is almost entirely not about that big fight at the edge of the molten pit – an astonishing and unexpeceted feat of the power of the storytelling actually overwhelming the power of expectation – but by the time those lightsabres are whirling (and fast!), the emotional consequences of that fight, and its after-effects, are so earned, by such a well-structured movement of classical dramatic tragedy, that it succeeds in ways that no other Star Wars film ever has. To its great surfeit, Revenge of the Sith is truly unique among its canon. This episode is something that neither of the other prequels – or even, really, Return of the Jedi – ever managed to be: a genuinely fresh take on what Star Wars can do. No more copy-catting of previous episodes: we haven’t seen Star Wars this original since 1980’s The Empire Strikes Back showed us that these movies can be about more than just blowing up a space station.

The moment that this became most glaringly real for me is a sequence in which Anakin waits in the Jedi Council chamber, while Padmé watches the Council building from her apartment, a hundred miles away. The two doomed lovers begin to cry, speaking to one another across the vast distance without saying a word, without any irritating “thought voiceover” bubbles working into the scene (okay, one from seductive Palpatine). It’s a minute of silence in a saga that has thus far been notable for its relentless willingness to be noisy. It is accompanied by a piece of John Williams music that sounds absolutely nothing like anything else in the entire 12-hour Star Wars musical cycle. And it is a moment, and a decision, that will (of course) have tremendous consequences for this beloved Star Wars galaxy that we have watched for so long. As I was watching this scene, I got that perfect, brilliant tingle: after five and a half whole films, Star Wars, in its dying hour, was still surprising me, showing me something I had never seen in the saga before, nor expected to see. And it was so simple.

The film is full of such lovely moments. Again, there is the noticeable use of silence. In a gigantic reversal for any Star Wars film, there are large tracts of Sith which take place without musical accompaniment; there are also an appreciable number of “breaths” in the story, where everything just stops dead for a long, lingering moment of reflection (and usually, dread) as the story’s great tragedy continues its perfectly-pitched downward trajectory. For a film where the first half-hour – a brilliantly entertaining rescue caper, recalling Indiana Jones, aboard a sinking Separatist flagship – zings by with such relentless zeal that one actually suspects that Lucas cut the 30-minute sequence down from a couple of hundred, the sense of pacing and emotional space in the remainder of the story is nothing short of enchanting. This isn’t the sort of paint-by-numbers, bullet-train Star Wars pacing that was so effective in the lighter Attack of the Clones. This is a story that knows it is dark, and is willing to accelerate and decelerate appropriately, to give the audience the time to find the meaning in its manifold subtexts.

Oh, right, subtexts – guess what? They’re back! After two prequels where literally every single line of dialogue was exactly what the speaking character was thinking at any given time, there are a welcome number of scenes in Sith that are actually front-loaded with multiple meanings and interpretations, and good old-fashioned lies. The bulk of these (of course) take place between morally-tipsy Anakin and the original Phantom Menace himself, Chancellor Palpatine, and it’s just genuinely refreshing to find the age-old dramatic trope of a character saying one thing while meaning another popping up in the straight-laced Star Wars prequel trilogy.

And for saying one thing while meaning another, Palpatine is no slouch. What struck me in Sith – probably for the first time since the original trilogy – was the sheer strength of the writing, particularly in terms of classical dramatic scene construction. Certainly, there is still a tremendous quantity of truly clunky dialogue (though it is uniformly improved over Clones, even the Padmé/Anakin sequences) side-by-side with the better-written scenes. In terms of structure, however, George Lucas has gone back to Basic Screenwriting Principles 101: each scene builds on the scene before in a formal, question-and-answer fashion, until the dark toil that will bring about Skywalker’s undoing is laid bare before us. This film is a perfectly-structured tragedy, and if it’s not quite Shakespeare, at least Lucas has the sense to borrow from the best – a hint of Othello, a hint of Macbeth, and more than a bit of Oedipus Rex – as we watch this man, Anakin Skywalker, systematically destroy himself. It is a truly magnificent, and emotionally affecting, fall.

In creating this fall, the grunt work falls mostly to Palpatine, and the result is mesmerizing: Ian McDiarmid absolutely cranks it out of the park as the conniving Sith Lord, giving what will probably be remembered as the definining dramatic performance of the entire Star Wars saga – yes, likely even outpacing Alec Guinness himself. The performance is that good. (Then, it’s always easier to play the asshole than the virtuous man. Just ask Harrison Ford.) At times, McDiarmid seems to be channelling Alistair Sim or other great British character actors of the golden age; at other times, he is slipping so effortlessly into the tropes of the performance he first created in 1983 that, when the saga is justifiably viewed at long last as a single, 14-hour movie, the result will be an absolutely seamless evocation of Palpatine.

Fortunately, and notably, everyone seems to have brought their “A” game this time around. Natalie Portman throws her heart into her final Star Wars performance (in a somewhat under-written role), Jimmy Smits is honourably solid as trustworthy Bail Organa, and Frank Oz brings surprisingly supple shades to his voice performance as Yoda. This is a film about Anakin, however, and Hayden Christensen gives a performance so strong here that he justifiably venerates his Clones appearance, proving that he really was just playing “unlikeable” to the hilt – not unlike “whiny” Mark Hamill’s performance in Star Wars. In Sith, Christensen is utterly absorbing. The physical transformation between Clones and this film – three short years! – is startling, and the sheer dedication and physical presence that Christensen brings to the role perfectly sells the notion of Anakin as the ultimate Jedi war hero. (His combat sequences in rescuing Palpatine must be seen to be believed, and his physical and verbal repartée with Obi-Wan perfectly captures the bond of brotherhood between the two men.) There are a number of fine and intriguing performance choices from Christensen, as Palpatine slowly lures Anakin to the Dark Side. There is that breathtaking beat in the Jedi Council chamber, and another in Palpatine’s office where Anakin, literally drunk on ambition, swoons before his new master. Christensen takes serious risks with his entire performance, but pulls it off: he makes it all seem like magic.

Again, what really works is the writing, which is surprisingly deft and supple in all of Palpatine and Anakin’s interactions. Palpatine repeatedly offers Anakin choices – some overt, some covert – and in each case, what seems like the right choice (killing Dooku, protecting Palpatine from Mace Windu, etc.) is actually a choice that will lead him further down the dark path (forever will it dominate his destiny!). Palpatine supplements these choices with tantalizing bits of information – never more ingeniously than when telling Anakin the story of Darth Plagueis, the Sith Lord who (we soon infer) trained Palpatine himself, and concocted Anakin’s “virgin” birth. (Thank goodness someone understood that the Jedi’s “Chosen One” was tasked with balancing a Force that was, until that point anyway, significantly leaning in the Jedi’s favour.) By the time Sidious is informing Vader of Padmé’s death – purportedly under Vader’s hand – we realize that we have watched one character completely control another through the measured release of information, and the masterful manipulation of a man’s fear. George W. Bush parallels, indeed. Not for nothing does Palpatine end up running a galaxy for twenty years.

Balancing Palpatine on Anakin’s other shoulder is Obi-Wan Kenobi, forever the Joseph of the Star Wars saga, a gentle, perfect knight who nevertheless must bear the ignominy of watching his every choice go wrong, and darkness sweep inexorably over the galaxy he has sworn to protect. Ewan McGregor – who has been guilty more than once of walking through some of his scenes in The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones – seems fully energized by the material here. He gives us a Ben that is as believable an antecedent to Alec Guinness as we could possibly hope for, a hero of the Clone Wars, supremely powerful Jedi Knight, and Anakin Skywalker’s best friend. His extended face-off with General Grievous on Utapau is one of the highlights of the film; McGregor is limber, spry, and so physically dominant that his performance truly is the perfect picture of the Jedi as a young man. His droid n’ dragon chase is marvellous good fun, and Obi-Wan’s sheer physical dexterity, strategic cunning, and ongoing sense that he’s having just as much fun as we are, proves that he, truly, is the master.

Above all, Obi-Wan is a compassionate man. He is a man with humour, and feelings, and an unflappable moral code. As much as Anakin’s story is veritably a tragedy, Obi-Wan’s is one too; he (and the other Jedi) are so blinded by their own dogma, and faith in the Chosen One, that they refuse to see the threat that their attempts to control Anakin represent. So they, too, try to manipulate Skywalker, but as puppetmasters, Jedi are no Sith Lords. It’s astonishing that even as Anakin brings Mace Windu the name of the Sith Lord they have been seeking for thirteen years, the seeming Holy Grail of all of the Jedi’s pursuits, Mace is still unwilling to trust and accept Anakin! It’s a fool’s choice, which will (of course) directly result in old Mace getting his hand chopped cleanly off, and zapped well out of a hundred-story window.

Yeah. There’s that. Samuel L. Jackson asked to not go out as a chump – knowing that his character had to die, his only request was that the death be memorable – and the demise of Windu is probably one of the best scenes in the whole film. Again, it succeeds not just because it’s a long-awaited throwdown between the Baddest Jedi in Space and the neo-Emperor, but because it’s the hinge point for Anakin’s story; it is the finest example of Anakin being offered a choice by Palpatine that seems entirely right (if complicated), while actually being fundamentally wrong. As Mace disappears over the horizon (and how good is Jackson’s blood-curdling scream?), the fall of Skywalker is complete, and the result is a vastly potent sequence. Again, there’s a wonderful sense of emotional breath here – after all the chaos and shouting, everything goes eerily quiet as Palpatine robes up in his classic, Return of the Jedi-era garb, and orders Anakin to do something utterly horrible, with all the cavalier interest of a man ordering a Big Mac. It’s a terrific variance in tone that adds the deepest levels of horror to Anakin’s coming deeds.

The following sequence, in which Anakin razes the Jedi Temple, while all across the galaxy, the Clones turn on the Jedi, is so vastly effective, without ever going over the top, that it achieves everything it needs to, with an authority and brazen earnedness that, frankly, I never expected from a Star Wars film. Ever a sucker for the obvious mythic visual, Lucas begins the multi-world Purges sequence with a shot of Obi-Wan taking a ten-storey high dive into the well of Utapau; the next few scenes, as Ki-Adi-Mundi, Aayla Secura, Plo Koon, and others meet their demise (or intended demise, in the case of Yoda, whose relations with the Wookiees are good indeed – there has never been anything better than Chewie giving Yoda a shoulder ride to spirit him to safety!), are wonderfully affecting and melancholy. The best is saved for last, however, as Bail Organa arrives at the Jedi Temple to suss things out, and is treated to a firsthand glimpse of a Temple student (Lucas’ own adolescent son, Jett!) getting gunned down by Clone troopers. The action moves indoors, to even darker deeds, as Anakin enters the Council chamber, only to find a dozen small children hiding from the Clones. The single shot of the kids staring in horror as Anakin sparks up his lightsabre is easily the darkest moment in the entire Star Wars cycle.

The sequence is ably supported by one of John Williams’ best compositions for the entire saga, a mournful, and soulful, lament that truly carries the weight of the sequence – I feel like I’ve been hearing this music in my mind for my entire life, only to have it birthed at last onto the big screen at last, in the final Star Wars film. The use of music in Revenge of the Sith is surprising, in that it is fairly different from any of the previous films. First of all, as mentioned above, there is a notable use of silence, to a greater degree than any of the prior films, not just for the emotional breath scenes, but in action scenes as well. There is also a very large quantity of music tracked from the other films; this in itself is nothing new to the saga, but it’s taken to a frustrating nth degree here, resulting in probably 20% of the film being scored by non-original music.

The music that is new, however, is nothing short of exceptional, some of Williams’ finest work for the series. I am particularly fond of General Grievous’ impishly fascisistic theme, which gets ample play as the demonic droid general (a truly satisfying new addition to the saga, from start to finish) lopes around doing his various evil deeds. Williams’ re-orchestrations of several classic melodies from other entries in the saga (Obi-Wan’s theme – yes, that’s originally what it was – along with those for Palpatine, Shmi, Leia, Luke, and of course Anakin and Padmé) is intelligent and affecting. And in underscoring that big duel we’ve all been waiting for, Williams hits the high mark. From the moment we arrive at Mustafar – there’s a particularly chilling sequence of Anakin running out of the lava-soaked mists in almost boyish excitement at seeing Padmé, in spite of everything he has done – the music is so splendidly wrought that its supremacy may never be challenged.

So we come at last to that duel, that big fight, the screaming scrap to the death on the edge of a molten pit that we’ve all been thinking about since 1977. The results? Surprisingly uninteresting. The duel, as skillfully proficient as it may be (McGregor and Christensen certainly display a technical dedication unsurpassed in the history of film), is simply not exploited in an appropriate way on a story level. There are no “sub-duels,” no specific beats or moments of action (think Vader throwing garbage at Luke in Empire, or Qui-Gon getting tripped up behind a forcefield and taking a meditation break in Menace) that actually create an emotional arc or rhythm for the fight. Initially, this bothered me, until something very specific happened: Anakin and Obi-Wan find themselves on some sort of weather vane or control tower, whose connective strut is weakened by lava; the tower falls into a lava flow, and is swept away. Vertical where they were previously horizontal, Anakin and Obi-Wan continue to fight up this structure, barely dots on the screen, visible only by their glowing laser swords. It called up something half-remembered, something like “They fought in the heavens, they fought on the earth, all across the world they fought, they fought until they could fight no more.” And then maybe this duel doesn’t need to be like the other duels at all (even the Yoda/Palpatine throwdown, occuring simultaneously, is structured better than this), because this isn’t a duel about story any more, or even about people; this is how gods fight. This is Lucifer vs. Michael; now, this is Anakin vs. Obi-Wan. This is mythic, this is bigger than us. This is the story we’ve all known all our lives, finally before us on screen.

And so, when Obi-Wan achieves “the high ground,” achieves moral superiority (“Only a Sith deals in absolutes!”), the last great deed finally gets to happen, and how pleasing to me personally that it happens like this: no matter what you’ve seen in previous Star Wars films, you just don’t jump at someone who’s holding a lightsabre. And of course Kenobi has won – because the good side is stronger, and has always been, and Ben has always been the greatest Jedi in the galaxy, Chosen One be damned. Anakin’s in pieces before he even hits the ground, and as he immolates on the banks of that great river, it might be Lucifer, or it might be Osiris, or it might even be Christ; it might be any other number of great mythological heroes who are pulled from the earth in pieces and reborn, for better or worse. It is Obi-Wan’s final words, even as Anakin is screaming “I HATE YOU!!” at the top of his lungs, that gives the most insight: “I loved you!” After three films of insisting that the Jedi have no attachments, that they do not allow love, the admission is breathtaking: Ben’s just as guilty as his apprentice. Or in other words, we all fucked up. We all tried too hard to be something we’re not, and now, we’re all hurting. The best among us will let go, and go on. The rest will burn.

There’s nothing left but to pick up the pieces; babies must be born, Death Stars must be built, and Threepio’s already-limited knowledge of these events has to go away (but naturally, Artoo remembers the entire saga… now watch the scene where he meets up with Ben in Star Wars again!). Most importantly, we reach one of the most awaited, and most interesting, scenes in the story, where Anakin gets shackled up in the Vader armour. It’s a tricky sequence, in that it almost completely fails as a Vader scene – but isn’t that the point? If the saga should, as Lucas insists, be taken 1 2 3 4 5 6 (I, for one, will never let my children see Phantom Menace until they’ve seen Star Wars), then this is in fact the first time we are seeing Vader, the first time we are hearing James Earl Jones’ (welcome) basso profundo voice in the Star Wars cycle. The problem with the scene is that the dialogue (the sheer emotional mindfuck of hearing Vader’s voice say “Padmé,” and inquire after her safety and care) tracks perfectly for Anakin, and does not track at all with our previous expectations of Vader. Even the Frankensteinian lumber and the Simpsons-esque “nooooooooooooo!” can get by under the Anakin mantra; it’s just that we’re so used to seeing Vader played another way, that we can’t reconcile the character in our mind.

And you know what? We’re wrong. It’s not Lucas’ fault that we’re used to a different Vader than the one he’s put on film here (well, technically it is, but anyways…). At literally every turn in creating the Star Wars prequels, Lucas has done what’s right for the story, even if it’s what’s wrong for the fans. He has shown a single-minded devotion to the rigours of artistic integrity that will be doomed to be debated endlessly, just because it dissatisfied so many people, but once all the subjective anguish has dissipated (a soccer teammate took me to task on Phantom Menace, now six years old, just last week, leading me to ask him just exactly when he was planning to get over it already), the principles of what Lucas has done may yet yield a healthy dose of respect. The man stuck to his guns, against all odds. He told his story, his way. And with Sith, the proof is in the pudding. He pulled it off, better than we could have expected.

So we have it: when it came to showing a fall to the Dark Side, Lucas didn’t wimp out. This fall is dark. These deeds are not comic book horrible, they are actually horrible. Scenes like the Temple purge rip into the rest of the Star Wars stories (the lightsabre training sequence in Clones, for example) and invest them with gigantically dark subtexts. (I, for example, am a fan of Sean Stewart’s Yoda: Dark Rendezvous novel, which centres almost entirely around these now-doomed Jedi kids… making the scenes in Sith play like watching Harry Potter get shot in the back.) And by the end ofSith, as Anakin is catching fire and screaming with pain, as Obi-Wan is watching his best friend die, we have something that we haven’t had before: a level of emotional viscerality that is truly compelling, that truly reaches deep. For the first time in this (or possibly any) Star Wars movie, the pathos is entirely earned, built in careful, measured steps by everything that has come before. That’s right: it’s Star Wars that makes you feel.

It all becomes gigantically clear at last: for all of their various merits and flaws, The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones were never intended to function as single films in their own right. Revenge of the Sith proves conclusively that the prequel trilogy is indeed a trilogy, is in fact a six-hour film as Lucas has always insisted while being frustratingly opaque about his meaning. Taken on that scale, there are ways in which the prequel trilogy succeeds that the original trilogy could never aspire to. And that, in itself, is astonishing.