Don’t get me wrong. I love this episode of Star Wars. One of the greatest in the saga. But there’s one tiny error that really irks me. You see, Jacques Skywalker, the man in blue, is known in the lore to be a Jedi master. Thus, he should be able to use the force to win this battle. However, he doesn’t, and that annoys me to no end. Did the writers forget he could use the force? Is his power suddenly drained or taken away or something? The world may never know.
This mystery haunts me and the entire Star Wars fan base to this day. A canonical explanation would shake the grounds of the community.
You Want Star Wars? You Want Star Wars! I’ll Give You Star Wars.
Today might seem like a day like any other, but today is a very special day. Today is the day all the nerds in the western world congregate to celebrate another sweaty turd secreted from the sweaty, strained mind of George “Needs More Dead Jawas and Screaming” Lucas. A new monolith to monotonous cinema has been erected using discarded Jar-Jar Binks merchandise and VHS tapes where Han shot first.
I watched Star Wars once, I think. I can remember some of the famous lines like: these are definitely the droids you’re looking for, mays the forces be withs yous, and beam me up, Scotty. Yes, I remember now. I watched all the Star Wars movies in one sitting after being immobilized due to a bad accident. My bottom had to be placed in a large, stainless steel butt cast, which kept me in bed for about a month. I call it an accident, but it was a lot more complicated than that. I got my butt kicked after telling the wrong person that I didn’t particularly like Sultans of Swing. The cast had a large hatch, so I could go poop, but the zipper didn’t work very well.
…So I’ll just get to the point. Star Wars, in all its iterations and forms, sucks. It blows. It’s interplanetary, extraordinary tommyrot. It’s 114 percent rubbish, and not very interesting rubbish at that. It’s an incoherent muddle of a story, like twenty-five cut-rate comic books sent through a shredder and then reassembled with the bits in any old order. Even the font they use for the title is ugly. Then again, what do you expect? The whole franchise is the comic sans of entertainment.
I sometimes think of Alec Guinness, a real and accomplished actor, wandering the cheesy sets in a used bathrobe, surrounded by muppets and SoCal stooges, all the while thinking to himself, “I used to be in David Lean movies. I did Lear with Olivier. Now I’m standing next to a guy dressed as a giant marmoset or shrew or badger or something that grunts all his lines. There’s some sort of brass dress dummy and a garbage pail on casters I’m supposed to deliver my lines at. As soon as I get back to the trailer I’m calling my agent to ask him if the check they wrote me is big enough for me to have him killed with enough left over for me to retire.”
And the music? Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but John Williams is a hack. I only worry about hurting the audience’s feelings, because I bet I can’t hurt John Williams’ feelings, He obviously doesn’t have any. Every time I hear any of that atonal twaddle, I wonder to myself, “I wonder who that is playing that song with his elbows?
But hey; cool organ.
[Thanks to Dadof Homeschoolers for sending that one along]