March 21, 2024

Danton (1983).

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Danton – Andrzej Wajda

Andrzej Wajda’s Danton (1983) begins with the titular character, Georges Danton (Gerard Depardieu), one of the most prominent leaders and instigators of the French Revolution, entering Paris during a downpour. His horse-drawn carriage passes a roadblock where indiscriminate searches are being imposed and the unmistakable and towering figure of the guillotine—a montage switches from its gleaming blade and to Danton’s curious glance—patiently waiting for another hapless victim. The Reign of Terror that followed the overthrow of the French monarchy is in full bloom, but with the economy stagnating—the queue for a bread rationing nearing chaos—their brewing discontent hushed while the lingering fear from the ruling Jacobins hover menacingly, and the daily bloodshed is starting to get into the nerves of an exhausted society. Unknowingly and ironically, Danton and a few of his cohorts will be marching the same steps to face their eventual end.

History tells us of Danton’s falling out with his friend and fellow compatriot, Maximillien Robespierre (played in the film by Wojciech Pszoniak), his subsequent execution and the ultimate culmination of the Reign after the Thermidorian Reaction of 1794. The film is based on Stanislawa Przybyszewska’s 1920 play The Danton Case, the feud manifesting from Danton’s shift to moderate policies while Robespierre attempting to keep the dictatorial power of the Committee as the only method to protect the supposed ideals of the Revolution. As a man-of-the-people, Danton is seen by Robespierre as a threat—despite being indulgent and often clumsy— directly contrary to the latter’s laconic and domineering, not to mention, paranoid, status as a political figure holding a small assembly apprehensive of losing their grip on the Revolutionary Convention. Caught in the tumult is Camille Desmoulins (Patrice Chereau), a journalist/propagandist and friend to both Danton and Robespierre, who takes former’s side, however fearing the tragic ramifications of what they had done. His wife Lucille writes, “a free press is the greatest terror to ambitious despots”, which still rings true today, noticeably as the flames of authoritarianism engulfs a world blindsided by populist autocrats who abhor the freedom of the press as much as the next opposition politician. Lucille, for her part in what Robespierre believes as a conspiracy to usurp power and undermine the incumbent principles of their original cause, would follow Camille to the guillotine a week later.

Wajda, whose War Trilogy (A Generation, Kanal, Ashes and Diamond) captivated the Polish cinema with his depiction of the German occupation, deftly crafts the film as a response to the political upheaval of his native Poland with the “Solidarity” movement losing momentum against the Iron Curtain and under a martial law. Using the French Revolution as an inspiration, he jabs at the ruling class in promoting the desire of the people for an eventual change in governance and while pitting a disillusioned former official (in the face of union leader Lech Walesa who started the movement) against an autocrat (coup leader Gen Wojciech Jaruzelski). Jean-Claude Carriere who wrote the screenplay of the film, in an interview, attests that “cinema is the only way we have to rebuild and re-write history […] and Danton is a film that is saying a lot about the 80s in Europe”.

It is interesting to note that Pryzbyszewska put Danton in a negative light while being partial to Robespierre, and Wajda quashes that impression, exonerating such an enigmatic figure with Depardieu’s rather sympathetic portrayal. Moreover, one’s interpretation of Danton is much as Wajda’s perspective on the French Revolution—its similarity to the Bolshevik Revolution that brought Communism to the Soviet Union and the Eastern Europe—yet also to the promotion of human rights, the same freedoms and liberties that the French fought for when they stormed the Bastille, and perhaps ironically, as an indictment to the deprivation of the said rights to a society living under an iron fist. Likewise, Danton can be a cautionary tale for democratic governments and society, the relevance exclaiming its undeniable presence, as one of the citizens somnolently declares before being cut off by a passing sans-cullotte guard: “Power corrupts.”

In retrospect, Danton portrays the aftermath of a successful populist uprising, of how subsequent transitions rattle those who took power, creating broad divisions that demarcate the imposed standards. Furthermore, in doing so, blur the lines of what is morally acceptable and what is insidiously prevalent. The struggle for control often culminates in an absolute disregard of the same ideologies being preserved, leading to a willful destruction of the very foundation from where it all started. The film reverberates with a kind of preconception ahead of its time, or possibly, as a subtle warning to the drawbacks of a politically motivated revolution.

 

December 6, 2020

Midnight in a Perfect World (2020).

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Midnight in a Perfect World – Eduardo Dayao

They say the horror genre is the best vehicle to forward an existing displeasure—whether political, social or personal—that it gives fear an entirely new dimension, claws into one’s imagination with a certain anguish that is both debilitating and overpowering. Yet horror keeps reality in check, a sort of an anchor that pushes and pulls, traipsing into the present and abdicating to the fantasy. The genre is often maligned as niche, seeing its artificiality as neither productive nor intelligent, its intended entertainment as the only thing that matters. And once it strays into a territory where analysis and interpretation is king, the label of pretension is hurriedly affixed. One could be wrong, though, and occluded with the fact that in Eduardo Dayao’s Midnight in a Perfect World (2020), the thought of packaged fear wrapped with social and political sentiments in a tin foil hat of a film–obstinate and impervious–is just enough to simmer the obvious dysfunctions of a perceived utopia gone horribly wrong. When one has to admit that Midnight is an intelligent horror film, an oxymoron that is clearly meant and demarcated, there is the pervading necessity to explain, something that puts the genre in a light that—literally, in the case of this film, with relative efficiency—dims, in a good but terrifying way.

The film starts head-scratchingly conspicuous, an unassuming hitman stumbling on a hideous-looking creature in an urban nature preserve and cutting to a bloodied Tonichi (Dino Pastrano) as he recovers from a violent episode of a “blackout”. He goes to the apartment of his erstwhile girlfriend, Deanna, who, we will know as one of the “disappeared”–the poor and unfortunate souls—in the daily purges that accompany the titular “perfect world”. From here, the film journeys into an open-world sensibility, pitting Tonichi and his three friends: the incisive but oddly circumspect Mimi (Jasmine Curtis-Smith), whose incidentally Sixties mod-fashion yells an inner Maggie Cheung in a Wong Kar-Wai film; the punk bitchiness of Jinka, (Glaiza de Castro); and the quiet but curious Glenn (Anthony Falcon), in a race against the apparent malevolence that pursues them. Their tiny hope of salvation is a series of supposedly window-less houses that pockmark the city as a sort-of safe haven, but what the darkness from the outside could not reach does not necessarily render the relative safety within.

With Midnight…, Dodo Dayao trudges into the conventional, a far cry from the philosophical and spiritual scare-fests of his previous masterpiece, Violator (2014), and the equally magnificent and downright creepy and haunting short, If You Leave (2016). Dayao creates an increasingly macabre setpiece not just by squeezing a Mimic-like creature into his narrative, but a sobering allusion to the “War on Drugs” that Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte unleashed when he assumed power. What is more frightening is not the supernatural, but the commonplace. His vision of utopia is disquieting, despite all the apparent social infallibility clings a sinister imperfection: the blackouts. His own interpretation of tokhang that is stylistically absurd and insidiously effective, a method to deter and to instill a discernible feeling of trepidation. More striking is a line that is repeated by Tonichi in the film, “no one leaves without goodbye”, as a nod to the abruptness of an extra-judicial killing, the room for a proper farewell is left in a huff, often in choppy and discordant connections that demand clarity and reason.

The film borrows from a mixed bag of the genre’s cinematic greats and a keen eye would definitely pick out the blatant ones: David Lynch (Mimi’s meandering on an endless corridor that evokes a dreamlike manifestation); possibly, Lav Diaz (sometimes pensive with sustained bursts of frenetic activity); and appropriately, Kurosawa Kiyoshi (the sense of existential dread and disquiet). Dayao is honestly quite open about his filmic champions, and while there is a subtle riffing of style, he manages to inject his own streetwise technique into the film, his penchant for skewing the genre into a trance-like trip, sometimes summoning more of a Georges Franju-esque than a weirdly-resonant indie art-film. The effective use of darkness is one thing that stands out as it figuratively translates the condition of the state in its most horrendous and unforgiving form, the ability to disappear its inhabitants caught in the open, its predatory elements scourging for its hapless victims. What we see is a metaphorical and cinematic transliteration of oppression, put into pitch-blackness to illustrate and criticize without the corresponding ignominy. Never mind that the creature does its own hunting when the lights are out as it only aids-and-abets in the suffocating world closing down on one’s neck like a tightening garrote.

A lot of people would claim Midnight is a film that best encapsulates the tribulations of a year gone exceedingly berserk. From rampant impunity and exercise in fascism that is reigning supreme to, perhaps, the pandemic sweeping across the land like a runaway train, there is no better testament than a film that collar-grabs you and deliberately breathes in your face. It is a film that deprives you the sense of wonder, instead, it is a merciless inquisition to one’s card-carrying fanaticism. It is an allegory to the present conditions, and if one would look away at its apparent reach, then the dire reality has already settled in. Needless to say, Dayao’s brand of horror is not for everyone, unmistakably cerebral and inevitably lingering, the kind that punishes without the ubiquity of tropes, alluring and stylistic yet pushes the boundaries to where the genre could go without the anticipated pushback. And Midnight is just that.

 

June 14, 2020

A Thousand Cuts (2020).

Posted by Etchie under buhay-kultura, films, geek speak, I don't write good at all, pulitikol, reviews, writing | Tags: , , , , , , |
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A Thousand Cuts — Still 1

A Thousand Cuts – Ramona Diaz

It is no surprise that Ramona Diaz’s documentary A Thousand Cuts (2020) pierces through the heart of the Filipino society as if the only way to curtail the impending demise of the democracy we all know and love and complained about is to drive a wedge through the metastasizing malady that afflicts it. The film may not be the impeccable remedy to instantaneously overturn one’s compartmented political inclinations, nor likewise change particular perceptions toward the incumbent government, but it gives a nuanced glimpse into how Rodrigo Duterte’s administration threaten the precise freedoms the concept of democracy provide and enjoy. The frightening realisations are put into the celluloid; the reality is apparent. The fear itself is monumental, overpowering, malignant and palpable.

I have not seen Imelda (2003), Diaz’s portrait of the late dictator Ferdinand Marcos’ wife, hence the comparison of the two films is certainly out the door. In some ways, the film is reminiscent of Laura Poitras’ CitizenFour (2014), a profile of the whistleblower Edward Snowden, who went on a run after leaking information taken from the National Security Agency (NSA). Poitras followed Snowden to Hong Kong where he sought shelter after his flight, fighting extradition charges brought to him by the United States government. In A Thousand Cuts, Diaz’s film crew follows Maria Ressa, the CEO and the pioneering driving force of the embattled media organization Rappler, as she contends with all the personal attacks on social media as well as the legal challenges once her outfit became critical of Duterte’s brand of governance. Diaz does not create a mechanical profile of Ressa, instead, she bestows a person of character, of resiliency and resolve, of someone seen as a persistent menace to the side of Duterte and, possibly as an expedient roadblock to his compulsive authoritarian designs.

In one of Ressa’s speaking engagements, she likens the state of Philippine democracy to being inflicted with the titular thousand cuts, as blood profusely flows out from numerous wounds, the death of democracy is uncontrollably and unquestionably imminent. Yet, what she fails to realise is that such systematic wounding not only causes the hemorrhage, but the pain numbs us, and in the process even more empowering the injustices being committed. A desensitized society is akin to a subservient one as it projects agreement. And once those wounds cauterize, it leaves a fragile future, the visible scars of history are still there, bearing a past that has the capacity to return for an unfinished encore or the wounds to reopen. It would simply take another populist madman to rally and brainwash a nation unprepared to face a world of uncertainty and discontent.

One of the most striking scenes in the film involves reporter, Patricia Evangelista, who is one of Rappler’s boots on the ground covering Duterte’s controversial war on drugs. Her attestations of police operations are heartbreaking and quietly angry—the condemnation is immediate but subtle, the ethics of journalism precluding any sort of political prejudice—bequeathing a sort of tangible ephemerality to its marginalized victims. The trauma shared by Evangelista could never be quantified nor categorized, as though the psychology of fear and helplessness is something one has to deal with on a regular basis. With this, it is important to look back to an interview by Ressa on Duterte right after he assumed office, straightforwardly asking him the necessity of fear as his primary mechanism of leadership.

The film is interspersed with scenes during the campaign season of the midterm elections, following Duterte propagandist (I would liberally use this term as its definition and practice are the exact manifestations of her blog’s purpose anyway, despite her vehement denials) Mocha Uson in her attempt to secure an elected position; and Duterte’s closest ally and the chief implementer the drug war, former Gen. Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa, in his quest for a Senate seat. This provide an objective viewpoint to the film, however, their inclusion is up for a variety of interpretations. One might see this as detrimental to Duterte’s image (the film is an obvious scrutiny by placing Maria Ressa in a protagonistic spotlight), but at the same time, it allows us the luxury of hindsight. Likewise, despite the segmented screen-time, a quick look at the opposition senate candidate Samira Gutoc shows her uphill climb at the campaign, the political machinery evidently lacking vis-a-vis to both Bato’s and Uson’s, merely holding on to the principles of humanity and morality as her method to persuade. Whatever this ultimately tells us, is a tale of two cities.

The film is a sort-of wake-up call–or perhaps, a call to arms. Not only does it focuses on Ressa as a beacon of light in a dark world. It also illustrates the continuous assailing of the press by autocratic governments as a resolute check on further abuses. Freedom of expression—of the press—is necessary in a free society, where ineptitude and incompetence demand criticism, where transparency and accountability are needed to create a harmonious relationship between the public and the government it elects. Change does not happen without a preceding complaint. Changes are repercussions of incessant disapprobations. This is something the present administration is incapable of accepting, let alone seeing the function of the press not as a mouthpiece to strengthen an institution but as cog in a larger—albeit, fantastic—matrix meant to destabilize. The implications of Duterte’s stranglehold on facts by its proliferation of fraudulent news and the weaponization of the law are as chilling as a dystopian narrative, sending a message of absolute submission to its authority. And that one’s apathy—as exemplified in one scene when an elderly woman inquisitively throws a query into a panel led by Ressa—regardless of social stature, is the disease through which abuses of power thrives, creating an environment conducive for it to propagate. It will go on and on and on unless something is done to prevent it. However, such inevitable circumstances, notwithstanding the occasional ambivalence some of us might feel, it is imperative that we echo a statement of commitment, to obstinately struggle, and, most importantly, to fervently hope: we will hold the line.

 

January 8, 2020

Dead Kids (2019).

Posted by Etchie under buhay-kultura, c'est la vie, films, geek speak, I don't write good at all, reviews, writing | Tags: , , , , , , , |
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Dead Kids – Mikhael Red

Mikhail Red’s Dead Kids (2019) is much like Lav Diaz’s homage to juvenile exuberance and criminal mischief, Burger Boys (1995), a coming-of-age that is riddled with rash decision-making and deliberate and blatant disregard for consequences that the only drive to commit such drastic indiscretion is to prove a point, no matter how tragic and reckless and serious the ramifications might be. But Diaz’s film is properly shot and conveniently plotted, that it makes Dead Kids less than a derivative but a prescriptive inclusion. It is that we are reminded that the true essence of youth is learning to face them despite the limitations set forth by age and society, and in the end, all our actions have particular effect on the people around us—whether that would entail a kind of intervention from authorities or simply a whack on the behind by our folks—somewhat instilling a sense of responsibility and accountability.

A dead kid is a millennial euphemism for the perennial fly-on-the-wall, synonymous to the one who dabbles in relative obscurity, and the one whose attraction to be bullied goes up with each foot on the school entrance. In some instances, being a dead kid is enough humiliation, especially in a company of other students who are trying to get through each year of academic life. Most of us, however, are content with simply as the average Joes in school—without the purported limelight and could easily tuck into the neverwheres of the campus, existing only when the need to surface is at its noisiest. Nevertheless, the prevalent difference is that dead kids retaliate in the most subtle way possible, often outside the norms of the commonplace revenge techniques, with the implications assuringly long-lasting and hard-hitting. To assume that dead kids can blueprint even the absurd is a telling understatement.

The film yells social commentary at its core, as Red did so with a few of his films: Neomanila (2018) and Birdshot (2016). The opening frame tells us that it is “inspired by real events”, which is one method of anticipation, belatedly drives the audience to research—scrounging the web for any leads that might have been the basis for the film. With that, we can conclude that Red attempts to answer to social relevance through cinematic depiction. Dead Kids follow a pack of high school friends: Mark Sta. Maria (Kelvin Miranda), a smart but timid boy whose social and financial stature is much to be desired, however perched high up in the academic totem pole of his private institution, yet strapped in cash to pay for his rent in his aunt’s ramshackle storage-cum-apartment; Charles Blanco (Vance Larena), a quiet kid with a dirty family secret—an open secret, in fact—subsisting on a reputation as someone who is neither popular nor infamous, and the implied chip on his shoulder that is easily concealed behind his unassuming demeanor; Paolo Gabriel (Khalil Ramos), presumably the most boisterous in the group, the proverbial class clown in the hierarchy of the academic organization, settling not just to take retribution for the bullying he endures, but of the urgency of proving something—especially to a girlfriend; and Gideon Uy (Jan Silverio), often the subject of ridicule and persistent bullying, but he allows them to get away with it with nary a finger lifted nor a posture to indicate his displeasure. The thing with bullies, in certain instances, is one’s capacity to stand up for themselves, to face the transgressor in a civilized way—maybe through proper channels or finding the true cause of such a behavior. So, they hatch a plan: to kidnap the school’s dominant cool kid, Chuck Santos (Markus Peterson) and hold him for ransom to his drug lord of a father, Uncle Rody (Ku Aquino)–incidentally familiar to Blanco, hence the Filipino term of endearment to close friends treated as family. As such films chronicle the bumblings of would-be misfits, they actually do bumble. And this is how Red twists on the formula, yet retaining a bit of the aftertaste. Things go wrong, of course, and we all anticipate it. Yet there is some to distance in the film that does not widen it from reality. However, a bit of illusion in the fringes of veracity. It could be squarely fiction, for all we know, but we are left with an aura of its realness, because the film tells us so in the title card. Moreover, the characters are not mere caricatures, though not thoroughly and meticulously fleshed out, yet they exude the behaviors and attitudes of the self-entitled contemporary Filipino youth—or quite possibly, the millennial generation in general—basking in their belief of egotistic importance and absorption, and that they think the only options laid out on the table are pretty limited to what they want to do or what they should do with less regard to any outcome—good or bad.

A variety of reviews peg the film as part-coming-of-age-part-crime-thriller. Dead Kids is not Fellini’s Amarcord nor Truffaut’s Les Quatre Cent Coups, but it does justice to adolescent malfeasance in a way that mischief and its serious consequences bond together and forming a rare glimpse of growing up enmeshed in the thick quicksand of bad choices. Although the film simply portrays an episode, it does so summarizing one’s immediate mindset—particularly if one happens to be the actual bullied—that the realization of getting back for all those moments of torment seem to be most gratifying. In Mark Sta. Maria’s case, the situation protects him from the stereotype despite the obvious label, and with such he could not emancipate himself from being one. The film does not intend to shy itself away from the tepid tropes that encumber similarly-themed works. In fact, it embraces them in a straightforward manner, the dark comedy mechanism up close, switching from the serious fare to light comic, while maintaining a balance to go full monty in its social-relevance-cum-commentary aspect.

Whatever Red is attempting with the film, there is no infallible way of telling a real-life story without coming off as pretentious (always the derisory word-drop to anything that begs comprehension without actually trying to understand it) and pushy and markedly bizarre. Likewise, the film kowtows to the necessity of the Philippine government’s controversial and deadly policy on illegal drugs—as evident when Blanco shoos away a panhandling kid with a derisive remark—yet it does not condone nor support it in any way. Similarly, the film indicts the endemic corruption that permeates the law enforcement, but sadly, it only comes off merely as a plot mechanism than it is fully addressed.

 

January 3, 2020

Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker (2019).

Posted by Etchie under buhay-kultura, films, geek speak, I don't write good at all, reviews, writing | Tags: , , , , , |
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Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker – J.J. Abrams

The previous conversation I had with my brother about the final installment of George Lucas’ epic space opera Star Wars was absolutely comical, if not, downright panning. We digressed on a number of possible reasons and excuses and justifications and mind-boggling-canon-defying queries that would somewhat plague and itch the casual Star Wars fan and observer—yet not much to sway nor persuade the hardcore into rethinking where the franchise had ventured out to—at least, not to where man has gone before (I know, kind of lame to inject a bit of that nerd-baiting quote to probably, underscore how critically bad this film ended up is a matter of sarcastic humor).

I must admit, J.J. Abrams’ Star Wars IX: The Rise of Skywalker (2019) is rather kind of fun. Fun, that it rehashes the similarly-styled Lucas’ supposedly-yet-begging-to-be-sequeled The Return of the Jedi (1983) into something more thoroughly photographed and shot with all the technological advances Lucas could have drooled at before. Fun, that the series ends on a note, however not as anybody expects it to, yet culminates just about what everyone wishes it should. Fun, that, despite the sarcasm, we believe it would spawn a new round of Star Wars-themed storylines—milking the franchise to its driest well, and where the company that paid for George Lucas’ retirement plan (Walt Disney) at a whopping a billion bucks should get their money’s worth—creativity and sensibility out of the window and the door for good measure. Fun, that the merchandise that goes hand-and-hand with it, should make up enough for both the box-office tilling and the fanboys and girls’ fantasies, as a new round of toys definitely would hit the shelves and soon up for grabs.

After the Rian Johnson-helmed The Last Jedi (2017) deeply demarcated the social establishment of the Star Wars fanbase into several warring factions; the purists demanding a return to tradition, the critics into the film’s well-thought-out plot misdirection, the hardcore existing between the two schools of zealotry, and the casual fans whose loyalties are often non-synced with both the hardcore and the critical. Abrams’ attempt at bridging the two results in a throwback, pandering to nostalgia and the eventual appeasement of those whose arms are risen up, still wielding their metaphorical lightsabers against what they perceived as an unforgivable cinematic slight.

However, the film does rectify Johnson’s supposed miscues: from Luke Skywalker’s psychic sparring against erstwhile-nephew-turned-Sith-protege Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) to the blatant hopelessness of the Resistance in a near galactic annihilation; these and some others, while nodding to the best episode in the franchise, The Empire Strikes Back (1981), clearly is more of an about-face than actually delving into the canon with some sort of continuity firmly planted in.

Which begs the multitude of questions that ultimately pop out of nowhere—or somewhere the sun doesn’t shine—in places so far away in the galaxy the possibilities are mere remnants of chance. Abrams’ twist makes far less intriguing than Johnson’s lead-up, and where that incessant throbbing in your geekside would scream endless strings of profanity. But props to Abrams that we know nothing whatsoever—not even a hint (except that if you’ve read press screening reviews and whatnots, the subsequent astonishment could be anticipated and feigned—I did)—and that Wampa-in-our-headlight moment in one full swing at the opening crawl.

The Star Wars that I’ve seen back in the 1990s—the Special Edition re-releases—and the prequel trilogy are somewhat of a foundation. A storyline so complex that going back to explain the circumstances that led to the development of the prequel is akin to plugging a burning hole with nothing more than flimsy napkin. The prequels do suck, of course, but nothing prepared me for the dumpster fire Abrams created by retconning what he deemed worthy to be retconned, and reviving a well-known antagonist (and seemingly, what’s left of a Death Star that was proton-torpedoed into smithereens in The Return of the Jedi) for a purpose not only unthinkable, but arguably, throwing the entire saga in a head-scratching tailspin. Funny, that our conversation ended on a noteworthy observation—an inquiry that transcends all the episodes, past Yavin and Bespin and Endor and into a “skip it or watch it” kind of, questioning not just the Skywalker lineage as mere cog in the machine (likely eradicated) but of the Emperor’s immediate bloodline coming into view, even up close and personal (and guess what?).

Amidst the gripes, I find the The Rise of Skywalker a fitting conclusion. Only because of the incipient fatigue and the probability of cinematic malaise. The film is an end of an era. An culmination of everything we know about the saga in its significant form and glory. Never mind the spinoffs and the universe it spawned, expanding as new characters and events are introduced and reintroduced. We are met by Billy Dee Williams reprising the role of Lando Calrissian, again saving the day in a hunk of metal that is the Millennium Falcon, but without the Sullustan by his side; a cameo by Denis Lawson’s Wedge Antilles, serving as a gunner in a B-Wing (and as the only rebel pilot who survived all three of the original trilogy of films, I was rather disappointed that he did not get to see himself strapped in an X-Wing just like old times); Abrams choice of stuffing the film to celebrate a franchise. Sufficing to say, he shoots for its palatability. And while being palatable does not translate to bestow the appropriate nourishment.

The Rise of Skywalker is a film that implores comprehension—at this point, the likelihood of establishing a barometer for fan response on the film’s problematic plot could be in motion, setting up to answer questions, steamrolling the inconsistencies and trimming the loose ends with more offerings—even at the expense of Lucas putting faith into Disney for a wee bit of TLC into his beloved franchise, dismissing the cornucopia of works that believably attempted to bequeath a sense of coherence into a prolonged hiatus (or probably in comatose), yet, ironically, ending up squeezing its remaining life out into galactic oblivion.

 

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