But Lucas doesn't care about his script, under which gelid wodge of pork fat he immures the cast, especially Natalie Portman. They suffer like the damned frozen beneath Cocytus, mouthing clunking, mud-brick dialogue — “wooden” dialogue is several TLs above this stuff — that Nat Levine would have cut in a heartbeat from any serial on the Republic lot. (Lucas’ admitted fondness for Republic serials may be why he retains such power and skill in twenty-minute action sequences with no dialogue more complex than “Open all ports and drag fins!”) Only Ewan McGregor and Ian McDiarmid, in the great tradition of British paycheck-cashing thespians, force their heads above the goo long enough to actually act, if one classifies McGregor’s by now blatant (and obviously intentional) Alec Guinness impression as acting.
“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...
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