3. Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace
For almost 20 years we waited, pined, and yearned. And then it happened: George Lucas announced that Star Wars — the greatest phenomenon in all of pop culture history — was coming back. Untold throngs went giddy — an honest-to-God cultural fervor erupted, and not just among geeks and thirtysomething fanboys.
And then it sucked. It sucked a gigantic, meaty mountain of ass.
I’m through with living in denial: George Lucas’ prequel trilogy more or less sucked from beginning to end, and nowhere was this risible fiasco more apparent than in Episode I — The Phantom Menace — a title that alone warrants damnation.
I don’t use the word “sellout” often because the term itself has become so cliché, but George Lucas is the absolute definition of the word. He took one of the world’s most beloved science fiction universes and turned it into a goddamn farce: laughable racial caricatures; vile, unsympathetic protagonists who deliver ridiculous dialogue in a manner so stilted that it makes Tara Reid look like Spencer Tracy; and a giant seahorse named Jar Jar who speaks in Antebellum blaccent.
It needs to be said: George Lucas sucks. The years of Brobdingnagian success have clearly addled his brain to the point that he can no longer process reality and realize his material is now wretched dross, and no one dares point it out to him. His second trilogy was the most uncreative endeavor possible: A guaranteed smash-hit with no substance whatsoever, never mind that it cheated and frustrated millions of people.
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“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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