Reading/Watching Log #32

SPRING. It's the first day of spring here in New Zealand, and I'm so profoundly relieved winter is over that I might cry. It was grey and cold and dark, and I need to feel sunshine and see flowers and smell freshly cut grass and pine needles once again. 

I've foregone my TBR pile of late in order to get more and more books out of the library, but in my defence it's been fun revisiting Enid Blyton and all her "jolly goods". Along with that this month has been a really mixed bag: a Marple mystery, another take on Howards End, and a collection of BBC/ITV dramas.

That said, I don't have much to say about many of these books/films/shows, so in compensation I've written screeds on Star Wars Rebels and a Russian fantasy-flick called I Am Dragon.

Adventure Island: Books 9 – 13 by Helen Moss

The other half of the not-Enid-Blyton series that involve three meddling kids and their dog solving crimes on Castle Key island off the coast of Cornwall. These pre-teens were seriously living the dream with their unsupervised mystery-solving, with successful arrest-rates on all kinds of thieves, kidnappers and smugglers (no murderers, but that's to be expected).

There's not much to say that I didn't point out last month: the sexism and racism so prevalent in Blyton is gone, there are plenty of colourful neighbourhood characters (which usually double as suspects), and the mysteries themselves are soundly constructed without being mind-blowingly clever.

And yet Moss doesn't quite get the elusive magical ingredient of Blyton – though it's hard to say exactly what that is. The language? The food porn? The setting? There's something so specific about Blyton's work that she's practically in a genre of her own, despite writing everything from fantasy to mystery to school stories.

The Find-Outers: Books 1 – 5 by Enid Blyton

So sometimes only the real thing is gonna sate your craving. I don't know what brought it on, but I just needed to read some Enid Blyton. Though I grew up with The Famous Five (so much so that many of their adventures were formative reading experiences) I always enjoyed The Find-Outers, mainly for the character of Fatty. Real name Frederick Algernon Trotteville, this schoolboy is rather overweight, immensely boastful, and utterly self-assured.

And yet he always has plenty of money, is a master of disguises and impersonation, and knows everything about crime-fighting and mystery-solving. He's one of those people you want to be around for the sake of the exciting adventures he's bound to fall into sooner or later, and he really is one of Blyton's best characters – so much so that the rest of the Find-Outers are interchangeable in comparison.

The general formula of each book involves a mystery in the small village of Peterswood, which the children try to solve before the odious town policeman Mr Goon.  And to Blyton's credit, the mysteries are fair-play: complex enough not to be blatantly obvious, but simple enough that a young reader could figure them out. (Except the ones that aren't mysteries at all, but adventures with unsavoury gangs).

What really fascinates me as an adult is the character of Inspector Jenks, who is practically a God-like figure that the children can absolutely count on to trust their judgment, stand up for them against Goon, and fly in at the end of any book to apprehend the culprit and set things right. Ah, those were simpler times – authority figures like this just don't exist anymore.

Speak: The Graphic Novel by Laurie Halse Anderson and Emily Carroll

I picked this up without knowing it was a book or a film – only that the illustrations were done by Emily Carroll, and if you haven't read her Through the Woods anthology yet, then what are you waiting for?

She lends this story that same spooky, fairy tale quality, though it's entirely non-fantastical in content. Melinda is in her in freshman year at Merryweather High and is already a social pariah thanks to what happened over the summer: she called the police while at a party, who promptly turned up and made arrests.

But it's not the only thing that happened to her that night, and the burden of not telling anyone her secret is sending her deep into depression. Her parents' marriage is fraught, her friends have ditched her, and her grades are failing.

When it comes, the revelation is dark and difficult, and things get worse before they get better – but the story ends far too abruptly, with nothing on the aftermath or recovery process that happens after Melinda's secret comes out. Heck, we don’t even get a reaction from her parents! I'm not sorry for enjoying Carroll's artwork, but given that this is (apparently) considered a seminal book on the topic of teen rape, it doesn't go into nearly enough depth about what happens after a victim finds the strength to share what happened to them.

Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare by Jason Fry

I grabbed this from work, though it soon became apparent that it was published right on the cusp of the Disney takeover, and therefore contained "facts" not only from the prequels and original trilogy, but comics and paperbacks that are now considered non-canonical. And as someone who has only recently started exploring the Star Wars universe, it was incredibly weird to read about Han and Leia's three children.

As you might have guessed from the title, it focuses on warfare in the franchise, with text categorized in one of three ways: summaries of various military battles and political conflicts, descriptions and images of weapons, and profiles of important characters – usually in the form of interviews or testimonies.

I'll admit I skim-read several parts, though I did appreciate the explanation of how hyperspace actually works, which is something I'd never given much thought to before.

The Mirror Crack'd (1980)

Have you ever seen a movie that just ... exists? It neither adds nor subtracts to the quality of life; it's not overtly bad and yet almost entirely forgettable, and it leaves you feeling slightly bemused that it was ever made at all.

I mean, I can understand Hollywood wanting to tackle Christie mysteries such as Death on the Nile or Murder on the Orient Express – they have exotic locations and lavish casts and scandalous plots, but The Mirror Crack'd? It's set in a small English village and its detective is unassuming Miss Marple. Sure, some of the suspects are glamourous past-their-prime Hollywood actresses, but it's definitely a cosy mystery and is best described as "low-key."

Perhaps it's famous due to the fact the solution to the murder was based on the tragic life of American actress Gene Tierney (no spoilers, but had she been writing today there's a chance Christie would have been criticised for her wholesale "appropriation" of another woman's trauma) but the end result is an entirely inoffensive, totally unremarkable murder-mystery.

Always nice to see Angela Lansbury though.

Howards End (1992)

Having watched the four-part miniseries starring Hayley Atwood last month, it seemed like fate when the Emma Thompson/Helen Bonham Carter version popped up on the DVD shelf of the library. The most interesting thing I gleaned while watching it was (despite never having read Forster's novel) how faithful each one was to the text. Just by comparing the two of them it's clear that they capture every story beat of the original novel, and I was astonished at just how much the movie managed to encompass despite a significantly more limited run-time.

In fact, there's really not much difference between film and miniseries. The latter obviously does get to breathe a bit more, but in terms of the characterization and themes, it's all there in the film, albeit in truncated form. But the most interesting point of comparison was the difference between Hayley Atwell and Emma Thompson as Margaret Schlegel.

As I said in my comments on the miniseries, there was a lack of vulnerability in Atwell's performance that made her a little too unflappable (not that that's a bad thing, but her confidence didn't leave any room for the possibility that she was ever wrong in her judgment). Thompson (as you might have expected) brings more nuance to the way Margaret handles the obstacles in her life, and... well, she was clearly doing something right as she got an Academy Award out of it.

Long Way North (2015)

This one caught me by surprise. Another spur-of-the-moment grab from the library, I had the vague inkling I'd seen this movie on some recommendation lists. It's a French/Danish animated film set in 19th century St Petersburg, about a young Russian girl called Sasha whose grandfather is a famous explorer. But after he goes missing and Sasha embarrasses her family at a social gathering, she runs away from home to go in search of him – all the way to the North Pole.

Yeah, it sounds like pretty standard "spirited misfit finds herself on an adventure" type fare, though there are several elements that set it apart from the rest: a) the minimalist animation, which brings to life the stark beauty of the polar ice caps, b) the low-key feminism, in which Sasha certainly goes through the usual "I don't fit in" beats, but remains an introverted and well-mannered girl throughout her adventures, and at times has to put it legitimately gruelling hard-work in order to earn her keep, c) the lack of any overt romantic entanglements – there are certainly hints of it, but they're oblique and contradictory, which is actually better than nothing at all. After all, you can't have a girl on board a ship full of males and not have any of them notice.  

Try it out for something familiar in premise but incredibly unique in every other respect.

I Am Dragon (2015)

As with most things, it was Tumblr that drew my attention to this movie thanks to some beautifully evocative GIF sets. So I downloaded it, only to find the torrent was in Russian and without subtitles. So I tracked it down on-line, only for a subtitled version to time-out after fifteen minutes and throw up a paywall. But then I finally discovered that the library had a copy when my colleague ordered it for himself. So I got there in the end.

The whole thing tapped into my current interest with what I'm calling "the Beauty and the Beast narrative" – you know, when there's a tortured, broody, grumpy man/monster of some description, and a beautiful, spirited, kind-hearted girl who leads him to love and redemption.

It's a storytelling device that's massively popular, and as such is frequently grafted onto stories that aren't actually using it (Guy/Marian, Zuko/Katara, the Star Wars ship that shall not be named) or which are deliberately trying to subvert it. It can also tip pretty heavily into wish-fulfilment/power fantasy territory since the narrative arc can often be whittled down to the following message: "ladies –don't worry about agency or proactivity; you don't have to do a damn thing except be loveable enough for a man to change his very nature to suit you; a man who is dangerous and violent and wealthy but would never hurt you because YOU'RE SPECIAL!"

It's an understandably appealing message, but it doesn't make for particularly compelling heroines or story-arcs (*cough*Twilight*cough*Fifty Shades*cough*).

And yet I'm not adverse to this story when it's done well – and it's done well when the story is willing to explore/interrogate the complex power dynamics that exist between the hero and heroine, and when it focuses not only on the transformative power of love, but personal growth, empathy, and the importance of second chances. It's done badly when a woman takes on the responsibility of making some asshole her pet project, and becomes his emotional babysitter who must withstand verbal, physical and psychological abuse because she "knows there's good in him!"

Heck, I could write a dissertation on all this, and one day I might, but for now let's say that I Am Dragon does pretty well with the trope.

The young and rather bratty Princess Miraslava is about to be married to Prince Igor, a man she's never met, but whose grandfather was a famed dragon-slayer. As such, her wedding ceremony has been designed to evoke the sacrificial rite that was once used to offer up young maidens to the dragon – which includes the ancient song that beseeches the dragon to come and take his bride.  

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the long-since-considered-dead dragon hears the song and duly obliges, and Mira is swept away to a desolate island. Having been dropped into a crevasse, she meets a fellow prisoner who is a) very handsome, b) forgotten his name and c) perpetually shirtless. She calls him Arman, and thankfully the film doesn't waste too much time before revealing the blatantly obvious: he IS the dragon.

The two begin to spend time together, and it's at this point things get a little hokey. Falling In Love Montages should never be set to upbeat folksy guitar music, especially not in dark fantasy movies. And yes, there is frolicking involved.

But in another nice twist, Mira takes the opportunity to find the materials she needs to escape the island while "domesticating" Arman (this is a princess with agency and the smarts to go with it). But then he tells her another bit of dragon lore: she can only be rescued from the island if she wants to be – without making that choice in her heart, Prince Igor will float forever in the mists.

And here's another thing: in these types of stories, monsters do in fact have to be monsters, or else where's the sense of danger, or the satisfaction that comes with a genuine transformation arc? (See Disney's Beast, who was changed from the genteel and charming creature of Perrault's fairy tale into a creature who was initially truly frightening). In this case, the dragon could easily kill Mira, and she admits that she's afraid of it. At the same time, the script is careful to point out that when Arman becomes the dragon, he's no longer in control, and in order to contain his (mindless) dragon form he deliberately wedges himself into a narrow crevasse before the transformation.

It's a great way of maintaining suspense and lending genuine stakes to Mira's decision to love Arman, while still ensuring that it's not Arman himself that poses a threat to her.

Oh, and another interesting development: in stories such as these, the man will almost always be incredibly rich – because no woman is going to waste her time trying to rehabilitate a grumpy shithead if she's not eventually going to be rewarded with the perks that come with wealth and power. Yet in this case, it's Igor that symbolises a cushy lifestyle, while Mira's time spent with Arman is one of absolute poverty. So it really does feel like a meeting of hearts and minds instead of investing in a guy who'll be able to lavish her with gifts.

So we have a heroine who needs to grow and mature just as much as her love interest does, and who is crafty enough to find ways to rescue herself when it becomes apparent that no one else will. There's a dark Byronic hero whose destructive tendencies are something he consciously tries to supress, and which (due to the fantasy rules of the setting) are completely divorced from his true personality. And though the romance is a little saccharine at times (and naturally Prince Igor turns out to be a boorish prig) there's enough heartfelt sincerity from the actors to carry it off.

The world-building (or the narrative backbone) is beautifully sound: everything fits together, different points-of-view are reconciled, and there are some twists that aren't so much shocking as they are enmeshed in the fabric of the story. For instance, we hear the story of the dragon from the perspective of the villagers in the opening sequence, only for Arman to fill in some of the blanks from his point-of-view later on in the story – not to mention extra details provided by Mira's sister and Igor's right-hand-man.

In short, Beauty and the Beast stories are not intrinsically bad, but are often done so badly anyway that they cast a pall over the versions that do it right. This is one of the right ones.

Thundercats (2011)

I honestly couldn't tell you what drew me to this, as I never saw the eighties cartoon growing up, and I watched this before the announcement that a new reboot was coming out (one that the usual suspects are flipping out over since Cheetara now has short hair). Knowing next to nothing of the original show, I felt that I was missing out on some of the basic world-building that would have been introduced in the eighties, and which the writers here seem to take for granted that their audience already knows.

Set on another planet (I'm pretty sure) sometime in the future (I guess) a species known as Thundercats are overthrown by a bunch of lizard-men that they've been warring with for centuries (I think). Honestly, it's all pretty confusing.

It's easy to compare this with Avatar: The Last Airbender, as they both have the same style of animation and archetypal characters, though you only have to watch the first episode of each to get perfect examples of how to do and not do exposition. In Avatar, it's effortless – imparting great swathes of necessary information about the world, its inhabitants and their particular skills without ever feeling overly complicated or uninteresting.

In Thundercats, it's baffling. I mean, there's one character called Tygra who is clearly older than the heir to the throne (yet somehow not first in line?), and who looks nothing like the guy they both call father. Yet it's not until the halfway mark of the season as a whole that we get an episode revealing he was adopted by the king and queen – which is pretty pertinent information in getting a fix on these characters and their relationship with each other.

Things like flashbacks and world-building and the relationship between magic/technology aren't dealt with in any way that could be called remotely elegant, and though it was easy to get caught up in the beautiful visuals, there was definitely a lot to be desired when it came to bringing these characters and their stories to life. Maybe it would have been clearer if I'd watched the original eighties cartoon...

Strike: Career of Evil (2018)

I would have commented on this months ago, back when I read all three of the Cormoran Strike novels, were it not for the fact I couldn't find the second half of this adaptation anywhere. Still I got there in the end. As it happens, this was my least favourite of all the mysteries, especially since it was more of a suspense/thriller than a fair-play mystery, in which detective Strike and assistant Robin try to hunt down a serial killer that's sent a woman's leg to their office.

That said, all three of the books have a rather nasty undercurrent, one that gets more pronounced with each episode. This one deals with subjects such as spousal/child abuse (specifically of a sexual nature) and Robin Ellacott is constantly getting physically attacked by deranged men (and yes, there's rape in her backstory).

None of this is a deal-breaker, but neither is it particularly enjoyable to watch as a "snuggle up with a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate" type of rainy day show.

Picnic at Hanging Rock (2018)

Okay, I'll admit it – Joan Lindsay's Picnic at Hanging Rock is one of my favourite books, so I was always going to approach this miniseries with a critical eye. But I was also really excited about it. However much Peter Weir's 1975 film is considered a cult classic, its limited run-time meant a few important subplots had to be edited out.

But have you ever watched an adaption that feels like it was written by someone with virtually no understanding of what the source material is actually about? Such is the case here.  

The plot mechanisms are all in place: in Victoria, Australia, 1900, the students of Appleyard College are preparing for a picnic at local landmark Hanging Rock – a rare chance for the young ladies to slough off some of society's rules and restrictions for the day. But on reaching the rock, four of the girls and one teacher go for a walk. Only one returns, screaming hysterically and unable to tell anyone what she saw or where her companions are.

The event is a rock thrown into a still pond, and the ripple effect touches everyone in the vicinity, from the remaining students, teachers and servants at Appleyard College (especially headmistress Hester Appleyard), to the search party and police force, to the family that was present when the girls disappeared. 

Although we never learn what happened to the missing girls and their teacher, it's still a rich and satisfying read, enhanced rather than undermined by the unsolved mystery at its centre.

This miniseries... oh let me count the ways. It takes the book's subtext of "Victorian propriety is no match for the untamed Australian wilderness" and bludgeons you over the head with it. Not content with the understated thrill of girls removing their gloves (gasp!) and then their stockings (scandal!), this has Miranda, Marion and Irma take off their corsets and cast them over the side of the rock. In slow-motion.

It takes the stifling restrictiveness of Appleyard College and turns it into a veritable horror-house, where girls are all but tortured with back-boards and bloody canings and sadistic teachers. Mrs Appleyard goes from an old battle-axe whose mind is slowly unravelled by an event she can't control or even fathom, to young-and-sexy Natalie Dormer with an entirely-fabricated backstory in which she's on the run from a criminal past and trying to reinvent herself as someone respectable.

Like the same technique used in the recent Ordeal by Innocence, in which Arthur Calgary goes from a normal young man to a scientist who had a mental breakdown brought on by guilt over his part in the creation of the atomic bomb, Mrs Appleyard's new backstory adds absolutely nothing to the plot.

In fact, Ordeal by Innocent is a perfect comparison to this take on Picnic at Hanging Rock, as both suffer from the same affliction: the belief that adding grim and sordid material that has no basis in the original material will somehow make their adaptation more profound instead of just... ya know, grim and sordid.

So now we have a premarital sex scene between Dianne de Poitiers and her fiancé, Miranda getting sexually assaulted by a stable-hand, Dora Lumley as a deranged religious fanatic, Mike Fitzhubert being gay for Albert (despite his infatuation with Miranda being a fairly massive plot-point), Irma admitting that she was molested by her stepfather, and of course all sorts of sexual "experimentation" between the girls, especially Marion and Miss McCraw (who we learn was sent to the school in disgrace after being outed as a lesbian by her family).

Even Minnie's pregnancy and Edith's period pains (both hinted at in the book, but kept shrouded under that all-pervading veil of decorum and secrecy) are flaunted here. Subtlety? What dat?

It never tackles the topic of abortion at any point, for which I suppose we should be grateful, but the ludicrous change in tone is best summed up in Dora Lumley's death scene: in the book her death is kept at arm's length and so reads like the heavy stroke of inescapable fate. Here we get to watch her and her misogynistic brother burn to death as they fight over Miss McCraw's dildo. It's fucking ridiculous.

Then there's the treatment of the mystery itself. Lindsay is the master of laying down clues, but not providing context or logical explanations for them – it's not just a case of "show don't tell", but of the author as a poker-player who keeps all exposition very close to her chest.

For we don't actually see any of these clues, but hear about them – like Edith's description of a strange red miasma, or everyone's uncertain grasp of time in the picnic area. It all vaguely hints at something supernatural while leaving just enough doubt that there's still the possibility of a rational explanation.

But here they actually depict some of these events, in real time – even adding scenes of their own, such as Irma looking down on the search party in what can only be a disruption of the space/time continuum. Heck, if you're gonna go that far in explaining things, then you might as well sacrifice the mystery and show the girls getting abducted by aliens or stepping into a portal or whatever else your imagination desires.

The whole point of this mystery is that it's inexplicable. What clues we're given are told second-hand and don’t fit together in any logical way. The crux of the tale isn't the disappearance, but the effect it has on the rational world and its inhabitants. How do you not get that??

TL;DR: this has all the finesse and subtlety of a sledgehammer. All the delicate interwoven relationships, the cause-and-effect fallout across the community, the blunt inscrutability of the Rock, the idea that some things are completely beyond our ken – this miniseries just doesn't get it.

Innocent (2018)

The latest of Angel Coulby's projects is probably her best since leaving Merlin – here as a police investigator tasked with looking into a cold case that may or may not have been totally mishandled by her romantic partner. Plenty of screen-time, plenty of agency, plenty of juicy scenes... I'm so glad she's getting these roles.

Granted it's not really her story, but that of David Collins, a man who insists he was wrongly imprisoned for the murder of his wife and recently released on a technicality. Having spent seven years behind bars, he's now on a mission to clear his name and reclaim his children, both of whom have been raised by his sister-in-law and her husband.  Lee Ingleby was a good casting choice, as over the years he's played both despicable monsters and wide-eyed innocents – so in this case, he really keeps you guessing as to whether or not he's guilty.

It's not exactly a mind-blowing crime drama, but it's suspenseful and intriguing and draws you into its premise. Definitely recommended, and it would do well as something you could watch on a long trip.

Star Wars Rebels: Season 4 (2018)

Maybe it's just me, but I think the best stories leave us emotionally shattered – like our feelings have just run a marathon. Of course, there's more to it than this: there also has to be meaningful conflict, character development, imaginative world-building, consistency and continuity... I could go on. But for me, all my favourite stories leave me in a state of blissful melancholia.

This final season of Star Wars Rebels made me wish I had been watching the series from the beginning, as it aired, as surely I would have felt that ache even more keenly had I been following these characters since 2014 instead of just the last four months. And I'll be blunt: it's had more impact on me than any of the new Star Wars movies thus far (with the possible exception of the last ten minutes of Rogue One).

It combines character, plot, world-building and what are specifically Star Wars themes in a way that feels right; neither deconstructive nor repetitive, but to make a story that is satisfying in itself while still keeping doors wide open for more tales to come. But before I get to the good stuff, I did have a couple of issues:

a) Kallus. I suppose it's hypocritical of me to have zero interest in the question of whether or not Kylo Ren can be redeemed, while being deeply interested in the defection of Kallus from the Empire to the Rebellion, but here we are. And I was incredibly annoyed that he gets so little coverage.

After the third season finale, in which Kanan saves Kallus's life, I was looking forward to further interactions between the two men – but it never happens. Neither do we see anything of his potentially difficult integration into the Rebellion, or of him becoming a fully-fledged crew member of the Ghost. It's one heck of a missed opportunity.

(He's shown in the epilogue accompanying Zeb to visit the surviving members of the species he helped exterminate, who are naturally a-ok with bringing the man who nearly wiped them out into the fold. C'mon, redemption has to be harder than this!)

b) Hera/Kanan. Okay, I'll say it: Hera and Kanan are this franchise's best couple. This lovely post points out all the reasons why, but the TL;DR explanation is that they're both emotionally mature adults who not only love each other (that's the easy part) but trust, respect and communicate with each other (that's much harder). Everyone enjoys watching Han and Leia bicker in order to hide their true feelings, but Kanan and Hera are the ultimate #RelationshipGoals.

And yes, the show was arguably a little coy about whether or not they were "official", but it seemed clear to those paying attention (and who don't need anything explicit to see what way the wind is blowing) that they were in a stable long-term relationship. Heck, the epilogue reveals Hera eventually gave birth to her and Kanan's son, confirming they had been sleeping together this entire time – that fact doesn't come as a surprise to anyone who could read between the lines of their interactions.

Which makes their final moments together a little jarring: having been rescued from captivity and injected with a truth serum, Hera confesses that she loves Kanan, to which he responds with a self-deprecating: "must be the truth serum talking." Taken out of context, it works. What could be more tragically horrible/beautiful than woman finally telling a man she loves him, seconds before losing him forever, and said man not even being sure she's speaking of her own volition?

And yet it doesn't jive with what we've been led to safely assume about their relationship (and which is confirmed by the surprise pregnancy). Is this really the first time Hera has told Kanan she loves him? To the point where he dismisses it as the work of the truth serum? There's been nothing "casual" in their relationship as depicted, from referring to themselves as the surrogate parents of the teens to the absolute trust they have in each other on every conceivable level. So what gives?

The scene works in isolation, but introduces an extremely odd and out-of-nowhere perspective on their dynamic that doesn't fit with what we've been led to believe about them.

c) Kanan's death. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful scene. I was spoiled for it long before watching a single second of this show and still cried buckets. But Dave Filoni is on record for saying they killed off Kanan early so they could explore the full impact of his death – and they didn't.

Yes, an episode is dedicated to the grief they feel – but losing someone to death isn't quite the same thing as watching them get immolated right in front of you, and any indication that Hera or Ezra might be traumatized by this isn't dealt with at all. Instead they rally admirably, and though there's something to be said for letting go and moving on (especially in wartime) it still felt too quick and easy for me.

Perhaps a time-skip of several months would have helped, returning to the action with the team only just rousing themselves out of grief-stricken inertia.

The show also misses an opportunity to explore what Kanan's loss meant to the larger Rebellion. They lost a Jedi. He was an incredible asset! The reaction to hearing of his demise should have been: "if they killed a Jedi, the rest of us have no chance." Yet seeing the ripple effect this could have had on strategy, morale and belief in an eventual victory is ignored.

Heck, we don't even get a reaction from Kallus (see point a).

Those are my three complaints, and as you can see they're relatively minor. There is so much good stuff in here, and it works best if you view the whole thing as a part of the wider Star Wars story.

For instance, I was fascinated by the show's relationship with Rogue One, as well as the story it had crafted for itself on the planet of Lothal. It feels strange in a way, that after so much build-up to Rogue One (discovering khyber crystals on an Imperial ship, the return of Forrest Whittaker as Saw Gerrera, the name-dropping of Krennic and "Stardust" – not to mention Rogue One returning the favour by featuring quick cameos of Chopper, Hera and the Ghost) the story abruptly switches gears and heads back to Lothal. It's definitely the right storytelling decision, as this is the place where the Ghost crew first came together – but it still feels odd.

Of course, it also demonstrates the constraints of the story. I've said before that Star Wars television shows are the breakfasts of the franchise, while Star Wars movies are the main courses. They establish the canon, and everything else must be made to fit into the world-building and time-lines they set out. Material from the films can be incorporated into the shows, but not the other way around (save in negligible cameos that will baffle the casual viewer – how many people were left utterly confused by Darth Maul popping up in Solo?)  

It's a difficult relationship to negotiate, especially when the shows go "too big" (like say, introducing time travel) or when characters' fates are predetermined based on what we know happens in the films. Kanan was always on borrowed time, but Filoni had to jump through plenty of hoops to get Ahsoka and Ezra past "the Jedi are no more" stipulation of A New Hope. (Even then, it does lessen the importance of Luke when we consider the sheer amount of Jedi that were running around during his lifetime – but I digress).

What this show does particularly well is embrace the mysticism of the Force and the natural landscape of Lothal. One of my favourite Star Wars themes is of the Empire consistently ignoring and underestimating the world around them (it's why I enjoy the Ewoks so much, even if no one else does), and that idea is at work here when the Rebels call on the assistance of Lothal cats, wolves and bats to overcome their oppressors.

More than that, it draws upon elements of the Force that connect to things such as hyperspace, the Mortis gods, Force-visions, and even the space/time continuum. There are a range of ambiguous situations that take place in which you're not entirely sure what's happening (what was the deal with Kanan and that wolf?) but which feel deep and meaningful – just outside our ability to fully understand.

One scene in particular damn near stopped my heart: the episode in which Ezra finds himself in a "world between worlds" which echo with the voices of past and present – and then future. I tell you, when I heard Jyn's voice and then Rey's, I got chills. It transcended from a straightforward story into something mythic.

(What really killed me was that the line chosen for Rey wasn't about destiny or the Force, but the words she whispered to Finn: "we'll see each other again; I believe that.")

And of course, Ahsoka comes back in the most amazing, insane, awesome way possible. Man I love her, and the little hints regarding the white bird and her disappearance into the darkness at the end of season two are brought full-circle. 

Though I have to say, there's another problem when it comes to Ahsoka; specifically her relationship with Anakin/Vader. It's just too good.  It's like what I said before about how the films are treated as the "canon-makers" while – for the most part – the shows have to fit themselves around them. Ahsoka will probably never appear in a live-action movie, but those who've watched all The Clone Wars have seen her spent more on-screen time with Anakin than with with Obi-Wan, Padma and certainly Luke.

We saw them grow close, save each other's lives, defend and protect each other, and develop a close master/apprentice, father/daughter, brother/sister bond. As such, Ahsoka's confrontation with Vader in Star Wars Rebels is heart-stopping in a way his battles with other characters simply aren't.

At this point, she could be fairly described as the most important Star Wars character to never actually appear in a Star Wars movie – so of course, the fact that she's never seen or mentioned in said movies feels narratively wrong. To put it another way, if you were a total Star Wars virgin with no preconceptions whatsoever, and you watched the entire saga from beginning to end in chronological order, then the lack of Ahsoka's presence – such an incredibly important character in Anakin Skywalker's life – in key scenes throughout the series would feel like a massive storytelling failure.  

But of course, maybe you could argue that it's turned into a narrative strength by its placement in the bigger picture. This is a franchise that currently spans over five decades, with no sign of slowly down any time soon. That scope is one of the secrets to its longevity, as you can really feel that this story doesn't belong to any one character – it's a constant passing of the torch from one protagonist to the next, in which every character adds something to the whole: from Qui-Gonn to Obi-Wan to Anakin and Ahsoka, to Ezra and the crew of the Ghost who get so close to the secret of the Death Star, only to pass the mission onto Jyn, Cassian and the rest of Rogue One, who all die for the sake of Luke, Leia and Han's victory, and then – a generation later – to Finn, Rey and Poe.

There's no singular protagonist here, and the sprawling tapestry can be seen best when any given character is plugged into the Force: that moment when Ezra moves through the World Between Worlds, hearing the voices of Yoda and Leia, Jyn and Rey, Obi-Wan and Kanan. Like I said, it's a spine-tingling moment. 

Miscellaneous Observations:

I'm currently reading a YA book that focuses on Ahsoka, and it's strange to realize that she a) didn't know Obi-Wan/Anakin were alive, or that b) Anakin/Padme had children together. Especially when characters like Bail Organa are in the know, despite being less personally close to all the participants of this little drama than Ahsoka. But then, that goes back to what I was talking about before – because she's a show character, she must remain on the outskirts.

But it made me wish so much that there had been more exploration of her investigation into the dark lord of the Sith that appeared right after Anakin's "death", and her growing horror in realizing that they're one and the same.

I have to say I was never hugely interested in Ezra as a protagonist (and the voice actor had a distinctive cadence that got repetitive after a while) but his final words to the crew: "the Force will be with you, always" got me right in the feels. I mean, it's practically a religious saying now – you can't help but feel the reverence in it.

Though I never shipped them, the relationship between Ezra/Sabine is beautifully done here. They're not siblings or a couple or even friends really – they're comrades-in-arms, which is a different dynamic entirely, which is built on trust by necessity. There's a moment when Thrawn demands Ezra's surrender, and as the argument of what to do next goes on around them, Sabine and Ezra silently communicate with a Held Gaze before Sabine creates a distraction so he can escape. It's lovely, and made me more interested in their dynamic than anything previously. Perhaps we'll get to see their reunion someday...

Nothing made me happier than seeing Ahsoka one last time, and realizing she survived. She survived.

So next up is Star Wars: Resistance this October. I've little doubt that we'll see plenty of these characters pop up there in some capacity, and I'm going to be in on the ground floor. I haven't done individual recaps of a show since American Gods, and I've missed it!

Versailles: Season 3 (2018)

Well – that's that. I was about six episodes in before realizing that this was the show's final season, and it was a rather unexpected conclusion all things considered: not because anything shocking happened – but because it didn't.

Events just sort of meander along, with the occasional character dying or being Put On a Bus, and the arcs of the main characters just... trailing to an end. It's amazing how low-key it all is.

The first half of the season is mostly taken up with the Man in the Iron Mask, along with Louis's political conflict with the Catholic Church and William of Orange. Both gradually peter out before attention turns to the long-simmering subplot of a commoners' revolt against the monarchy, which culminates in a group of them attacking a public appearance and getting killed without achieving anything.

I suppose the writers knew the French Revolution was on the horizon and wanted to tip their hat to it, but we spend an awful lot of time with these people just for them to die so pointlessly.

As it is, the show feels a bit unfinished. Despite closing off most of its plot-threads, a couple of characters come to inconclusive fates (poor Marchal – he never got a break) and characterization remains contradictory. Perhaps it's a testament to human nature itself, but I never could decide whether the show wanted us to admire or disdain Louis.

That's the problem with period dramas: history itself has no beginning or end, and therefore can't give us narratively satisfying arcs. Things just... happen.