“Love, it seems, has triumphed over virtue.”
– Renault, Casablanca
This year I completed two incredibly good television shows: the second (and final) season of Andor (2022 – 2025) and all four seasons of Black Sails (2014 – 2017). You don’t need me to tell you that one garnered considerably more online discussion than the other, but on recommending Black Sails to a work colleague recently, I found myself saying: “it’s just like Andor!”
It wasn’t until I got home that I thought back to my comment and wondered why exactly I had made that comparison. At first glance, the shows have very little in common: one is a sci-fi espionage thriller set in a galaxy far, far away; the other a historical epic set during a specific period in of own history (the Bahamas, 1715) with many characters based on real-life people. One comprises a small part of a sprawling, multi-million-dollar Disney franchise, while the other is a high-budget but relatively little-watched Starz show that ran for a respectable four years.
Yet they both boasted high production values, talented casts, and hefty themes concerning warfare, oppression, conviction, the moral and emotional cost of resistance, and the question of how far an individual can pursue a righteous cause before it’s deemed (either by themselves, the society around them, or the audience itself) that they’ve gone too far.
Both have ensemble casts full of morally complex main characters, which have set themselves for or against a powerful Empire, a struggle in which they’re called upon to make difficult moral decisions, are forced into conflict with their allies almost as much as their enemies, and face the impossible choice between protecting those they love, or sacrificing everything to the furtherment of a cause they fervently believe in.
More specifically, both narratives revolve around the idea of revolution – why people fight for it, and what price it exacts from those who engage in it. Just as Cassian Andor and the rebels of Star Wars are mired in espionage against the Galactic Empire, so too are the pirates of Black Sails gradually preparing for war against the British Empire.
I’ve seen each show described as a workplace drama, which is a fair assessment of each one if you take into account the interest both stories have in the concept of “the work” or “the cause”: from how a character can find themselves working with those they may dislike or distrust to achieve their goals, to how their friends, morals and relationships will inevitability be compromised because the work/cause is paramount.
Coincidentally, the shows are also prequels to pre-existing material: Andor to Rogue One (which is itself a prequel to the original Star Wars trilogy) and Black Sails to Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
Most importantly, both are extremely well-written. For this reason, I’m in the mood to delve further into the details of each show, how it is they’re in such simpatico with each other, and why each one is almost universally regarded as that most elusive of subjectivities: good. Sometimes, it’s just nice to gush about things you enjoy, and in doing so, I can hopefully provide you with a litany of reasons as to why you should watch each one.
SPOILERS FOR ANDOR AND BLACK SAILS
Conflict:
The most obvious similarity between the two stories is what makes up the crux of each plot: resistance against a powerful, oppressive Empire, whether it be the real-life British Empire at the height of its power, or the Nazi-coded Galactic Empire of a faraway galaxy. Of course, there are plenty of other stories out there that contain a similar conflict (just this month I finished the first season of W.I.T.C.H., in which a band of plucky freedom fighters use trans-dimensional portals to fight an oppressive regime in another world), but what sets Andor and Black Sails apart is that each one is profoundly interested in exploring what an oppressive regime actually is. Neither portrays it as some shadowy government lurking amorphously in the background, but instead gets into the nuts and bolts of how they operate, the tactics they use, why people allow them to get away with it, and how they are perceived from within and outside their internal power structures.
The British Empire in Black Sails, for example, is often spoken of as synonymous with “the world” or at least with “civilization.” The war that’s brewing between England and the pirates of Nassau is referred to by characters as an “unwinnable war against the world,” for those benefiting from its ubiquitousness are not only massively powerful, but prepared to fight and die to protect it. It’s might and breadth and longevity – as embodied by its trade, weapons, colonies, slaves, technology – make it appear insurmountable.
Yet now and then the show demonstrates England is not without its own beauty or value. Within the British Empire there are families and friends and ordinary people getting on with their day-to-day lives; it is a world most viewers would recognize as their own, even though it is built upon the wealth derived from slave ships and public executions and the mass exploitation of resources.
The acceptance of this “civilization,” as the status quo of the world is a mentality that runs deep. Its horrors have been accepted as “just the way things are,” even as it firmly excludes and marginalizes most of our main cast on account of their sex, race, class, and/or sexual orientation. The idea of toppling this empire, no matter how evil it may be, stops many of the characters in their tracks, not just because of how vast and powerful it is, but because of how deeply engrained their concept of the imperial machine as the world entire is.
It’s a conception they cannot be rid of, and so from beginning to end of this drama there are those opposed to a war against the empire, not because they’re a part of it, or because they’re indifferent to the cruelty it inflicts, or because they can work it to their own ends, but because they recognize just how monumental the undertaking of overthrowing this system really is, and the colossal number of casualties it would require.
From minor characters (such as Morley, who is killed because he rightfully suspects Flint has a secret agenda and will thoughtlessly endanger anyone who gets in the way of it, to Julius, an escaped slave who is highly suspicious of Flint’s motivations and warned by other newly-freed slaves that the fight before them is too much, too soon) to the show’s protagonist (Silver, who falls in love with Madi only realize that Flint’s mission puts her directly in the line of fire), this show is filled with characters who get cold feet once they’re faced with the reality of what revolution actually involves.
This, of course, is one of the ways in which oppressive systems manage to hold onto power – nobody believes they can ever truly be destroyed.
The same cannot be said of the Galactic Empire, which is not just a colonizing force, but a fascist regime. If the empire in Black Sails is not overthrown, the status quo will be upheld and life will go on. Granted, many lives will be worse off than others, but onwards it will go. Change will have to come slowly and (hypothetically) without mass bloodshed.
But if the empire in Andor is not defeated, then evil incarnate will triumph. Life under this regime is untenable, and so its destruction is a much more pressing matter to those committed to its overthrow, and not one that can be as easily walked away from (though this is still an option).
It's therefore notable that that although opposition to British rule begins in the first episode of Black Sails, the resistance in Andor has already been going on for some time (and in fact, has already been dramatized in earlier stories, such as the animated Star Wars Rebels). Despite seemingly insurmountable odds, this is not a fight they can afford to lose considering the Galactic Empire is overseen by a figure of true, irredeemable evil: Emperor Palpatine.
Yet there’s a reason this character never physically appeared in Andor: the writers wanted to avoid any space wizardry and instead focus on what Hannah Arendt coined “the banality of evil.” That is, the human face of the Empire. Like the British navy, shady merchants and slave traders in Black Sails, the Imperials of Andor are portrayed as normal people just doing their jobs – some cynically and some sincerely. Some are pencil pushers simply clocking in their hours, others like Dedra have been raised in Imperial facilities and can fathom no other way to exist. Others like Cyril have a commitment to law and order (not to mention their own self-importance), honestly believing this is what the Empire represents – which leads to an existential meltdown when it becomes apparent to him that he’s been made complicit in genocide.
But humanizing those that work for the Empire, whether they’re vying for power or just unquestioningly doing their job, only makes them more horrifying. A rapist taking advantage of vulnerable women, a bootlicker looking to advance his own career – these are everyday people in the service of everyday evil. More pressing than in Black Sails is the necessity that it all has to be torn down.
So while the cast of Black Sails are fretting over whether or not they should commit themselves to a fight (and are usually motivated by deeply personal reasons when they do), Andor is looking at the bigger picture: the existential horror of what life under a fascist regime is actually like. Even though Black Sails delves more into the specific evils of slavery, there are plenty of examples of Imperial exploitation and colonization throughout Andor’s two seasons: the slow and steady build-up to the Gorman massacre, the way the culture of the Aldani highlanders is being deliberately eroded away, and the use of prisoners as unpaid labour to (unknowingly) build the Death Star.
But Nemik’s famous monologue about the power structure and tactics of the Galactic Empire just as much describes the British Empire in Black Sails: “The Imperial need for control is so desperate because it is so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks, it leaks. Authority is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear.” This sentiment is not a million miles away from Flint’s own words on the subject: “If no one remembers a time before there was an England, then no one can imagine a time after it. The empire survives in part because we believe its survival to be inevitable. But it isn’t. And they know that. That’s why they’re so terrified of [what we’re doing].”
They’re lofty, inspiration words, but each show also explores the turmoil and infighting of various resistance factions, whether it’s the ever-changing allegiances between the pirates (at one point Eleanor betrays Vane to uphold her agreement with Flint, only for Flint and Vane to team up a few episodes later, aligning themselves against Eleanor’s best interests), or the depiction of squabbling rebels on Yavin, where divided cells are stymied by their inability to get their shit together long enough to concentrate on more important matters – like say, the planet’s potentially lethal wildlife.
Just as serious as the threat of outside forces is internal strife and poor communication within – another great example is the mess that unfolds on Nassau, which I added years ago to the We Are Struggling Together page on TV Tropes:
To regain control of the island, the pirates decide to free all the slaves living in the interior. But in a bid to pre-empt the slaves defecting to the pirates, the estate managers have already separated the slave families and decreed that if any one estate revolts, family members will be punished elsewhere. This leads to a disagreement between Flint and Billy: whether to retreat from a single estate so as to keep the trust of their would-be allies, or to forcibly free and enlist them despite the reprisals that would be visited upon their families. A fight breaks out, and by the time everything is under control, the slaves have formed their own uprising, one that doesn't want anything to do with Nassau's legal residents or the pirates.
Half the time, our “heroes” are their own worse enemies, but hey – that’s pretty true to life, and I love that each show leans heavily into how difficult it can be just to do stuff.
Due to the attention given to all these complications, the plot of each show is immensely rich and deep and rewarding, full of twists and turns and unexpected revelations that still feel natural and real. Sometimes you can see where things are going and get the endorphin buzz when it turns out you were right, other times you’re caught entirely by surprise. More than anything, each episode ends with you dying to know what happens next – and when was the last time you can honestly say a television show did that?
World Building:
World building is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, we love glimpses into strange locales and unfamiliar customs. On the other, we’re here to enjoy a story, not get bogged down in irrelevant details. Black Sails and Andor manage to thread this needle, and in the latter case, it’s worth repeating what so many others have already said: that the Star Wars setting of Andor is largely window dressing; a fun but non-essential backdrop to the story that’s being told. With no massive changes, this narrative could have been transferred to (for example) a World War II setting, and it would have made only superficial differences to the core themes, plot developments and characters of the show. For which most of us were extremely grateful, its emphasis was always on a grounded portrayal of oppression and espionage, not the familiar iconography of the franchise: Jedi, lightsabres, the Force and so on (for which most of us were extremely grateful).
But that doesn’t mean people can’t get creative with the established milieu. An example that springs to mind is the Imperial torture device that forces its victims to hear the death knells of an alien race which has an adverse effect on their neural pathways. We never hear it ourselves, only see Bix’s horrified reaction to it. There’s also the ongoing, drawn-out rituals of a Chandrilan wedding or the funeral rites of Ferrix – nothing that we fully understand the significance of, but which are portrayed with such weight and elegance that we at least grasp its important to those participating.
And even though this show avoided fanservice and distracting Easter eggs, it was not unaware of its placement in the wider franchise, whether it was remaining consistent with the events of Star Wars Rebels when it came to having the (offscreen) crew of the Ghost transport Mon Mothma to Yavin, or bringing back bit players from Rogue One to reprise their roles at the end of season two, such as Duncan Pow, Alistair Petrie, Sharon Duncan-Brewster, Jonathan Aris and Stephen Stanton as the voice of Admiral Raddus. It connects the show to the broader landscape of Star Wars without ever feeling beholden to it.
Black Sails is slightly different in that it’s based on a specific period of history (the Golden Age of Piracy) and therefore has to stay within certain parameters. Nassau, where most of the drama unfolds, feels like a character in its own right, the place where most of the drama unfolds: the bustling dock, the abandoned wrecks, the high-roofed whorehouse, the quiet estates of the interior – all of it is filled with busy extras and a sense of day-to-day industry.
The piratical culture adds to the sense of depth, like how Billy hopefully suggests the pirates could forego having a “fuck tent” in order to concentrate on their work (smash cut to three bored-looking prostitutes watching a tent getting erected) or the consternation that emerges when a black spot (as taken from the pages of Treasure Island) and its implications begin to circulate the island. As the show progresses, we learn more about the slave spying networks across the island, the reputations carried by first-generation pirates (such as Teach and Avery) and the weight they carry, and the ever-shifting web of alliances and enmities that exist between different individuals and crews, all of which informs the direction the plot takes.
It is simply a vivid, fully realized micro-world with its own rules and customs portrayed in such a way that’s both familiar and yet engrossingly different. Perhaps my favourite scene from early on would be when Gates looks down on an argument on the value of two paintings taking place between a pirate and an appraiser – both portraits of a woman, yet obviously very different in quality. The appraiser is almost beside himself with frustration at the thought they could be considered of equal value, while the pirate bewilderingly gestures back and forth between them, pointing out the similarities: “fruit, fruit, tits, tits, plant, plant. They’re the fucking same!”
Aside from introducing the appraiser, the scene has no real purpose but to fill out the richness of this particular setting. As Gates comments: “this is why I love this place.”
Both shows give out just the right amount of detail to make their worlds intriguing and lived-in without getting bogged down in excessive minutia, which leaves you with the simple excitement of exploring a fictional world that feels real; to gather up tantalizing and plot-relevant filigree without the need for any overexplaining.
An Interest in Logistics:
This is closely connected to world building, because it very much forms the sense of authenticity both shows are grounded in, not to mention establishing the stakes – that is, what exactly is the level of realism we’re dealing with here? Will information and resources magically appear when it’s convenient to the plot, or will the characters have to work for them? A lot of stories like these will ignore the fact that in any given war, people must be fed, soldiers need to be trained, supply lines need to be secured, and weapons have to be maintained. Even natural phenomena should be taken into account, whether it’s helpful (the meteor shower the rebels use as cover during the Aldani heist) or a hindrance (the pirates’ experiences with storms and the doldrums).
Sometimes it simply comes down to how messy an actor’s hair is allowed to be (I’ve lost count of all the post-apocalyptic stories out there in which teeth remain white and hair retains glossiness).
Knowledge doesn’t just magically appear in the heads of these characters, it relies on spies and plants and careful networks of communication to pass on relevant intel, some of which can be corrupted or compromised. In fact, the last three episodes of Andor revolve around the simple attempt to pass on information about the Death Star. It’s completely riveting. Likewise, there’s a wonderful sequence in Black Sails in which a character who has no interest in Flint’s warmongering coincidentally happens upon a cache of Spanish intelligence that reveals the identity of a spy on Nassau, the implications of which he can pass on after being reunited with the main characters.
Then there’s the logistics of getting things done, and both shows delight in painstakingly exploring the tiny steps that make up how things work – whether it’s acts of heroism or unimaginable evil. In Andor, propaganda meetings are attended by intelligent officers, spin doctors, research and development specialists, local law enforcement, network executives – all contemplating a long-term scenario that will best allow them to subjugate a world that contains resources that are critical to the building of the Death Star.
This slow bureaucratic process is both horrifying and fascinating, as so much attention is given to the way things work: all the tiny tactile details, right down to the fussy little finger foods the Imperials snack on while they’re plotting genocide.
Meanwhile, the first two seasons of Black Sails is largely about the pirates getting their hands on a treasure trove that will fund Flint’s ambition to wage war on England. But to get their hands on it, they must first find it, then transport it, then distribute it, all of which has their challenges. To carry it, they have to lighten the load on their ship to account for the extra weight of gold, but of course, this must be done without anyone else noticing what they’re doing. On finding the treasure strewn across a beach after a shipwreck, they’ll have to fight the men who are guarding it. And once in their possession, the men involved in its acquistion need their cut – but because they’re irresponsible pirates, they’re going to lose, whore, or gamble it all away.
Another thing I really like is the plotting, and how it refuses to gloss over, and even relies on, the difficulty of achieving the characters’ goals, and the complications that emerge along the way. The first two seasons are all about trying to orchestrate a single score. The second two are driven in large part by the difficulties that emerge once you have that treasure, and the need to secure it and convert it into spendable cash. This is not a show that is afraid of complications - every time a character, even a mastermind with a great deal of power and control, comes up with a plan, someone or something throws a spanner in the works, whether it’s a clash of personalities, or someone you trusted deciding to strike out for themselves, or even just the weather (I really like how this show uses storms to get in the way of the characters’ schemes; it’s the ultimate “men plan, god laughs”).
What’s more, each show relishes this attention to detail, and demands that the viewer pay attention, proving this sort of material can be mined for riveting drama: the way information moves through the plot and is passed on by the characters, and how as a result, nothing can be taken for granted. No one can just do things; they have to plan carefully and take variables into account. More often than not human fallibility or shortsightedness or sometimes just plain bad luck serves as a spanner in the works. That each show takes the time to think about these details (why things happen, how information is shared, the nuts and bolts of political movements, the critical importance of infrastructure) is part of what makes them so good; feel so grounded in reality and its day-to-day complications.
The Characters:
Any great story must have great characters to go with it, and though the alchemy of what makes a great character is a debate that might never be resolved, any story should ideally provide insight into what makes them tick, maintain consistency in their thoughts and deeds, and provide a degree of internal growth as they face whatever obstacles the narrative throws at them.
Between Andor and Black Sails there is a plethora of complex, fascinating characters, played by talented actors who have been gifted with clever dialogue – something that’s still far rarer than it should be. Even the loathsome characters still feel like real human beings, with understandable motives and goals, while our protagonists keep us fully invested in their predicaments through portrayals of their emotional anguish, tough choices and compromised dealings.
And because I love a good contrast/compare, I’m going to delve more deeply into some of the striking similarities between certain characters:
The most obvious comparison is that of Luthen Rael (Stellan Skarsgård) and James Flint (Toby Stephens), as despite wildly differing motives (for Flint it’s vengeance, for Luthen it’s atonement born of self-disgust) both men are defined by their complete and utter commitment to a cause, one which certainly seems laudable on the surface (the overthrow of a corrupt Empire) but alarming when it comes to demonstrating just how far each one will go to achieve their self-appointed purpose in life.
Both are more than capable of sending allies and friends to their deaths in order to further their own plans (Luthen sells out Kreeger and assassinates Lonnie; Flint strangles his quartermaster and friend to prevent him from blowing the whistle on his next move), and so both are held in no small degree of fear and mistrust by others as a result.
This means that each show’s closest thing to a protagonist, John Silver (Luke Arnold) and Cassian Andor (Diego Luna), also have a lot in common as young(ish) men who are drawn into the fight by Flint/Luthen’s charisma and conviction. In fact, the similarities in their story-arcs are rather eye-opening. Both start off as transient thieves and grifters, with little interest in altruistic pursuits, only to realize (while seizing the chance at an easy payday) the immense scale and horror of the enemy they’re up against, and such throw in their lot with “the cause” by contributing their skills and cunning.
And yet both are ultimately held back by their love for a woman, whose presence offers them a different path in life: one of relative peace and stability. Each one’s commitment to the cause is compromised by this woman, and each is willing to walking away for her sake – though interestingly enough, said women (Adria Arjona’s Bix and Zethu Dlomo’s Madi) are themselves deeply invested in the good fight – even more so than their romantic partners.
As such, both have strong reactions when they see their partner’s conviction start to waver. Madi is furious and betrayed when Silver contrives a way to bring the impending war against England to a halt, and Bix leaves Cassian without telling him she’s pregnant in order to strengthen his resolve to the Rebel Alliance. The two narratives match up uncannily well.
A slightly less obvious comparison is Black Sails’s Eleanor Guthrie (Hannah New) and Andor’s Dedra Meera (Denise Gough). Both are blonde career women trying to make it in a man’s world, which initially makes it seem they’ll command our sympathy as we root for them to get ahead, though neither of them are likeable people. Eleanor is too entitled and haughty, and Dedra is… well, a fascist.
But in many ways, Eleanor is far more complicated than Dedra, both as a person and a character – not only in the way she’s forced to straddle two very different worlds, but in how she exists as a deconstruction of the superficial “girlboss” cliché. That is, she initially seems to embody the correct levels of feminine empowerment and spunk that fandom finds acceptable: she’s beautiful, intelligent, forceful, and single-handedly runs the consortium of pirates operating out of Nassau as their fence. Girl power! Except that this is a show based in reality, and appearances can be deceptive.
To a certain extent Eleanor’s wealth and whiteness offers her a measure of protection in this world, but her position as an erstwhile queen over the island hasn’t won her any friends, and the pirates are just as resentful of being lorded over by a woman as any red-blooded Englishman would be. As she’s warned early on, these pirates are neither her friends nor her subjects.
Once she flips sides to England, she finds there’s no place for her there either. Though she’s granted a thin veneer of courtesy, it’s clear the English (specifically Woods Rogers) see her more as a tool to be used than an equal partner. His defining move in the battle to gain control over Nassau is to ignore her plan and seek out Spanish allies to raze the island – a decision that gets her killed.
Dedra is in a similar boat in that she’s likewise a competent woman in a position of power who is very good at what she does, though she also doesn’t command as much respect from her peers as she thinks she does (or would like to have). But we can admire Eleanor for her determination, even if she uses it in the wrong ways, for the wrong reasons. Dedra is a willing participant in the genocidal cruelties of the Galactic Empire, so we’re considerably less sad when her tenacity end up biting her in the ass.
It's no coincidence that both women are destroyed by the Empire they chose to serve, though there is a stark difference in how their ultimate fates are depicted: Eleanor dies in a state of grace in the arms of someone who cares about her, having fought tooth and nail to save an innocent life, while Dedra sits alone in a jail cell, having lost everything important to her. Eleanor may have been self-absorbed, but she did not lack the capacity to demonstrate compassion or strive to be a better person. Dedra clings to a belief system that has no interest in returning the favour, never realizing until it’s too late that she’s not exempt from its indifference.
(In fact, Dedra’s ending bears a far greater resemblance to that of Woods Rogers. After devoted service to an Empire, both have to face the fact that the entity they fought so doggedly and loyally for ultimately considers them expendable).
Those are the key characters I wanted to draw attention to, though there are other comparisons that are fun to ponder, from the obvious (Vel Sartha and Anne Bonny as hard-as-nails lesbian badasses) to the unlikely: Mon Mothma and Max. Think about it. Not just because they have one-syllable first names that start with the letter M, but in how both wield soft power in pursuit of their goals, whether it’s persuasion, the accumulation of information, or appeals to morality and reason. One is a brothel madame and the other a high-ranking senator, but they are very much alike.
More interestingly, both are faced with a choice between protecting what they love and furthering their own cause – but whereas Max chooses not to compromise her love for Anne to advance her social standing, Mon’s commitment to the Rebellion leads to her sacrificing her own daughter to a marriage of financial convenience – granted, she gives her daughter a last-second chance to back out, but when the offer is rebuffed, the wedding promptly goes ahead.
The crucial thing about all these characters is that they feel like real people. Their actions and personalities drive the plot, not the other way around, and even when they make mistakes or behave badly, you can always grasp why. In the realm of fiction, it’s far more important to be interesting than likeable, and that’s certainly the case in Andor and Black Sails.
So while we’re on the subject of characters, let’s move on to…
Minor Characters:
This one actually has more to do with world building, as a fictional world always feels more authentic when it’s populated by minor (often recurring) characters who are depicted in such a way that it’s easy to imagine them getting on with full, rich lives when they’re not onscreen, as opposed to plot devices that pop up for the sake of the narrative whenever it’s convenient. In my opinion, every good long-running show will have a collection of these characters, adding to the depth and consistency of the world they’re in.
This is true of Andor and Black Sails, which not only recognize the importance of these bit players, but also understand they must be played by good actors. The correct mentality is that no role is too small that decent talent can’t make it memorable.
Andor has more in the way of recognizable character actors filling out these parts. Even if you don’t know the names, I can guarantee you’ve seen the likes of Robert Emms, Anton Lesser, Alastair Mackenzie, Ben Miles and Richard Dillane in dozens of other projects. Check out any of their IMDB pages and you’ll be in for a surprise. As with the main characters, they feel rich and vital, no matter how little screentime they get – right down to the two unnamed maintenance workers that perform what can only be described as malicious compliance by refusing to break protocol and unlock the door that would allow security to interrupt Mon Mothma’s speech. We can tell by their little smiles that they’re probably being deliberately obtuse, but with just that tiny scene, they are real, essential people, resounding with the themes of the entire show, from Nemik’s “every tiny act of resistance pushes our lines forward,” to Skeen’s “everyone has their own rebellion.”
Black Sails was interesting in that aside from Toby Stephens, there were no big-name stars at all. Tom Hopper is probably the most recognizable these days, but the rest of the main cast still have relatively low-key careers. Smaller roles were filled by character actors who were striking enough that when they turned up several weeks, months or years after their last appearance, you still knew who they were: Paster Lambrick, Mrs Mapleton the brothel madame, Idelle the prostitute, Randall the mentally impaired (or is he?) ship’s cook, Eme the freed slave, Kofi the maroon bodyguard – they weave in and out of the narrative, living their lives in the margins of the main action and contributing whenever necessary, adding to the regular day-to-day clockwork of it all.
My “maintenance workers” equivalent in Black Sails would have to be the salty old seadog that Rackham hires to plot his ship to Skeleton Island. In his most memorable scene, this character delivers a poignant monologue on the transient nature of a pirate’s existence – five minutes later, he’s found dead on the deck. Black comedy at its finest, but the actor nails it.
For a more straightforward One Scene Wonder, take this scene in which Woods Rogers has an audience with the governor of Havana, asking him for military support in retaking Nassau. This is the character’s only scene and yet – well, what a performance! Quiet, commanding, intelligent – here are two men going toe-to-toe with no swords at all, and the show itself gives them the time they need to think and speak and consider.
It is these small roles that can make or break the immersion of a long-form story, and that you could take any minor character from either of these shows and make them the protagonist of their own narrative with minimal effort is what’s truly impressive.
Central Theme:
Well, this is the big one, the one that makes comparing these two shows so fascinating – not just for the conclusions each one draws, but in recognizing the identical thesis statement which ties the characters, plot and world building together. That is, the tightrope that each character must walk between what can be distilled into what’s commonly defined as “love” or “duty;” the personal or the political; a single human life or the greater good; one’s moral compass or the cause.
As stated, both these shows have at their core a group of motley heroes (or antiheroes) pitted against the powerful might of an Empire. So too do a lot of stories, but these two are deeply interested in how terrifying the call to action can be, as well as the human cost that comes with devoting yourself to an abstract cause, especially when there’s no guarantee there’s something better waiting for you on the other side.
In Black Sails, Flint has already sacrificed most of his humanity in order to wreak vengeance on the British Empire, the entity he deems responsible for killing the man he loved. By the time the show starts, he has little qualms about destroying friend or foe alike in pursuit of his war upon England. But those around him – essentially every single other character – are considerably more hesitant, whether it’s because they can grasp the scale of his self-described unwinnable war, have a desire to protect their loved ones from the violence that will inevitably follow in the wake of such a conflict, are uneager to compromise their own sense of right and wrong, or are simply concerned with their own self-preservation. There are some things they are not prepared to give up for the sake of a cause, and the variations on this theme in each character are virtually endless:
After fighting and failing so many times to impose her will upon Nassau, Eleanor discovers she’s pregnant and decides giving it all up might be worth it, as long as she has a family to love. Max tries to detain Silver to stop the escalating chaos, and after she fails, he asks her why she didn’t just use lethal force. She responds: “because then I’d have to live with it.”
Woods Rogers crosses the line in bringing Nassau to heel by inviting Spanish militias to raze the island, a decision which costs Eleanor her life. He later tells Madi, when warning her that Silver’s life hangs in the balance, not to “make the same mistake I did.” Believing Madi to be dead, Silver ramps up the violence; on realizing she’s still alive, he finds a way of pulling the plug on the whole operation, knowing he can’t go through that grief again – plus he was already looking for an escape route early on, asking her: “would I be enough?” if their objective fails). In this moment, Madi cannot give him an answer, and when Woods asks if she’d sacrifice him for the cause, she answers in the affirmative.
This choice touches everyone, right down to minor characters like Idelle, who restrains herself from killing a helpless Anne while she’s incapacitated, making do with simply reminding her that she killed her friend Charlotte for no reason. Meanwhile, Flint barrels ahead like a tempest at sea, striving towards his singular goal with no room for compromise – but even he, when coming face-to-face with Thomas Hamilton, the man he thought was dead and the reason behind all his subsequent violence, puts down his sword and picks up a shovel.
Despite the horrors of slavery, despite the cruelties and corruption of the Empire, most characters in Black Sails have things they deem more important than the cause to live for, which makes them leery of bloodshed and eager to find a quiet place to put up walls that protect those they hold dear. If they wage war on the world, they know it will fight back, and that it will always win. The Empire is inevitable – at least for now.
A rather grim ending, and some may complain that the whole thing is a huge build-up to a war that never happens, but that’s pretty much the point. Characters collectively decide the war isn’t worth it, and so the reasons it existed in the first place are ignored or nullified.
Similarly, Andor also asks of its characters: how far are you willing to go to defeat your enemies, and how much are you willing to sacrifice to the same end? The most obvious example of this is Luthen’s famous monologue, in which he says:
“Calm. Kindness. Kinship. Love. I’ve given up all chance at inner peace. I’ve made my mind a sunless space. I share my dreams with ghosts. I wake up every day to an equation I wrote 15 years ago from which there’s only one conclusion, I’m damned for what I do. My anger, my ego, my unwillingness to yield, my eagerness to fight, they’ve set me on a path from which there is no escape. I yearned to be a saviour against injustice without contemplating the cost and by the time I looked down there was no longer any ground beneath my feet. What is my sacrifice? I’m condemned to use the tools of my enemy to defeat them. I burn my decency for someone else’s future. I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I’ll never see. And the ego that started this fight will never have a mirror or an audience or the light of gratitude. So what do I sacrifice? Everything!”
The cost may not be his life (at least not yet), but his soul is certainly forfeit.
This is also the arc Cassian goes through across the first season, going from petty strikes against the Empire for his own self-gain, to assisting the rebels in the capacity of a mercenary, to finally going all-in on the Alliance after facing Imperial justice firsthand. But throughout the second season, we discover there is a limit on what he’s prepared to give up. For a few episodes it’s clear that Bix and her safety are his first priority, and that he’s growing weary of Luthen’s ruthlessness and disregard for their lives. He’s explicitly on his way out after “one last mission,” until Bix takes matters into her own hands and leaves him.
Part of this is Bix reaching her own limit on how much danger and trauma she can endure, but also because she knows Cassian will always prioritize their relationship over the bigger picture, especially once he finds out she’s pregnant. To ensure Cassian’s commitment to the Rebellion isn’t compromised by her presence, she disappears into the night.
As with Luthen’s sacrifice of decency and inner peace, Bix’s sacrifice is her relationship with Cassian. Mon gives up her daughter to a loveless marriage. Vel and Cintra live by the credo that “the mission comes first; we take what’s left.” Nemick dies on the operating table after surviving the heist but being crushed by the payload. As he predicted, Luthen dies an ignominious death for “a sunrise he will never see,” as does Cassian in Rogue One without ever learning he was a father, after telling Jyn that: “I’ve done terrible things on behalf of the Rebellion.”
Just as in Black Sails, the show is deeply interested in the tension between devoting yourself to a cause, however noble, and protecting what is most precious to you, whether it’s another person or the integrity of your own soul. Would you sign up for a fight that requires you to constantly calculate the exact cost of both being a decent person and effective at what needs to be done, in circumstances that makes it well-nigh impossible to be both? It’s a harrowing question to ponder, especially in these times. How far would you go? When does a cause become not worth it? Would you break your moral compass or sacrifice a loved one for the greater good?
The most fascinating thing is that each show answers these questions differently. In Andor, there is no price high enough that justifies allowing fascism to flourish. For Black Sails, there is a cap on how much must be risked to overthrow the status quo. Andor says yes to giving it your all, Black Sails says no. In fairness, more is at stake when it comes to fighting against a Galactic Empire that’s literally being run by an evil space wizard, but did the characters of Black Sails (namely Silver) make the right choice? He may have saved the lives of his friend and his lover, but they certainly didn’t want or ask him to do that, and the evils of slavery and colonization will continue as a result. Who’s to say the “unwinnable war” couldn’t have been won? We’ll never know if more lives would have been saved in the long run, or if the participants would have all been obliterated.
Conclusion:
Both Andor and Black Sails have at their narrative core the concept of revolution, but it is not the easy and glorious revolution without effort or bloodshed that the terminally online dream about. These revolutions demand a terrible price, are violent and bleak and protracted, and which don’t necessarily promise something better on the other side.
In Black Sails, our protagonist decides that’s too high a price to pay, and so pulls the plug on the whole endeavour. In Andor, our protagonist eventually gives his life for this cause, for a sunrise he will never see, for the future of a child he doesn’t even know exists. The cast of Black Sails opt for love, life and relationships over a nebulous cause, but reject the possibility of societal change. Meanwhile, Andor is filled with characters who chose the cause and so lose much of their humanity in doing so, but ultimately change the galaxy for the better. For this reason more than anything, the two shows are in fascinating conversation with each other.
And yet even though Black Sails is about avoiding war, while Andor is about winning one by any means necessary, victories against both Empires are imminent. The British Empire eventually crumbles, and the Rebel Alliance will eventually triumph – just not directly at the hands of the characters featured in these two shows. Each takes place within a small window of time with no definitive ending, in which our characters struggle and love and do their best to overcome whatever’s thrown at them.
But ultimately, the best stories are the ones that make you feel excited about them – not only for what will happen next, but for how they fire up your own creativity. Whether it’s the vividness of the characters, or the cleverness of the plot, or the tantalizing gaps left in the world building, or the way all these components come together, every time I think of Black Sails or Andor, I want to pick up a pen and start working on my own story. Even better, these shows actually have something to impart about war, revolution, the cost of rebellion, the power of stories, the struggle between love and duty – all these hefty themes are soaked into the narrative, the characters, the world… and it’s so rewarding to absorb a long-form story that knows what it’s doing.
The best accolade I could give is that whenever I reach the end of either one, I immediately want to start watching it all over again.
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