I’ve been known to defend certain aspects of the Star Wars prequels. Not because I think that they’re good films overall, but because there are certain parts of them, mostly involving setting, action, or small character quirks, that struck me as belonging in the Star Wars canon. That is to say, certain aspects of the films, such as parts of Ewan MacGregor’s performance as Obi Wan, jibe with my own internal vision of the backstory of that character. They seem to fit. They seem like glimpses into what the prequels might have been had they been written and directed by someone who actually cared about Star Wars.
io9’s recent look back at Attack of the Clones pretty much sums up my feelings on that movie, in a way I’ve never really been able to express very well myself. In short, they describe Clones as being, for the most part, just as bad as we all remember, a storytelling failure not redeemed by the one or two good moments of fan service we see on screen.
The message I really take from their review, however, is one I’ve been struggling to elucidate for some time: that the failure of Episode II and, by extension, the Star Wars prequels as a whole, is a failure of character. The prequels prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that no amount of intriguing world-building, beautiful production design, or stunning action sequences can save a story that fails to bring its characters to life.
So wait, Jim. Step back a minute. What you’re saying here, really, is that character is important to storytelling? Big reveal, dude. You’re really jumping the shark, here.
Yes, what I’m saying is that character is important–vital–to storytelling. But you already knew that. What I think is interesting is finding such a great example of a story that should have worked, that had everything going for it, every reason to work, but completely screwed the pooch when it came time to deliver.
Sure, George Lucas had the burden of decades of fan expectations to deal with. Yes, that’s a lot of pressure. But what people often forget is that Lucas made the movies he wanted to make. He’s never responded well to criticism of the prequels, and generally speaks dismissively of Star Wars fans. He’s the kind of filmmaker who’s more concerned with how things look than how things feel. To him, the saga is a soap opera, and he filmed it like one: a story purportedly about passion and heartbreak and betrayal that nonetheless fails almost completely to deliver the pathos of any of those emotions.
What Lucas wanted is what we got: a throwback to the sci-fi adventure serials of his youth, peppered with just enough superficial emotional motivation to propel the plot of the adventure forward. It’s something that’s appealing to children, but not to adults, who crave real character arcs.
Had he endeavored to see it from the perspective of the people who enjoyed the original movies, he would have (or should have) realized that the films he was making couldn’t possibly have worked.
Take io9’s example of the romantic relationship between Padme and Anakin:
As forced and muddled as the courtship between Anakin and Padme is, it’s obviously an essential piece of the overall puzzle of Star Wars. It’s a nice thing to see, but it’s just handled so terribly. “You are in my very soul tormenting me?” Really? It just sounds like robots talking. And why are you guys eating pears with forks and knives?
It i handled terribly. The romantic scenes between Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman should be used in film school as an example of a lack of chemistry. The actors are woodenly delivering lines, having been sapped by the bad writing and the directing of any emotional motivation to make the scene work.
Padme Amidala is supposed to be the entire reason Anakin Skywalker falls to the dark side. At the very least, she is the proximate cause: his desire to save her from the death he envisions is the turning point for his character. In order for that to make sense, for it to play for the audience, we have to believe it. We have to buy that he loves her so much that he can’t imagine a world without her in it. That unlike the average person dealing with the idea of loss, Skywalker sees the power to prevent it, and falls into the trap. He falls to the dark side with the best intentions, but in this case, those intentions never really make any sense, because from the standpoint of the character as he’s portrayed on screen, the audience has absolutely no reason to believe that he actually believes any of it. The viewer can’t buy what you can’t sell.
Plot and character may be unavoidably intertwined with most stories, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t have the plot serve the characters rather than the other way around.
Writing character is a question of empathy: can you, as the writer, put yourself in the shoes of the character you’re writing, so that the character’s emotional responses to the stimuli around them come off as fully realized. There’s no substitute for running a character through the filter of real human emotion.
There may be some writers out there who can create authentic seeming characters completely dispassionately, but if there are I don’t know of them. If you can’t see the world through your character’s eyes, at least imaginatively, and feel at least a small flicker of what they must be feeling in the situation you’ve placed them in, then you’re not doing your job as a writer.
And that’s where Lucas failed as a writer with the prequels: he couldn’t sell the defining relationship. As io9 puts it:
Then it happens. The biggest leap in the history of Star Wars. On the brink of death, Padme confesses her love for Anakin. It’s so out of left field, even in the movie the character of Anakin is surprised to hear it. “I truly, deeply, love you,” she says. Too bad we barely get that sense before that. I couldn’t help but laugh that Lucas made the decision to have Anakin act so shocked. It almost feels like an admission he wasn’t sure how to get the characters to this point, but had to, and here it is.
You might be able to get away with the equivalent of “And then something happens” when it comes to plot, but you’ll never get away with it with character. The beauty of fiction is that you can get the reader, or the viewer, to believe and accept almost anything if you can sell the characters’ responses to those stories. If the characters clearly believe it, if they act and think and feel in a way that reflects humanity and emotional logic, then your reader won’t have any trouble suspending their disbelief when it comes to interstellar spaceships or unlikely plot developments. The reverse is not true.
The story is always about the characters.