Having said all that, let me again acknowledge that "Star Wars" harks to an old and very, very deeply human archetype. Those who listened to Homer recite the "Iliad" by a campfire knew great drama. Achilles could slay a thousand with the sweep of a hand -- as Darth Vader murders billions with the press of a button -- but none of those casualties matters next to the personal saga of a great one. The slaughtered victims are mere minions. Extras, without families or hopes to worry about shattering. Spear-carriers. Only the demigod's personal drama is important.

Thus few protest the apotheosis of Darth Vader -- nee Anakin Skywalker -- in "Return of the Jedi."

To put it in perspective, let's imagine that the United States and its allies managed to capture Adolf Hitler at the end of the Second World War, putting him on trial for war crimes. The prosecution spends months listing all the horrors done at his behest. Then it is the turn of Hitler's defense attorney, who rises and utters just one sentence:

"But, your honors ... Adolf did save the life of his own son!"

Gasp! The prosecutors blanch in chagrin. "We didn't know that! Of course all charges should be dismissed at once!"

The allies then throw a big parade for Hitler, down the avenues of Nuremberg.

It may sound silly, but that's exactly the lesson taught by "Return of the Jedi," wherein Darth Vader is forgiven all his sins, because he saved the life of his own son.

How many of us have argued late at night over the philosophical conundrum -- "Would you go back in time and kill Hitler as a boy, if given a chance?" It's a genuine moral puzzler, with many possible ethical answers. Still, most people, however they ultimately respond, would admit being tempted to say yes, if only to save millions of Hitler's victims.

And yet, in "The Phantom Menace," Lucas wants us to gush with warm feelings toward a cute blond little boy who will later grow up to murder the population of Earth many times over? While we're at it, why not bring out the Hitler family album, so we may croon over pictures of adorable little Adolf and marvel over his childhood exploits! He, too, was innocent till he turned to the "dark side," so by all means let us adore him.

To his credit, Lucas does not try to excuse this macabre joke by saying, "It's only a movie." Rather, he holds up his saga like an agonized Greek tragedy worthy of "Oedipus" -- an epic tale of a fallen hero, trapped by hubris and fate. But if that were true, wouldn't "Star Wars" by now have given us a better-than-caricature view of the Dark Side? Heroes and villains would not be distinguished by mere prettiness; the moral quandaries would not come from a comic book.

Don't swallow it. The apotheosis of a mass murderer is exactly what it seems. We should find it chilling.

Remember the final scene in "Return of the Jedi," when Luke gazes into a fire to see Obi-Wan, Yoda and Vader, smiling in the flames? I found myself hoping it was Jedi Hell, for the amount of pain those three unleashed on their galaxy, and for all the damned lies they told. But that's me. I'm a rebel against Homer and Achilles and that whole tradition. At heart, some of you are, too.

This isn't just a one-time distinction. It marks the main boundary between real, literate, humanistic science fiction -- or speculative fiction -- and most of the movie "sci-fi" you see nowadays.

The difference isn't really about complexity, childishness, scientific naiveti or haughty prose stylization. I like a good action scene as well as the next guy, and can forgive technical gaffes if the story is way cool! The films of Robert Zemeckis take joy in everything, from rock 'n' roll to some deep scientific paradox, feeding both the child and the adult within. Meanwhile, noir tales like "Gattaca" and "The 13th Floor" relish dark stylization while exploring real ideas. Good SF has range.

No, the underlying difference is that one tradition revels in elites, while the other rebels against them. In the genuine science-fiction worldview, demigods aren't easily forgiven lies and murder. Contempt for the masses is passi. There may be heroes -- even great ones -- but in the long run we'll improve together, or not at all. (See my note on the Enlightenment, Romanticism and science fiction.)

That kind of myth does sell. Yet, even after rebelling against the Homeric archetype for generations, we children of Pericles, Ben Franklin and H.G. Wells remain a minority. So much so that Lucas can appropriate our hand-created tropes and symbols -- our beloved starships and robots -- for his own ends and get credited for originality.

As I mentioned earlier, the mythology of conformity and demigod-worship pervades the highest levels of today's intelligentsia, and helps explain why so many postmodernist English literature professors despise real science fiction. When Joseph Campbell prescribed that writers should adhere slavishly to a hackneyed plot outline that preached submission for ages, he was lionized by Bill Moyers and countless others for his warm and fuzzy "human insight."

Indeed, his perceptions were compassionate and illuminating! Still, a frank discussion or debate might have been more useful than Campbell's sunny monologue. As in the old fable about a golden-haired king, no one dared point to the bright ruler's dark shadow, or his long trail of bloody footprints.

I admit we face an uphill battle winning most people over to a more progressive, egalitarian worldview, along with stirring dreams that focus on genuine problems and heroes, not demigods. Meanwhile, Lucas knows his mythos appeals to human nature at a deep and ancient level.

Hell, it appeals to part of my nature! Which is why I knew I'd cave in and see "The Phantom Menace," after my symbolic one-week boycott expired. In fact, let me confess that I adored the second film in the series, "The Empire Strikes Back." Despite Yoda's kitschy pseudo-zen, one could easily suspend disbelief and wait to see what the Jedi philosophy had to say. Millions became keyed up to find out, at long last, why Obi-Wan and Yoda lied like weasels to Luke Skywalker. Meanwhile, the script sizzled with originality, good dialogue and relentlessly compelling characters. The action was dynamite ... and even logical! Common folk got almost as much chance to be heroic as the demigods. Clichis were few and terrific surprises abounded. There were fine foreshadowings, promising more marvels in sequels. It was simply a great movie. Homeric but great.

You already know what I think of what came next. But worshipping Darth Vader only scratches the surface. The biggest moral flaw in the "Star Wars" universe is one point that Lucas stresses over and over again, through the voice of his all-wise guru character, Yoda.

Let's see if I get this right. Fear makes you angry and anger makes you evil, right?

Now I'll concede at once that fear has been a major motivator of intolerance in human history. I can picture knightly adepts being taught to control fear and anger, as we saw credibly in "The Empire Strikes Back." Calmness makes you a better warrior and prevents mistakes. Persistent wrath can cloud judgment. That part is completely believable.

But then, in "Return of the Jedi," Lucas takes this basic wisdom and perverts it, saying -- "If you get angry -- even at injustice and murder -- it will automatically and immediately transform you into an unalloyedly evil person! All of your opinions and political beliefs will suddenly and magically reverse. Every loyalty will be forsaken and your friends won't be able to draw you back. You will instantly join your sworn enemy as his close pal or apprentice. All because you let yourself get angry at his crimes."

Uh, say what? Could you repeat that again, slowly?

In other words, getting angry at Adolf Hitler will cause you to rush right out and join the Nazi Party? Excuse me, George. Could you come up with a single example of that happening? Ever?

That contention is, in itself, a pretty darn evil thing to preach. Above all, it is just plain dumb.

It raises a question that someone should have asked a long time ago. Who the heck nominated George Lucas to preach sick, popcorn morality at our children? If it's "only a movie," why is he working so hard to fill his films with this crap?

I think it's time to choose, people. This saga is not just another expression of the Homeric archetype, extolling old hierarchies of princes, wizards and demigods. By making its centerpiece the romanticization of a mass murderer, "Star Wars" has sunk far lower. It is unworthy of our attention, our enthusiasm -- or our civilization.

Lucas himself gives a clue when he says, "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away."

Right on. "Star Wars" belongs to our dark past. A long, tyrannical epoch of fear, illogic, despotism and demagoguery that our ancestors struggled desperately to overcome, and that we are at last starting to emerge from, aided by the scientific and egalitarian spirit that Lucas openly despises. A spirit we must encourage in our children, if they are to have any chance at all.

I don't expect to win this argument any time soon. As Joseph Campbell rightly pointed out, the ways of our ancestors tug at the soul with a resonance many find romantically appealing, even irresistible. Some cannot put the fairy tale down and move on to more mature fare. Not yet at least. Ah well.

But over the long haul, history is on my side. Because the course of human destiny won't be defined in the past. It will be decided in our future.

That's my bailiwick, though it truly belongs to all of you. To all of us.

The future is where our posterity will thrive.

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