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The Acolyte is the single most maligned live-action Star Wars show or film. It is also where my grand rewatch of all the Star Wars films and live-action shows must begin — it can't be skipped. And it's a good thing, because along with some staggering lows, the show has some fantastic highlights.

The flashback sequences are awful. And that includes the entirety of episode 3, and much of episode 7 — both disappointingly directed by Kogonada. The child actors chosen for Osha and Mae are terrible actors. Which doesn't reflect on who they are as individuals — I'm sure they are lovely people — but good child actors are incredibly rare. And if child actors are given adult dialogue, the whole piece falls apart. Most of the time directors need to treat a child actor like a piece of set dressing, like a puppet or a CGI alien. They can be essential to the story, but they cannot carry the story.

The flashback sequences also introduce the flaw that ultimately cripples the series: The Acolyte is written as a critique of the Jedi, without understanding either the Jedi or the conflict in its own position — a sort of confused neoliberal identity politics.

But the show doesn't start that way. The first two episodes feel like they could be the beginning of a detective procedural. The Jedi Order are the peacekeepers of the High Republic era, and the titular Acolyte is picking off Jedi around the galaxy. It's a great setup, complete with twins, disguises, stakeouts, and the assembly of a team. The worlds the Jedi visit feel like living, breathing worlds. The set decoration and creature work is outstanding.

If we skip episode 3, episode 4 and 5 are a great set up and knock down. The lead-up to the reveal of Qimir as the Stranger, followed by the best lightsaber battle in the series, and then the Osha/Mae switch. Episode 6 continues that narrative with Osha being seduced to the dark side by Qimir. All of that was thoroughly satisfying. But then the flashback narrative of the Kogonada episodes breaks through into the show's present, at the end of episode 7 and through episode 8.

I should note that there are some really cool bits of the Kogonada episodes as well. The wookie Jedi Kelnacca gets possessed and fights his team, the way the witches get in Torbin's head, the way Kogonada shoots the same events from two perspectives. But the flashbacks are also incredibly didactic — the messaging is constantly being pushed to the fore. And the messaging is that the Jedi are a toxic institution, destined to failure because of their religious rigidity and abuses of their privilege.

In episode 3, the witches (who are previously portrayed in Star Wars as a cult) are portrayed as innocent victims of Jedi oppression, forced to live secretly because of their belief in sharing power. In episode 7 and 8, the viewer is constantly being reminded that Sol should be deferring to the guidance of Indara, and that his failure to do so is what causes the tragedy on Brendok — even though Indara is the one who (accidentally) kills the entire coven, minus Mother Aniseya. There was even a point in episode 8, where Senator Rayencourt lectures Master Vernestra about the Jedi needing oversight from the galactic senate that both felt like a lecture to the audience and a profound misunderstanding of how the Jedi — or our modern democracies — went wrong.

What is fundamentally wrong with neoliberal identity politics is that it does not understand itself. It is the merger of economic neoliberalism — the breaking down of global trade barriers, free-market economics, a strong state, and unrestrained capitalism — with a progressive identity politics. It is possible because while identity politics began as radical resistance to the state and capitalism, by oppressed or suppressed groups, it has gradually been co-opted by the neoliberal state through the commodification of identity. In fact, identity is a surprisingly powerful avenue of commodification. If an individual or group can be convinced to consume commodities based on their identity, their identity becomes a commodity.

Identity politics has also been increasingly leveraged to the defense of the neoliberal state. Raytheon can be a feminist weapons manufacturer, central banks can be defenders of diversity initiatives, trans people can be the CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. But the legacy of that once-very-real resistance to the capitalist state is still worn like a shield. In the Acolyte, identity is specifically leveraged as an accusation against the Jedi.

That Indara is a woman, and that the witches are women and intersectional is leveraged to justify their positions. The Jedi, despite their female members, are treated as analogous to a celibate male priesthood. The Sith, despite the fact that they are overwhelmingly male throughout the Star Wars saga, are treated as a female resistance to male scrupulosity and rigidity — which allows the show to see Osha's murder of Sol as justified.

And this is crucial. What the show justifies in the name of the struggle against the oppressive control of the Jedi is a barrage of murders — it is the Sith, and everything they represent. One of the pitches for the original cancelled Star Wars Underworld tv show was for a story arc centered around a younger, sympathetic Palpatine, betrayed by a female gangster, which then instigated his path into darkness. This is the inverse of that — and just as cringeworthy as that would have been.

There are many things wrong with the Jedi, but this show wants to understand all of those things through the lens of a gendered binary. And also — most egregiously in Rayencourt's lecture, but throughout the show — advocates for a strong, neoliberal state to moderate religious zealots.

Fortunately for us, in the next three installments we get to discover what really is rotten in the opulent, proud, arrogant golden age of the Jedi Order.

The Phantom Menace keeps getting better with age. Each time I rewatch it, more things that used to grate on me are now endearing in some way. It is so steeped in nostalgia that I cannot pretend to impartiality in discussing it. But there is one thing that still grates.

Jar Jar Binks is shoehorned in to every scene possible. And his presence is as unwanted as the cgi aliens walking across otherwise sparsely beautiful scenes in The New Hope's special editions. While he has a superficial impact on the world around him, that impact is purely aesthetic. His character brings nothing to the story. Like a stone falling in a pond and making no ripples. If you took Jar Jar out of the film, nothing would change. The film would move to close around his absence and you would enjoy it that much more. But his inclusion is not without purpose.

Everything that George Lucas does aesthetically in The Phantom Menace, down to the title The Phantom Menace, is an homage to Flash Gordon and the Republic serials of his youth. And as an homage, it is breathtaking. The shining chrome ships of Naboo, the shapes of the blaster pistols, the pacing of the film's sections. Even Jar Jar — though his role mimmicks the wandering comedic fool of a Kurosawa film, who blunders through the very-real action going on around him — owes his aesthetic, and the whole existence of the Gungans, to an old Flash Gordon comic, The Undersea Kingdom of Mongo.

And when we know Jar Jar's place in the story and historical context, he grates just a little bit less.

Nevertheless, when Qui-Gon Jinn grabs Jar Jar's tongue and tells him, "don't do that again", he is speaking for all of us. Qui-Gon himself is everything one could hope for in a pre-empire Jedi Order. Stoic without being reserved, kind without being cloying, and a great warrior who never surrenders to his inner violence. Liam Neeson was perfectly cast for the role.

Another thing the film does right is the podracing. It is revelatory — everything you remembered it as, and so much more. The speed it captures, the pageantry, the drama. George Lucas and his army of artists made something that has no analogue in cinema. I cannot stress enough how much of a world the art department created for Tatooine. The flags, the aliens, the architecture, the eighteen different podracers, the maquette's and matte paintings. And even the bizarre aliens rendered in early CGI can't detract too much from the physicality of everything else. The race itself is beautifully paced, and doesn't drag for a single half-second. It's pure popcorn, but grounded in a way that frenetic racing films like Speed Racer never are.

The Phantom Menace also introduces us to the Jedi at their most opulent and proud. The possibility of true opposition in the Sith existing seems unthinkable to them. There is rigidity in the Jedi, but much more flexibility. Qui Gon openly opposes the will of the council, and has the freedom, albeit grudgingly given, to do so. He mentions Obi Wan having much to learn of the Living Force, and espouses ideas about midichlorians and whills that signal a faith in a Force that is biological and mutable. Keeping in mind, of course, that Mace Windu is at that time developing a seventh lightsaber form. Far from stultifying, the Jedi are flourishing and expanding — both culturally and intellectually, like the autocephalous Orthodox Christians, before the fall of Constantinople.

There is such a clear and vital vision running through the Phantom Menace, that even its rough edges and goofy inclusions form part of a rich tapestry.

There are two dueling narrative threads in Attack of the Clones. The first is a romance between Anakin and Padme. The second is the slow decline and collapse of the Jedi Order in the face of galactic politics. It's an awkward mix, and it usually means that one of those threads gets subsumed by the other. But how does it hold up now, after seven seasons of The Clone Wars have rehabilitated the character of Anakin Skywalker?

Still not well. But still a lot of fun. The dialogue between Anakin and Padme is at times difficult to listen to — and that's due to the writing by George Lucas more than anything. The casting of Hayden Christensen as Anakin was deeply unpopular amongst Star Wars fans at the time, but in retrospect he did a great job portraying a teenager coming of age, coping with enormous power, chafing against his mentors, believing that the whole world was against him, and feeling like his sexuality was a matter of life and death. It's an incredibly unflattering mirror to hold up to teenage boys who felt the same way — but whiny, self-obsessed Anakin is truer to life than we were willing to admit in 2002.

Christensen's portrayal led a lot of people to express disbelief at the romance between Anakin and Padme, but that perspective tends to ignore Padme's agency and sexuality, as well as the political and cultural role that the Jedi played. Firstly, if the reception to Kylo Ren is anything to go by, there will always be a subset of women willing to overlook the toxic traits and genocidal behaviour of a gorgeous man — usually because they think they can fix him. Anakin Skywalker was no different, and Padme absolutely embodied the desires of many female Star Wars fans in 2002.

But that shouldn't distract from the cultural role that the Jedi held in galactic society, and the way Anakin used that to his advantage in wooing Padme. Jedi are not priests. They are warriors. It's doubtful whether they even take vows of celibacy. They are meant to avoid "attachment," but reality seems to be much more complicated. Jedi are raised in the Order from a very young age, with the eventual goal being knighthood. But in puberty and in coming of age, they experience the same wild passions as every other teenager. This is betrayed by the fact that everybody knows Anakin and Padme are probably going to get to business — and nobody does a thing to stop it. When Obi-Wan and Captain Typho express their hope that Anakin and Padme won't do anything stupid, they aren't talking about them acting on their mutual attraction, but about forming a long-term attachment. But Obi-Wan is also talking about an abuse of privilege.

The Jedi have force powers. They fly around the galaxy fighting injustice and keeping peace. They are as close to galactic celebrities as you can get in the Star Wars universe. When Anakin lifts Padme's apple, or argues with her, in the halls of Naboo, that he represents the Jedi, he is using a power and a privilege that few in the galaxy possess, and he is doing it explicitly to leverage the celebrity of the Jedi to make himself more attractive to Padme. Even if he does it in a whiny, childish manner.

Padme is a senator. She knows that entanglement is a bad idea, but the arguments she offers up are all related to their social standing and position. They are a senator and a Jedi — what would it look like? She never denies that attraction — she acts on it frequently. So the final acquiescence before entering the Geonosis arena is not towards admitting her attraction, but allowing their attachment.

Anakin and Padme's relationship echoes a broader trend in the Jedi Order. The Jedi, as Yoda tells it, are increasingly arrogant. At the close of The Phantom Menace, they are becoming more enmeshed in the power of the galactic senate, and a decade into that enmeshment, the Jedi hold tremendous power and influence, even as their integrity as a religious order — and connection to the living Force — is increasingly undermined by their entanglement with the state.

When Yoda arrives on Geonosis with an army of clones, Mace Windu — without a single moment of hesitation — steps into the role of a general. Yoda himself proves that he is intimately familiar with battlefield organization, supply chains, and tactics. In fact, the Jedi council are the ones spearheading the effort to grant the chancellor emergency powers so that they can command an army of clones.

Earlier, Yoda had confided in Mace Windu that the Jedi's connection to the Force is waning to the point that he is considering alerting the galactic senate to the crisis. It seems that this is their last ditch effort to hang on to political power, but they are flying blind into a trap. They cannot see Palpatine manipulating them, they cannot see the creation of a clone army, and they cannot see that turning the Jedi Order into a military apparatus of the state is severing their own connection with the living Force. The role of the warrior is much closer to a priest than a general, and Palpatine's goal in the ensuing Clone War is to remake the Jedi as generals — and in doing so render them impotent to stop his ascendancy.

The overuse of questionable CGI, halting dialogue and line delivery, and the glossed-over massacre of a tribe of Tuskens make this a low-point for the prequel trilogy, but the virtues of Attack of the Clones are the things that it is most often pilloried for. This is high political drama, awkwardly disguised as sci fi pulp.

No, not the seven-season animated tv show that revitalized Star Wars and bridged the gap between Episode II and Episode III, but the 2008 animated film of the same name, in which Anakin Skywalker and his new padawan Ahsoka rescue Jabba the Hutt's son from his Separatist kidnappers.

The stakes are comparatively low for a Star Wars movie, and there is ample reason for that. The film was developed as a lead-in to the show, but only took shape after George Lucas saw early footage from the show. And in some ways it feels like an afterthought. The movie animation is a lightly-polished version of the show animation. Earlier seasons of the show are a dramatic drop in quality from the movie, but by the last couple of seasons the show far eclipses it.

What does shine here is the character work. This is our first introduction to Ahsoka, as well as the first time Asajj Ventress appeared on the big screen. Ventress had earlier appeared in Tartakovsky's Clone Wars mini series, so her inclusion here is nice, and sets the stage for a lot of character work in The Clone Wars show. But Ahsoka is crucially important to the Skywalker mythos.

Between Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith, Anakin's turn to the dark side is always at the forefront of his character. But through the course of The Clone Wars show, Ahsoka is a foil to develop a different side of Anakin's character — a caring mentor and friend. Yoda, as a self-insert for George Lucas, insists that Anakin have a padawan, and the decision humanizes him. And as our first introduction to Ahsoka, and the dynamic that "Snips" and "Skyguy" have with each other, this is a great film to return to for fans of The Clone Wars.

There are other bright moments — glimpses of the friendship between Anakin, Padme, and Obi-Wan, a vertical battle with AT-TEs scaling a cliff wall to reach a monastery, great lightsaber battles with Obi-Wan and Ventress, Anakin and Dooku, and Ahsoka and Dooku's MagnaGuards, and a great scene with a moody Bith band playing in Ziro the Hutt's lair on Coruscant.

But overall, The Clone Wars is pretty lightweight. And aside from the inclusion of Ahsoka, this is probably the film that adds the least to the mythos and worldbuilding of the Star Wars universe.

So what is it that causes the destruction of the Jedi? Is it their arrogance? Is it their rigidity in the face of human needs? Is it simply a devious plot by the Sith, a catastrophe that they couldn't avoid? All of those elements are present, but Revenge of the Sith makes the case that the Jedi were destroyed by their relationship to political power.

It isn't just the relationship between Anakin and Palpatine, although the fact that Senators have enough access to young Jedi that a close relationship can develop is already an issue. The center of the Jedi Order — Coruscant's massive Jedi Temple — is located within sight of the Galactic Senate. The Jedi have sworn vows of allegiance to the Senate. They serve as the de-facto enforcement arm of the Senate, although their independence of action is supposed to be assured. Whenever the Senate encroaches on that independence, the Jedi reluctantly go along. Faith in democracy is at an all-time high. And democracy — as it exists in the Galactic Senate — has betrayed its people.

The separatist Confederacy of Independent Systems has allied itself to the Sith at its highest levels, but the Republic is directly ruled over by the Sith. Long before Palpatine takes over, the Republic is unwittingly creating the machinery of empire — the enforcement, surveillance, expansion, and rule over diverse systems and planets. The Separatists are comprised of the banking clans, trade federation, commerce guild, techno union, and other groups that represent corporations writ large. If George Lucas is using the prequel trilogy to make an allegory of the collapse of American democracy — and it is sufficiently self-evident — then the Separatists represent those political factions that lean toward oligarchy while claiming to represent the populous. While the Republic represents those political factions with blind faith in the institutions and precedents of democracy, while taking a paternalistic stance toward the populace. Which isn't to say the people of the Republic or the people of the CIS are implicated in that — their mutual grievances are legitimate.

As the Senate continues its march toward irrelevance, Padme tells Anakin "What if the democracy we thought we were serving no longer exists, and the Republic has become the very evil we have been fighting to destroy?" The Naboo are a peaceful people, and they fight only when their very existence is threatened. Padme carries that ethic with her — a conscientious objector to a war that everyone else sees as necessary. And that is what enables her to see the destruction of the Republic in the moment of its ascendancy.

Yoda does not see it. Nor does Mace Windu or Obi-Wan Kenobi or the rest of the Jedi Council. Their abilities to sense disturbances in the Force are blinded by the Sith, yes, but that cannot explain their blindness to what is happening politically, by vote and decree, in the Senate, until it is far too late. What blinds them is their relationship to power. Both political power and increasingly military power. What is it about power that blinds?

Power exists all around us. We operate in power relationships without even knowing — even if most people consciously or unconsciously work to mitigate power differentials. But the deliberate exercise of power over another being has a profound effect on the those who use power. It distorts our perception of the world around us, but it distorts self-perception more than anything.

The Jedi religion teaches a delicate balance, where the deliberate use of power is curbed at every possible turn. The Force flows through the Jedi — they do not act upon it so much as allow it to act upon them. When Qui-Gon meditates during his fight with Darth Maul, when Luke turns his lightsaber off during his fight with Vader, when Luke closes his eyes and shuts off his targeting computer, when Obi Wan allows Vader to strike him down — these are Jedi that walk a fine line of exercising power as warriors, but in the moments when their emotions threaten to control their actions, they deliberately reign themselves in by refusing to exercise power. They surrender their exercise of power to the living Force.

But the Jedi of Revenge of the Sith have gotten too used to killing, too used to commanding armies, too used to operating in close proximity to the senate, to the flow of power between those institutions. It distorts their perception of those around them, and it distorts their perception of themselves — they cannot see what it has made them.

The temptation at the heart of the film, the failure of which is the end of the Jedi, is Anakin's temptation to prevent the death of Padme. Death is an inevitable part of life — we work against death, but we allow it, we greet it at its natural hour. What Palpatine tells Anakin — in the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise — is that power destroys that relationship. It is only through the exercise of great power that he can save Padme. It is akin to the temptation of Christ in the garden. But George Lucas makes a failed Christ.

There is an unspoken drama at the center of the whole Skywalker saga. Anakin is prophesied to bring balance to the Force, and all the Jedi are eagerly pursuing that possibility. But why? The Jedi know that something is wrong. They know that they are not in balance. But they do not know why. They are looking for a great warrior. They train Anakin to be the ultimate Jedi warrior, even though they sense the darkness and imbalance that he brings. And ultimately, what the Jedi need is a warrior that turns off his lightsaber, that brings redemption instead of victory.

Revenge of the Sith is a pulpy melodrama about space knights. It isn't terribly clever in its cinematography or dialogue or plotting. But it is singular in its vision. It is the work of one guy who isn't that incredible at his job, but he knows what he wants to say. And it is so much better for it.

Solo should never have existed — nobody really asked for a Han Solo origin story. But then Phil Lord and Chris Miller were directing, so film buffs got excited. Lord and Miller had just come off a string of hits, and it seemed like they could give Star Wars a fresh, comedic tone. Then they split with the studio over creative differences, and the director's chair went to Ron Howard. By the time the film came out, most of the audience was prepared to dislike it. But here's the thing — Ron Howard is a great director.

Solo is so much better than it has any right to be. The action is tight, the characters believable, the world feels lived-in, the costumes, set design, and so much more excel. And the masks most of all. In a way, Solo is a film about masks — both the incredible masks that the costume department created, that fill the film, and the emotional masks that the various characters wear to hide who they are.

For much of the film, the titular Han Solo wears his emotions on his sleeve. Aside from his trademark bravado, he is earnest, honest, and ready to share his story with the people he meets. By the end of the film, Han is ready to play the role of the con artist, the smuggler, the killer. The pacing of the scene where he shoots Beckett is outstanding. Even the audience is surprised, because Han doesn't telegraph his move. The filmmakers want to be absolutely sure that we know this is the Han Solo that shoots Greedo first. Lando has a similar bravado, but has learned to hide his emotions under a wise-cracking persona and a closet full of capes.

The masks that Enfys Nest and her crew of Cloud-Riders wear, hide their hurt and pain. To become something that could face Crimson Dawn, they must lock away their vulnerability. The metaphorical mask that Qi'ra wears, on the other hand is one of vulnerability. It allows her to pass as unassuming, while hiding a calculating rage. Han is the only one that knows that the calculating Qi'ra is another mask, and beneath it lies the girl he grew up with. Han's central struggle in the second half of the film is trying to suss out whether that girl still exists, and whether the boy he was still exists.

We also get to see the Empire as it continues to consolidate its power throughout the galaxy. An empire must always expand, and we get to see what that expansion entails firsthand on the planet Mimban, as the Empire subjugates the native population to expand its mining operations. We also get to see what the Empire has planned for Mimban in the mines of Kessel and the shipyards of Corellia. Large-scale industrialization has transformed those places into little more than penal colonies. It is not coincidental that the item of great value at the center of the film, coaxium, is a fuel for starships. Nor is coincidental that the wasteland that Han emerges from is a shipbuilding port. Just about everywhere we visit in this film is at the heart of the Imperial war machinery.

Solo feels particularly disconnected from the Skywalker saga, even if the references to the original trilogy can be a bit cloying at times. It stakes out its own corner of the Star Wars galaxy with Crimson Dawn, crime lords, lovable rogues, droid rebellions, and a lot of fantastic masks.