The Psychological Turmoil of Liking the Star Wars Prequels

“Millennial” is a decent name for a generation; not great, but ok as far as words that were probably made up in a thinkpiece go. If I were to suggest another option I might go with “The Allowed to Like the Star Wars Prequels Generation.” I was seven years old when The Phantom Menace was released. If you can’t understand why a seven year old would be fascinated by people with lightsabers, regardless of plot, then you might not like Star Wars at all.

Of course, it wasn’t just the lightsabers. I was humbled by Qui-Gon Jinn’s aura of wisdom. I was amazed by the Gungan’s underwater city. I was thrilled by the podrace. I laughed at the jokes. I laughed at Jar Jar. Most importantly, I related to Anakin like a beast. I saw myself in Anakin and dreamed of participating in his adventures just like I was supposed to. I felt the same way about Anakin that teenagers were supposed to feel about his son 22 years earlier. I was seven and he was nine. He didn’t have a father or freedom and I didn’t have magic superpowers. Total twinsies. I even looked like him. I had the same basic bowl cut and blonde hair.

But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Fans of the original trilogy don’t want to see Darth Vader, the face of evil, as a cherubic messiah child. If they have to see him as a child, they’d at least prefer he be a creepy Omen child. At least, that’s what Patton Oswalt says.

Patton sounds pretty ticked off there. The prequels must have been pretty traumatic for him. Maybe as traumatic as watching a character he strongly identified with as a seven year old grow up to slaughter children, because that’s what I did. Over the course of six years I watched a character that was specifically designed to appeal to my age group, and me especially, go from bright eyed and spunky to angry eyed and homicidal. Imagine if Calvin (best known for his work with partner Hobbes) suddenly started blowing up planets full of people. Not as Spaceman Spiff, but as Calvin. Suppose he were to force choke a pregnant Susie Derkins.

As far as I can tell, the only thing that saved me from becoming part of a generation of mass murderers was the heartsick emo Anakin of The Clone Wars acting as a buffer between the “aw shucks” Phantom Menace Anakin and the “murder murder murder” Revenge of the Sith Anakin. As a ten year old, the only connections I had with Clone Wars Anakin were an appreciation for his sick rat tail and a shared dislike of sand. (You ever get that stuff in your swim trunks? It’s very uncomfortable.) If Hayden Christensen had been a more likable actor, who knows what kind of psychological issues I could’ve had?

The weird thing is, I’m aware of all of this, and yet I still can’t hate the prequels. Obviously, I can see how the original trilogy is superior. The triumph of a crew of misfits is much more fun than the fiery fall of a civilization. When I watch A New Hope I can imagine the kind of awe it must have inspired in theaters, but I have my own awe. I can feel my eyes widening now, just thinking about those doors opening, revealing Darth Maul’s dual bladed lightsaber. I remember my shock when Padme revealed herself as the true queen and my sadness at the death of Qui-Gon Jinn. My awe is just tainted by a bit of rage and mass murder. Also, some pretty remarkable plot and dialogue problems, but mostly rage and mass murder.