I have many thoughts which are not organized into any sort of coherent thing. Deal with it.
Star Wars: Episode 8: Middle Aged Women Are Sick of Your Cowboy Shit.
Examples: Laura Dern pimpsmacking Poe and his dumb plan that got everybody killed, and then lightspeed-jumping the cruiser right THROUGH Evil Weasley’s murdership was my favorite thing that happened last week and I’ve had a pretty great week.
Can we just talk about how Poe is a good pilot but a shitty tactician and maybe he should leave the planning to the generals? Laura Dern and Leia would have gotten everybody away. Now the entire Resistance fits on the bridge of the Millennium Falcon. NICE JOB. Into the garbage chute, flyboy.
And I knew every moment with Leia would hurt like a rug burn and every one did, from the way she aged a thousand years the moment Luke died (ASLJFLFJLJFKDGFHGH, btw) to the way she busted through the door and tased Poe into oblivion.
Rose! ROSE. New favorite person in the Star Wars universe. She’s like the anti-Cally. Her magic necklace was a bit much, but I’m willing to overlook it for how filthy they made this smokin’-hot actress look. Related-ly, all of the technology looks like they duct-taped my parents’ answering machine from 1987 to the leftover parts of Mr. A’s old MacIntosh IIe or whatever, and when the floppy drive didn’t work anymore they just stuck a hot dog probe into it. Everything in Star Trek looks like it came from the mall and everything in Star Wars should look like it came from your dirtbag Uncle Jim’s hoarder garage. This is right and just.
I hope Rian Johnson’s next three movies are just the fuckcapades of Poe Dameron: Space Bisexual, because I reject the limiting of Poe-shipping to just Rey. Oscar Isaac is too attractive to have NOT sexed his way through the galaxy. And John Boyega would have chemistry with a lamppost, come on.
Critters: I actually love the Porg, and the casino’s poor abused horseydogs, and OMFG the TINSEL!FOXES. Chewie’s had a shit year. He could use some nice pets to exasperate him in ordinary ways and break stuff and remind him that little fluffy things always need feeding even when the earth is caving in.
The most moving thing, to me, was the ships streaking out across the red salt, the ground smoking behind them. “Our job is to save what we love,” Rose said, and the saving isn’t the point. The love isn’t even the point. The job is.
So much of Rebelling, Resisting, is meaningless. So many things, if you’re lucky, you never see the end of. You fight for every inch like the fight is all there is. This is all stuff I say all the time and maybe you think I believe it, but I’m tired in my bones. Winter is gnawing this year to a crust and the darkest day’s just passed and every time something good happens I knock wood twice and throw salt over my shoulder and turn around and say a prayer to gods I don’t believe in.
It’s hard to see the end of anything right now. The entire Resistance fits on the Falcon and they’re all about to die. They’ve seen the ruin of their houses, their happy endings turned inside out, and who would blame them if they just laid down their arms? What has all their work ever gotten them or anyone else? Who have they made free?
Themselves, mostly. That’s gotta be enough. Dying free sounds like horseshit until you’re facedown under the guillotine in chains. Then it sounds like everything. It sounds like a thousand voices crying out, and suddenly silenced.