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In all the history of cinema, we may have never been confronted with a "motion picture" so firmly rooted in its own cultural iconography as to render any discourse on its quality irrelevant. Devising one's own opinion on this contraption becomes futile because Attack of the Clones can only be approached from a choice of two long-overwrought vantage points: that of the carefree enthusiast determined not to take matters too seriously, and that of the intransigent skeptic determined not to enjoy himself (the cult fans don't count, as their reactions are preprogrammed and, therefore, entirely beside the point). To discuss this film with any ounce of passion would automatically reduce any viewer's analysis to a hackneyed one, so at least in this case, I'll make an effort to retain that veneer of studied objectivity that I used to think could project some degree of professionalism in this context. With the case of films like Episode II, however, strong emotions have their way of peeking out behind even the most detached, "observant" reactions a moviegoer can ever manage.
But honestly, why bother squandering so much energy to harp on the obvious? Dialogue and performances so stiff and so devoid of irony that they lend TV soap the weight of Arthur Miller in comparison (study the knowing goofiness of David Koepp's Spider-Man screenplay to understand the demarcation between good camp and bad), editing and cinematography of such a low order as to provoke doubt over the involvement of real industry specialists (has Lucas hired 'droids to bear the burden of making this film appear faintly cinematic?), and storytelling so perfunctory in concept and execution that it effectively desecrates the essence of what popular science-fiction is all about (that is, mythic, rousing tales set amid rich, stimulating, otherworldly backdrops). None of these rough edges really means anything to the average Star Wars devotée, so why waste one's time wallowing in sheer bitterness over a film deliberately designed as a 2.5-hour vacuum of imagery? A Star Wars prequel invites hyperbole by default, so why subscribe to these sorts of throwaway criticisms right from the get-go? (if I haven't done so already)
Of course, one of the most embarrassingly empty-headed observations a critic can pose concerning the Star Wars saga is that its films place an unabashed emphasis on special effects over story. To be sure, I'm just as willing as anybody to censure the moviegoer who resorts to that sort of trite, piddling excuse to dismiss a franchise of this stature merely for the sake of it. But for a picture intended solely to flaunt visual excess, Episode II has a rough time coming across any real visuals at all, which it only discovers in scraps near its closing half-hour. Sadly, Lucas opts to deliver a pulp sci-fi period-piece-romance-cum-political-thriller in lieu of his familiar breed of jocular, design-oriented action violence, and the result, I'm sorry to say, is one of the most anemic specimens of artistic masturbation I've ever witnessed in my life (if the word artistic can even be wielded reasonably here).
Like Terry Gilliam's similarly expensive and similarly indulgent futuristic vision Brazil, Attack of the Clones seems to have been conceived entirely without an audience in mind (though in Brazil's case, the craftsmanship and personal energy infused into the endeavor by its director overshadowed the film's solipsism). The production displays no interest whatsoever in entertaining any clear demographic, as its screenplay is conspicuously devoid of any soul or wit that could potentially be directed at anyone who enjoys watching movies at all. Lucas has simply metamorphosed from a teller of grandiose bedtime stories into one big, egomaniacal baby, an A.D.D. kid who likes to placate his daily eruptions of testosterone with his array of billion-dollar, life-size action figures -- he's the happiest little boy in the world, no doubt. Of course, anyone who wants to kick back and watch him cannibalize his own reputation for two and a half hours is certainly welcome to do so, but at the costly expense of deadening his senses for a much, much longer stretch of time.
Surely it's safe to speculate at this point, what with the presence of Episode III looming faintly over the horizon, that Lucas may soon consider scrapping his actors altogether and steering to the path paved by Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within, a film more or less as technically accomplished, but also as visually cut and dried as Attack of the Clones is. CGI character models, as crude as today's technology would render them, might be immeasurably more congruous with the photo-realistic, computer-generated backdrops that populate the Star Wars milieu. At least they would spare audiences the sight of one more clunky blue-screen composition, the likes of which I'm sure we've all seen more than enough.
Concerning the actors themselves, viewers may have a dubious case on their hands deciding whether or not to take pity on their histrionic impotence. It can be assumed that Samuel L. Jackson and Ewan MacGregor have stranded their talents in the figurative wasteland of Lucas's script by choice, but why have they so consistently ignored Harrison Ford's example of a self-aware performer's irony? They could easily be sinking their teeth into the hidden fruits of B-movie bliss (and thereby lending the screenplay at least an ephemeral sense of fun), but instead they stand posed like mannequins, taking no pleasure in the innate hilarity afforded by truly awful dialogue. One almost wants to slap them on the back and point out in reassurance, "Sure, this is the worst screen role of your career, but why not have a ball with the opportunity while it lasts?"
Now, newcomer Hayden Christensen is another matter entirely. In his case, it's useless to blame the performance on Lucas's incompetence as a writer. There's another, more insidious force at work here, one we can only consolingly label bad acting, an utter and unequivocal detachment from the dynamics of the performing arts. In his most grating onscreen monologues, the kid inspires true pathos (not for his character, but for himself) as he strains in a sharp and discernable effort to broadcast what we would normally call "nuance" through clearly drawn successions of expression, as if he's counting off in his head every facial twitch he has to run through one by one before reciting another illuminating line of dialogue to prod on the plot. Though we can allow him the credit for apparently investing heart and soul in his rendition of Anakin Skywalker, it's difficult not to cringe at the sight of this naive young thespian veritably eating himself alive.
Perhaps Frank Oz is indeed the singular soul in this miserable graveyard of imagination who stands deserving of some slight accolade; as the voice of Yoda, he's the only cast member retaining a noticeable spark of life alongside all his stone-faced live-action counterparts (though his brand new CGI form, like the rest of this film's clumsily computer-reliant special effects, is inferior to the tangible robotic gimmickry of the 1980's, proving that CGI in general, for all its expense, is nothing more than an artless visual shortcut for an artless director). And as it so happens, his diminutive screen persona has a chance to dominate the limelight in Episode II's one and only set piece that actually harkens back to the giddy, adolescent charm of Lucas's original trilogy: Yoda finally demonstrates his true prowess in a light-saber duel that wonderfully subverts his docile, Zen-master iconography we've always taken for granted, and the result has an almost defibrillating effect on this picture, resurrecting in viewers a hope, however faint, that Lucas is still a filmmaker -- an inept one, but still a filmmaker -- rather than another mindless commercial artisan. But it's no use. The film flatlines once again before it's all said and done, leaving us to throw our hands up in exasperation, hoping for another Irvin Kerschner to wrench this mess from Lucas's grip and set matters right (somehow) before the whole ill-fated trilogy draws its final closing curtain. Let's pray for a miracle. |
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Star Wars: Episode 2, Attack of the Clones |
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review by André de Alencar Lyon |
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George Lucas |
