Film Review - Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace
Images courtesy of The Walt Disney Company.
It is hard to imagine The Phantom Menace without its nostalgic imposition. Cursed by the global hysteria of a near 16 year gap between itself and the original Star Wars trilogy, its position as one of the most anticipated films of all time seemed to promise it would live long after the initial boom of its release, and far into the cultural fabric of blockbusters now fuelled by digital technology. For better and worse, Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace—to give its full title—has done just that. From visionary to dull, biblical to rote, beautiful to cringeworthy, The Phantom Menace has charted a full course in criticism over its 25 year life span. Gone are the days of merely dismissing the Prequel Trilogy as an unmitigated disaster. With the rise of both ironic and post-ironic revisionism by online audiences, the prequels have finally been given their dues by the generation that grew up along with them. Much like its initial release was entangled with the romantic memory of the Original Trilogy, reevaluating The Phantom Menace—released in theatres again for its 25th Anniversary—presents a whole new set of nostalgic barbs that make the rewatch both whimsical and sad.
This complication, of course, should not be surprising for a film that builds its very skeleton out of the clashing of tones. While it ostensibly seems bizarre to watch George Lucas’ narrative balancing act, it remains the key to unlocking why—all these years later—the film is so compelling to watch. There’s an admirable strangeness in watching Lucas shift gears from trade route taxation to the physical comedy of Jar Jar Binks, from childhood adventure to underpinnings of gambling and slavery. The interconnectedness between these elements, albeit clumsy in delivery, and often messy structurally, speak true to The Phantom Menace’s ambition to marry the childlike whimsy with the banal corruption of the political, adult world. Rewatching the film with knowledge of where Anakin’s (Jake Lloyd) story ends up creates a really effective sense of dramatic irony; there’s such an endearing quality to his innocence and sense of adventure that each of his triumphs is filled with a soft, plaintive sadness knowing that the life of this young boy is being toyed with by Qui-Gon Jinn (Liam Neeson) and the council of Jedi. For all its conceptual brilliance however, the same cannot be said about its execution; Lucas’ stilted dialogue and lack of meaningful direction towards actors are often barriers to the political intrigue of the story, creating a tension between his broad-strokes thematic ideas and the need for a steady narrative economy. There’s a small part of me that mourns a version of this film that is more precise, but for its flaws the version we have seems more endearingly idiosyncratic as the messy product that it is.
This singularity is echoed wonderfully through the film’s design elements. Using a blend of CGI—experimenting with early digital technology—real locations and miniature work, Lucas’ world feels remarkably lived in. The standout sequence in this regard is the Podracing Tournament; a synthesis between practical and digital effects that is terrifically staged, blocked, and edited with formal precision to wring tension. While much of the film does look noticeably digital, there is an attention to detail and diversity of design that aids in the believability of each planet, even when the computer effects look dated 25 years removed. Each creature feels meticulously crafted with texture and variance from one another, both giving the impression of A Galaxy Far Far Away and ensuring that each creature design stands out in frame. The sound design feels instantly iconic, with each blaster sounding different, the sound of lightsabers clashing feeling aptly gladiatorial, and of course, a John Williams score for the ages. It’s a film that feels rich enough on worldbuilding alone, and often feels completely driven by its ability to create magic, in all its imperfections.
The Phantom Menace’s re-release arrives in a timely fashion. Since the end of the Sequel trilogy—and the Skywalker saga as a whole—the franchise has taken a turn away from event cinema, towards TV, and towards a weaponisation of nostalgia that prioritises revisiting iconography rather than expanding on it. Luke Skywalker’s appearance in The Mandalorian, the Obi-Wan Kenobi miniseries, and Ahsoka are all visitations on previous iconography that make little effort to interrogate it. In some ways, this is understandable, the last Star Wars property to attempt to challenge what the iconography of the series meant, The Last Jedi, was met with flagrantly polarising views, but it demonstrates exactly why a film like The Phantom Menace is important. It provides a window to a time in which Star Wars had a keener sense of itself. That when it failed, it didn’t fail with facelessness, but with identity.
If the emergence of the Prequel generation in the public discourse has demonstrated anything, it’s that the appetite for a film as singular as The Phantom Menace is strong. The desire to reevaluate older films in the public consensus is an important endeavour, as it not only gives us a window into the cultural context of the time, but it can inform important features of our culture today. Make no mistake, this is not a secretly brilliant film. It is full of brilliant ideas, flashes of harmony, but a lack of distillation renders it both too unsubtle and not clear enough. Rewatching The Phantom Menace sent me far beyond the realms of good or bad; I left with an admiration for a deeply strange film, and a slight cynicism that we may never quite see the likes of it again.
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