Star Wars III: A Philosophical Caveat (rant) and (mini) Review

I know, I know . . . we don’t need another Episode III review. But don’t worry—this is not a review. Enough things have been said about this movie by enough people, and I have nothing really to add to the discussion of the movie as a movie. All I want to do is point out something that Lucas tries to do with this film, philosophically, that just cannot be done.

But before I get to that, I can’t resist going back on my word (a little) and sneaking in a (mini) review. I thought that Episode III was very satisfying, both as a stand-alone movie and as the final Star Wars movie—it fit all the pieces into place, it delivered breathtaking action, it told a good story, it drummed up nostalgia, and it did all of this while maintaining that Star Wars feel. Like many others, I have fond memories of seeing The Empire Strikes Back, my first SW experience, and Episode III, for me, brought things full circle as it was supposed to. And, just as a final SW dork/fan-boy note to this (mini) review, I gotta say that the part where Yoda comes in and force brushes the Imperial Guards aside was so sweet. Even sweeter than seeing Chewbacca. Maybe even sweeter than that final shot of baby Luke on Tatooine, mimicking that first shot of teenage Luke in A New Hope—all of which was pretty sweet.

Now for the real point. Star Wars has always, in some circles, been talked about for its supposed smuggling of religious/philosophical ideas into its story and dialogue. The Force, for example, has at various times been seen as advocacy of some kind of pantheism, or Taoism, or new age beliefs, etc. Then, when the idea of the midi-chlorians was introduced, the Force was demystified and made more scientific—perhaps evolutionary. Episode III continues this tradition of Star Wars movies being about more than just light sabers and Ewoks.

But in this particular movie, more than in any of the others, I think a clear contradiction can be seen within what appears to be one of Lucas’ pet beliefs—relativism. If you go back and watch the older movies, hints of relativism can be found all around. Luke is once told (in Return of the Jedi) that truth depends on a person’s point-of-view. Numerous characters are repeatedly reminded to trust their feelings, their hearts. Now, some of this makes sense and is healthy, but the problem comes when relativism is posited absolutely. It’s an oxymoron, I know . . . but that’s the point.

In Episode III, when Anakin is ranting to Obi-Wan in preparation for their climactic fight, Obi-Wan comments that “only a Sith Lord deals in absolutes.” Everything, in other words, is relative. There is no absolute truth. It all depends on your point-of-view. Your feelings. Your heart. But then, not ten minutes later, when Anakin says that the Jedi are evil from his point-of-view, Obi-Wan responds with, “Well, then you are lost.” He doesn’t say, “Oh, okay—all truth is relative.” He doesn’t say, “Well, your opinion is as good as mine.” He doesn’t say, “No absolutes!” No. He instead affirms that some opinions are false, and that some false opinions can even cause a person to be “lost.” Well, the obvious question is: which way does Star Wars want it? Is there absolute truth, or not? Does all truth depend on point-of-view, or can I be “lost” if my point-of-view happens to be incorrect? Colloquially speaking, Lucas can’t have his cake and eat it too.

My personal opinion is that deep down, underneath the posturing, Lucas and whoever else is responsible for these bits of philosophizing knows that some things are really true, and some things are really false. As much as opinions and points-of-view matter, there is still good and evil, there are still heroes and villains, there is still the light and the dark side of the Force. Anakin still needs redeeming and the Emperor still needs to get his. This is just the way it is. The person who says, “There is no absolute truth,” is making an absolute truth claim. This is just the way it is. The person who says, “Everything is relative,” is supposedly saying something that isn’t relative. Relativism doesn’t work. This is just the way it is.

In the end, this all matters for a few reasons. First, a disturbing number of people, according to various surveys, agrees with the idea that there is no absolute truth. Second, this popular belief has become popular partly because of the influence of movies, music, etc.—culture in general. Star Wars, obviously, is a very weighty part of pop culture. Finally, pure relativism is spiritually dangerous. From a Christian viewpoint, there are some things that are non-negotiably true, and some that are non-negotiably false. From a Christian viewpoint, it is vitally important that people put their trust in the truth of the gospel. Popular relativism, of course, does not help this situation.

So, that’s my rant. Relativism just can’t be true. It doesn’t work philosophically, it doesn’t work practically, and as Episode III makes clear, it doesn’t work artistically. If “only a Sith Lord deals in absolutes,” then we’re all Sith Lords, even if we don’t know it. This is just the way it is.

Kung Fu Hustle

—Overview
—Photos
—About this Film pdf
—Spiritual Connections

I can safely say, without a hint of hyperbole, that Stephen Chow’s Kung Fu Hustle is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. But at the same time, it’s like lots of things you’ve seen before. It’s very Eastern, yet it’s very Western. It’s like a traditional martial arts movie, yet it isn’t. It’s a drama, it’s a comedy. It’s touching, it’s ridiculous. Getting even more specific, this film—at various times and in various ways—has traces of Chicago, The Matrix, spaghetti westerns, Sin City, Looney Tunes, wire-fu flicks like Hero et al, Tarantino, Dragonball Z, Bruce Lee movies, old-school Hollywood, and more. Still, despite the menagerie of influences, Kung Fu Hustle, to me, is pretty simple at its core. With its simple storyline, its simple and well-acted characters, and its simple themes, this movie is simply a great time at the theater.

[Spoilers Ahead!]

So, let’s deal with the story and characters first. The main character of the movie, good-hearted, directionless Sing, wants to become a member of the Axe Gang—a notorious, dancing, murdering group of thugs who rule over a Chicago-ized version of 1940s Shanghai. Before long, by pretending to be an Axe Gang member, Sing gets the occupants of Pig Sty Alley involved in a war of revenge with the gang. Three of the Alley’s occupants turn out to be kung-fu masters, trying to live lives of peace. These three, after fighting off most of the gang, are taken out by two blind, guqin playing assassins, hired by Brother Sum, the leader of the Axe Gang.

Taking the place of the three masters are the Landlord and Landlady of Pig Sty Alley, who are also, we discover, kung-fu masters in hiding. To combat these newer, tougher (and more funny) protectors of the poor, Brother Sum has Sing prove himself by breaking the Beast out of a mental institution. The Beast, we’re told, is the world’s number one assassin—the perfect person to counter the Landlady’s Lion’s Roar, and the Landlord’s Tai Chi.

This is where the plot gets even more interesting, especially on a spiritual level. Sing, after a sudden change of heart, takes the side of the Landlord and Landlady, attacking the Beast and being virtually killed in the process. After this act of self-sacrifice, Sing is bandaged up—looking like a butterfly in a cocoon—and eventually emerges completely healed, swathed in white clothes, and with powerful Bruce-Lee-esque kung-fu of his own. Needless to say, there is a final battle between the white-clad Sing, with his Buddha’s Palm, and the black-clad Beast, with his Toad Style. The hero wins, of course, and—after a touching denouement involving Sing’s reunion with a girl from his past, and a “passing of the torch” to a new hero—the movie draws to a close.

As you can probably tell, this brief plot outline doesn’t do the characters justice. Yes, the above is what happens, basically, but watching it all work out—with the actors playing these quirky personas with appropriate humor, sliminess, attitude, verve, etc.—is just such an enjoyable experience. Since Kung Fu Hustle is, in one sense, a satire, most of Stephen Chow’s characters are homages to other characters and character types. Sing and his sidekick feel a lot like a Chinese Laurel and Hardy, Brother Sum has been done in countless action flicks, and many of the film’s kung-fu masters were apparently drawn from the vast palette of past martial arts cinema.

But it is in the character of Sing that we see the most borrowing, and also where the themes of the movie begin to emerge most clearly. Sing is a classic Christ figure—a character type that seems to be gaining in popularity lately. Consider, for example, the much-discussed character of Neo in The Matrix. Neo is “the One.” He is specially gifted to bring humanity out of the bondage of the Matrix, and into the freedom of Zion. Neo, near the end of the first Matrix film, dies and is resurrected to new power, after which he begins his mission. Consider Gandalf, who also dies and resurrects, and then facilitates the salvation of Middle Earth in The Lord of the Rings. Consider Spider Man, who also seems to die and resuscitate, arms spread, saving a train-full of passengers in Spider Man 2.

Like these and other recent Christ figures, Sing’s character has a sense of destiny about him. After his resurrection, the Landlord and Landlady proclaim him, like Neo, like Christ, “the One”—graced with the Buddha’s Palm to protect the weak. Sing, we find out, first learned of the Buddha’s Palm as a child, from a pamphlet sold to him, fatefully, by a street vendor. This power, however, isn’t fully realized in him until his self-sacrifice, “death,” and “resurrection.” And, to top it all off, in the middle of his duel with the Beast, Sing literally flies up into the heavens, where he is blessed by a figure of the Buddha himself.

But though Sing seems to have been called, to have been destined to become what he becomes, Kung Fu Hustle isn’t content to present this theme of the victorious, self-sacrificing Christ figure alone. With its “masters in hiding” motif, it also presents a theme of significance and power for even the smallest, most obscure, and most “un-called” people—an idea that is also presented by the above cited movies, particularly The Lord of the Rings. To me, this was the final thought of the movie, underlined by the return of the street vendor and the selling of another pamphlet to another random (and hilariously snot-nosed and lollipop-licking) child. Incidentally, I wonder whether the vendor offering the child a choice of pamphlets is Stephen Chow’s subtle nod to religious plurality . . . or maybe a nod to the universality of this type of story . . .

In any case, whether in a Buddhist, Christian, or any other context, Kung Fu Hustle—besides being a brilliant piece of entertainment, and a nod to a myriad of influences—is about a destined, yet obscure, self-sacrificial figure, and the triumph of good over evil. It taps into story and character types that have been reworked by tale after tale, time after time. It leaves me asking a question that I often ask after movies with these kinds of obvious spiritual elements: “why do human beings, regardless of our culture, keep telling the same kinds of stories, involving the same kinds of characters?” Why the popularity of the Christ figure? Why the triumph of good? Why the “diamond in the rough” motif?

Is it possible that we all—Chinese, American, African, whatever—have a story in our hearts? A story that we keep echoing in our own fictions, tale after tale, time after time? A story that continually fascinates us because it is, in the deepest sense, the true story of reality? Is it possible that this story really does involve a Christ figure—the Christ figure—and the triumph of the good over the evil? Hmmmm. A possibility to consider . . . and a movie to see.

—Overview
—Photos
—About this Film pdf
—Spiritual Connections