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What The Last Jedi meant to me: Mark Hamill’s journey

[Needless to say, here be spoilers…]

In the light of recent Oscar nominations, I think it would be a good time to talk a little bit about The Last Jedi. Whilst it received four nominations for technical aspects, it didn’t get put forward for anything to do with performance, screenplay or narrative. Although I agree that there were perhaps some more deserving films on this front, such as the incredible Get Out and The Shape of the Water, I do think it’s a crying shame that one person, in particular, was not recognised for outstanding achievement. I’m talking about Mark Hamill.

Let’s take it back a few frames. The Last Jedi has been one of the most divisive Star Wars movies ever made. In fact, it may even be one of the most divisive movies of all time. Fans, critics and everyone inbetween seem to be conflicted, with criticism levelled at its disregard of the central mysteries established in The Force Awakens as well as its complicated plotlines, which subverted many audience expectations of hero narrative. There has been both praise and condemnation of its feminist messages (as there unfortunately always is), coupled with sheer outrage at the character decisions made about one of the most iconic Star Wars characters of all time: Luke Skywalker. Whilst there have already been several eloquent defences of this complex and culturally significant film, I want to add my own, but not as a film critic. I want to speak as someone who witnessed a deep, personal, emotional journey not just for the characters on screen, but for the actors behind them.

Hamill has been an idol of mine for many years. For me, Luke Skywalker was one of the best parts of the original Star Wars. Although I was always in love with the villains as a kid (and who really can boast being a bigger villain than Darth Vader?), Luke Skywalker was perhaps the most inspiring hero-figure I could have wished for. Whilst some fans found the roguish, anti-hero Han Solo more entertaining and down-to-earth (show me the damn money!), for me, it was always Hamill’s Luke that held the three films together. He portrayed and owned an incredible journey from naive farm-boy to self-sacrificial saviour, willing to endure the most terrifying torture imaginable rather than compromise his beliefs. Hamill brought a unique stamp to the role. While not all liked it, few could argue that it was something unique: iconoclastic heroism that still remembered its roots: “I’m Luke Skywalker, I’m here to rescue you”. Luke embodied the mythic archetype of the Nobody who becomes Somebody whilst always hitting the off-beat. A farmer’s boy raised on a shit-hole who one day, with the guidance of a teacher to unlock his potential, rose to become a hero and save the Galaxy. I guess I connected with that dream more than I ever realised at the time. I saw myself in this young, naive person who came from nothing, someone who dreamed they could become somebody heroic. As a kid, I arrogantly believed I had all the pre-requisites. I even loved milk.

Mark Hamill said on the Graham Norton Show, following the release of The Last Jedi in 2017: ‘Back then [when the original Star Wars was being filmed], I though that every movie I did would become a pop-culture phenomenon.’ People in the audience laughed, and so did he, but you can tell he isn’t joking. He was young, and had the arrogance of youth. I’d argue there was a certain arrogance in the Luke of the original trilogy too – even at the end in Return of the Jedi. Luke’s near-flippant defiance of the Emperor seems almost ridiculous when we consider both the cost in lives to the Rebellion his game represents, and the potential waste of his training from Yoda and Ben Kenobi as the last member of the Jedi order. Despite his belief that there is ‘still good’ in his father, it could be interpreted that his entire final stand is nothing more than impetuousness, a refusal to bow to anyone no matter the cost. Of course, many fans do not see it that way. Luke’s faith in the Jedi, and all they stood for, and his commitment to die for that cause just to prove the way of Light is the right path, was nothing short of a Messianic act.

We are asked to believe, in The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi, that Luke has lost faith. His failure to create a new Jedi order, his loss of Ben Solo to the Dark Side, and his own inflated legend-status have worn him down – he no longer uses or connects to the Force. Many have complained about this direction, saying that this angle reverses the lessons Luke learned in the original trilogy, and makes the ending of Return of the Jedi redundant. Even Hamill argued against it and is purported to have disagreed with Rian Johnson about several elements (although subsequently he expressed his regret at voicing the concerns in public and said Rian Johnson’s vision was ‘a great one’.) Nothing to me could be more realistic to me than a legendary, rigorously righteous hero becoming cynical and misanthropic in later life. There’s a recent Nolan quote which you will all know too well that illustrates this point: ‘You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.’ Heroes are not meant to go home. This is one of the oldest archetypes in the book. Heroes love war, they come alive in chaos, and when it’s all over, they stagnate and rot, corrupt and lose themselves. Luke hasn’t lost himself as dearly as this. In many respects, his self-imposed exile to Ahch-To, and from use of the Force, is like a return to his boyhood on the desert planet Tatooine. He’s even back on the milk. But, he has forgone his identity as the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker. He is no longer a hero. He is no longer sought after and starring. He is cynical and carries the scars of the past. He will not even look at his old lightsaber, tossing it over his shoulder as though it’s a worthless trinket. The pain is still too near.

The thing about this plotting and character-decision that rings so true for me is that this is exactly what happened to Hamill. Once, he was the centre of attention, a super-star hero, one of the most well-known faces on Earth – bar China and a few other countries where Star Wars wasn’t aired until recently. He – from humble beginnings – had become a hero. Exactly like Luke Skywalker. From that point on, he expected, perhaps like Luke Skywalker did, that success would follow success, that his legacy would continue on. But it didn’t. He left the limelight, instead transitioning predominantly to voice-work (at which he was exemplary, it should be noted – his performance as The Joker stands against Nicholson and Ledger’s easily). He admits candidly he became disillusioned with Hollywood, with the industry, with everything. In other words, he became cynical.

I’d go so far to say that Hamill was fed up of being Luke Skywalker. Fed up of being called upon for endless conventions, to be goggled at by adoring fans who only saw him as a character and not a human being. Luke Skywalker had made him and broken him. Who can blame him for feeling angry? Anyone would be. You can feel this pain in Luke’s speech in The Last Jedi, where he extols the consequences – moral, spiritual, and emotional – of being a ‘legend’. He confesses his own arrogance to Rey, that he saw all the danger of what he was doing but couldn’t stop himself anyway. This speech is surely one of the greatest performances of 2017, a raw, fourth-wall breaking moment where Hamill finally gets to confess the truth of how he really feels and who he really is. Luke Skywalker is a lie, an accident, he is not really The Legend we believe. Hamill delivers a speech that de-constructs millennia of hero-worship in a way that makes it seem as though this issue has burned at the core of him his whole life. Only an actor of his caliber could carry such an awesome and important speech.

But that isn’t the end of the story. Whilst The Last Jedi de-constructs toxic masculinity with a deft hand, subverting our aggressive ‘kill those we hate’ narratives with beautiful pathos, it does not abandon the concept of heroism or heroic identity entirely as some have supposed. In fact, it lovingly, jubilantly affirms it. On the Graham Norton Show, Mark Hamill explained: ‘[Carrie Fisher] said to me: “I will always be Princess Leia, and you will always be Luke Skywalker. Get used to it!” She was always way ahead of me in these things’, and I think that’s a perfect encapsulation not only of his journey as an actor and a human being, from frustration and disappointment to a kind of acceptance of who he is and the community he will forever be a part of, but also a perfect encapsulation of what The Last Jedi is really about. Hamill displays an incredible gift for comedy, lighting up a room and satirising his flaws, and I think this demonstrates a move away from taking himself seriously to something truly humble and life-affirming. Luke tells Rey, when he is training her on Achc-To, that the Force ‘Does not belong to you’ – because it belongs to everything. To me, this mirrors the beautiful revelation that Luke Skywalker and Star Wars is for everyone. Mark Hamill has realised that just as Carrie Fisher said, whether he likes it or not, he will always be Luke, and Luke will always be for everyone. He is part of something bigger than himself. And he is the hero. It doesn’t matter how much time passes or what people say, he will always be Luke Skywalker. And it’s not such a bad thing.

At the nadir in The Last Jedi, when all hope seems lost, Luke returns to save the Resistance on Crait. He faces down an army, a cavalcade of AT-ATs, and the newly crowned Kylo-Ren, but he does it non-violently, projecting an illusionary image to the other side of the Galaxy in an incredible demonstration of Force-power we have never seen hitherto in the series. He buys the Resistance just enough time to escape while he distracts Kylo with the promise of a one-on-one duel. This is surely the epitome of Luke’s character. He would not violently kill the Emperor or Vader in Return of the Jedi; he had learned the lessons of violently confronting Vader in Empire Strikes Back. And in The Last Jedi, he does not kill Kylo Ren (though he was once tempted too – as he was with Vader – because he sensed the darkness in him growing). Instead, he chooses to rescue those he loves and once again use the Force for good. During his exchange with Kylo, he echoes his old role-model Ben Kenobi, telling Kylo that he will be with him forever should Kylo kill him. At the end, the exertion of projecting this illusion kills Luke, using up too much of his strength. He becomes one with the Force, but just before his death, sees twin-suns shining on the horizon, the twin-suns of Tatootine, a complete close of the cycle – returning to our very first image of Luke, that of the farm-boy beneath those suns.

It’s difficult for me to think of a more fitting farewell to the screen for this heroic icon of popular culture (although he may return as a Force-ghost the final trilogy instalment). He mirrors his master and role-model before him, dying the honourable death of a true ‘true’ Jedi; he returns to his point of origin symbolically completing the cycle of life and birth; he re-affirms his status as a hero and icon, and upholds the character-defining pacifist ideology that is his hallmark. His passing is at once grandiose, like the denouement of an ancient Greek mythological hero or Arthurian Knight, but with its own flavour of subtle humility that Mark Hamill effortlessly captures. When people talk about the arc of Luke Skywalker, they do so without acknowledging the man behind all that. Luke’s journey is as much Hamill’s as it is his. The two are intertwined. And that’s the whole point of The Last Jedi. Hamill is a hero: he is Luke and Luke is Hamill. His performance in The Last Jedi is the culmination of thirty years of learning and experience and growth. Let’s acknowledge the beauty of that, and be glad we lived to see it.

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Good News for a Change: The Short Story is Reborn!

2017 was a remarkably challenging year. However, despite the challenges of difficult socio-economic circumstances, political warmongering and the continual disintegration of values in our society, the artistic and beautiful still managed to triumph and blossom. I don’t maintain utopian ideals. I do not believe humans are perfectible or that government or law can fix the issues that stem from our human condition, but I do believe that there is a glimmer of hope, and that hope is what we must hold onto in 2018.

I believe one of the greatest of these glimmers in 2017 was revitalisation of the short story form in the UK. The short story has long been neglected by writers and publishers here, whereas it is still held in high esteem in the US, often viewed as a kind of ‘rite of passage’ by which authors can win accolades and critical acclaim before they go for the big novel pitch. There are far more markets in the US for the short story form as well as anthologies collating the best of specific genres. The ‘Best American’ literary series epitomises this outlook, treating the short story much in the same reverence as the sonnet of Elizabethan England, whereby a writer could not really claim to be a poet unless they had written one.

But even in the US, the short story has been in danger for a while now. More and more markets are starting to close and many newer markets are not able to offer professional paying rates. Publishers put out fewer single-author short story collections each year. Extremely long-standing and well-reputed markets remain open, of course, such as Fantasy & Science Fiction, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, Nightmare, Shimmer, and Analog. However, this creates issues in and of itself, because these markets are so prestigious many new writers feel they represent pipe-dream ambition. With diminishing opportunities, a greater number of authors feel there is no point in writing short stories, as no one will publish them and no one will read them. It’s not the publishers’ fault by any means, but a result of economic, societal and philosophical changes, and these changes are far from over if the current political climate in the West is anything to go by.

But all is not lost, because there has been a miraculous recovery of the short story.

Firstly though, why is the short story so important? Well, I believe it is its very concision that makes it valuable. Writing is healing. We’ve known this for millennia. Writing is both therapy for the writer and reader, especially when it achieves the pre-eminent quality of inducing catharsis. Catharsis often comes at the end of a story, and the power of short stories is that they are endings and nothing else. Sure, there are structures and formulas and ways to de-construct them, but I honestly believe that the greatest short stories are the ones that feel like walking into the end of a movie, where everything is rich with meaning but you do not have the full context. A good friend of mine once told me to watch the third season of Twin Peaks: The Return without first watching the original seasons 1 & 2. ‘It’ll add to the weirdness,’ he said. ‘And make it even better.’ Boy, was he right. Piecing together the missing history of the series in the implied dialogue and imagery was one of the most joyous aspects to watching that momentous television event of 2017.

So, the same is true of good short stories. You come into the movie with ten minutes left, and while you wonder what the hell it’s all about, you feel this cataclysmic swell of emotion that defies logic-driven attempts to fill in the gaps and create ‘plot’. With a short story, a good one, as with poetry, you get straight to the healing part without having to wade through plot and narrative mechanics. Of course, good novels and long-form narrative make the plot and narrative enhance the emotional experience, but that’s an essay for another time. I think this can be summed up best in the words of Dan Coxon, the editor of The Shadow Booth (more on this anon), in a recent interview with LitReactor: ‘There’s nothing better than a short story that evokes a strong emotional response in the reader but defies all attempts to pin it down.’

The tradition of short stories dates way back, as far and if not farther than Ovid, with his eclectic and electric collection of tales Metamorphoses, one of the books that most greatly influenced Shakespeare. The first time I personally realised the incredible potential of the short story was when I read a piece by Raymond Carver called ‘Are These Actual Miles?’. I would later learn Carver contributed to the revitalisation of the short story in the 80s. In this story, the state of a disintegrating marriage is symbolically represented by the condition of a car. This tale made apparent the power of the image to tell a story, without the need explain it with clunky narrative exposition. The naturalistic dialogue, and the way it created such a rich sense of character, was also a wake-up call to me, as hitherto I’d hardly used dialogue in my storytelling. After that, I was inspired by the ‘daughters of decadence’ – the astonishing female writers of the 19th century whose short stories are shining examples of stylistic excellence and emotional power. In particular, the works of Olive Custance (the featured image of this article in case you were wondering), Olive Schreiner, Victoria Cross and Charlotte Perkins Gillman. The often fantastic and phantasmagorical ideas of these writers were always nuanced and subtle, and deeply influenced my own approach to how Fantasy should be written. I later discovered Thomas Mann, Stephen King, and a sea of other phenomenal writers employing the short form.

Now we come to the present day, where many consider the short story redundant. Recently, a close friend of mine, having read one of my short works, smiled and said: ‘This is why I don’t read short stories. They frustrate me.’ He was annoyed, perhaps understandably, that I didn’t specify exactly what happened at the end. Did the characters live? Get blown up? I could see where he was coming from, but it also made me realise how little attuned we are as a culture to this form. Once, it was a mainstay, but somehow we’ve lost the beat of it. He somewhat admitted it himself, perceptively observing that the form had always ‘frustrated’ him. I wonder if schools put more emphasis on this form whether we would change things. But that is also a topic for another time. So much good work is being done in the short story field. For anyone new to the scene, or looking to fall in love with short stories, I would highly recommend the collection The New Black, published by Dark House Press; it represents a triumph of the short story form and this should come as no surprise given that the collection was collated by none other than Richard Thomas, whose own single-author short story collection Tribulations was a master-stroke. I’ve praised this collection in numerous places, so I won’t re-iterate it here, but suffice to say Richard Thomas is one of the best advocates for the short story precisely because he wields it with such efficacy. Another collection for lovers of the Fantastic is Songs of the Dying Earth, which has stories from a number of prestigious authors including George R. R. Martin and Neil Gaiman. These stories, written in styles creatively imitating Jack Vance’s original ‘baroque’ prose, are inventive, zany and profoundly weird, some of the best speculative fiction I’ve read in a long time.

Gamut magazine, another Richard Thomas innovation, spearheaded an incredible movement to create a quality neo-noir zine. And though, tragically, it will not be going forward into a second year (the take up was not significant enough), the quality of stories it offered, and the number of new voices it discovered, has set the bar exceedingly high for all time. You might think it strange I’m spending time in my ‘hopeful’ essay with an example of a short story market that is no longer running, but Gamut demonstrated that with a clear vision for quality, and aesthetic taste, it was possible to create something unique and beautiful. Whilst it did not gain enough of a following to continue, it set an example, reinvigorating the literary community, particularly in the realms of Speculative and Horror fiction, with a thirst for quality short fiction. I certainly found myself feverishly logging in to the Gamut website during my lunch-breaks at work in order to read the latest article or story. I find it hard to remember the last time I had such a hunger for literary content.

In the UK, we are beginning to cotton on, and new short story markets have emerged. My own effort, 13Dark, clawed its way into existence, introducing three new voices in fiction. What’s unique about 13Dark is that it focuses on longer short stories, those tricky pieces of fiction that fall between the arbitrary boundaries of 5,000 words or less, or 20,000 or more. These longer forms achieve tremendous power and impact precisely because of their added depth and complexity (but they still retain the poetic concision of the short form). I’ve always been a fan of the ‘long short story’ – and it was a delight to showcase such shining examples of it. There will be more from 13Dark in the future, so watch this space.

Perhaps more significantly, STORGY and The Shadow Booth released their début publications last year. STORGY’S epic 24 story collection Exit Earth is a tour de force, treading a dividing line between literary and genre, writing both timelessly about issues of power and humanity whilst also screaming into the present with commentary on the state of technology and contemporary socio-political issues. The Shadow Booth Vol. 1 is a profound exploration of Weird fiction and like 13Dark explored longer story forms. There were many incredible contributions to this collection, notably Daniel Carpenter’s ‘Flotsam’ and Richard Thomas’ ‘White Picket Fences’. I had the incredible fortune to have stories in both volumes, and attended both launch-events in London (they were on consecutive days!). The energy at these events was awe-inspiring (you can check out pictures of the STORGY event here), and there was a real feeling that the short story was once again attaining capturing interest. The fact so many upcoming writers are contributing to the form, alongside more established names, shows that people still thinks there is value in it, and that new ideas can still be expressed within its constraints.

Theodore Dalrymple once said in his seminal work Our Culture, What’s Left of It: ‘Art is precisely the means by which man makes sense of, and transcend, his own limitations and flaws’. While it might sound lofty, I think it’s most probably true. The short story is a particularly effective way to do this because it is not onerous to write – it can be completed in a few sittings, and refined and refined at leisure. I would argue that in our increasingly time-restricted culture, where we are asked to work more and more with less personal development time, the resurgence of the short story is not just timely and convenient, but a complete necessity for literature to continue to thrive, and therefore, for people to continue to thrive, because good writing heals us, good writing imparts understanding and empathy, good writing is the antidote to total corporate anaesthetisation.

So what are you waiting for? Go write.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please feel free to follow @josephwordsmith on Twitter, or alternatively discover more about 13Dark on their Facebook page. To discover his writing, you can check out his work at Amazon.

To celebrate the re-emergence of the short story, I’m offering 15% off 13Dark’s first issue: DEAD VOICES. Follow this link, and use the code JAN15 to at checkout.