How often do mythic entities collide, and to what (special) effect? Since the season of myths is upon us, a wholesome way to ponder this question is to consider William Shakespeare’s Star Wars collection in six volumes, written by Ian Doescher: Verily, a New Hope; The Empire Striketh Back; The Jedi Doth Return; The Phantom of Menace; The Clone Army Attacketh; and Tragedy of the Sith’s Revenge.
The juxtaposition of Shakespeare to Star Wars should not raise eyebrows, at least not among Star Wars fanatics. One cannot fail to appreciate the majesty of narrative and setting and the vividness of storytelling common to both. And this is what makes Doescher’s “mash-up” commendably different from, say, the randomness of Seth Grahame-Smith’s Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
Jane Austen’s novel does not deal with death or deadness (Wüthering Heights would be a different case in point, though), making Grahame-Smith’s retelling merely arbitrary, even if entertaining. But Star Wars is a tale of Shakespearean dimensions – it is the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker that unfolds in six parts, full of sound and fury, signifying much, preoccupied with the grand themes of evil, power, glory, predetermination and free will. It is only fit that we also see it laid out in iambic pentameter with faux seventeenth-century illustrations on the pages of a series of hardcover volumes.
If there’s one overarching idea in Shakespeare’s tragedies and histories, it’s arguably the tumultuous rise and inevitable fall of an ambitious individual. The trajectory of Anakin’s life is precisely that.
He’s a gifted young man – both blessed and cursed by the gods (as in the Force) – whose essential goodness goes awry, triggered by attachment, a fixation, the inability to let go. The dark path appears to him as one of righteousness and he follows it unwaveringly. In his fall, brought about by the inevitable nemesis (his son Luke), he recognises the futility of this journey.
But, as with all tragic heroes, thiscritical discovery comes too late. In the wake of all this, the kingdom, the universe, lies in tatters. It is a tragedy of the hero, for sure, but also one of the commoners, the inhabitants of the universe – for they too suffer a blighted fate for that one man’s hubris.
Is this parallel all just coincidence? Perhaps not.
George Lucas, the initiator of this myth, was one of the first major filmmakers to consciously apply to motion pictures the theories of Joseph Campbell, the mythologist who famously wrote The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949) in which he studied the journey of the “archetypal” hero in world mythologies. In his pioneering work, Campbell discussed Shakespeare too, Prince Hamlet being one of his archetypal heroes.
Lucas has openly acknowledged Campbell’s influence on his writing of Star Wars, and hence, as Doescher himself writes in his afterword to the first volume of William Shakespeare’s Star Wars, “To put it more simply, Campbell studied Shakespeare to produce The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and Lucas studied Campbell to produce Star Wars.”
While Anakin Skywalker may be likened to a hero such as Macbeth or Richard III, the fun in comparing the Star Wars hexalogy to the Bard’s works lies in discovering the scattered shadows of Shakespearean motifs in the six films.
Prophecy, for instance. While omens abound in Shakespeare’s plays – Julius Caesar, Richard III, King Lear, even King John – it is again Macbeth whose story is propelled by one. Similarly, the Jedi prophecy that someone will bring balance to the Force leads Qui-Gon Jinn to identify young Anakin as the “Chosen One”, which seals the fate of our tragic hero. Then descends the tragedy of doomed love between Anakin and Padmé Amidala, the likes of which were immortalised by the Bard in Romeo and Juliet.
We see obsession murdering the very object of one’s affection – not unlike Othello. Twins Luke and Leia follow, separated at birth – somewhat like Twelfth Night. We encounter a complex father–son relationship between Anakin/Vader and Luke Skywalker, in which one can see the traces of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Let’s not forget how ghosts appear through this long story to guide and urge Luke on – Hamlet again. Comic relief, so characteristic of Shakespearean tragedy, appears in the form of C-3PO and R2-D2 – some would say a Rosencrantz–Guildenstern duo, although without inherent malice and with much greater narrative role.
Shakespeare borrowed all these motifs from existent literary and performance sources, as did Lucas.
The greatness in both lay in the supremacy of storytelling, weaving together strands of narratives often madly implausible to create a convincing story line. Shakespeare was hailed as a universal great only in the eighteenth century, thanks greatly to Samuel Johnson and Edmond Malone. In his day, he was mostly what Ben Jonson called “the applause, delight, the wonder of our stage”.
On its release in 1977, Star Wars (later Episode IV: A New Hope) failed to impress all the critics – “There’s no breather in the picture, no lyricism . . . [no] emotional grip,” wrote the revered Pauline Kael in the New Yorker – even though it quickly became one of the most successful box-office hits ever. Its “greatness”, its entry into the cinematic canon, was acknowledged much later. But such is often the journey of genius.
William Shakespeare’s Star Wars is conscious of these parallels and takes on the formidable challenge of blending two hallowed genres.
The problem is: what makes Shakespeare’s great storytelling exceptionally good is his sublime poetry. Lucas’s dialogues, on the other hand, are rudimentary – the poetry of Star Wars lies in its visuals, in its wordless action (it is cinema, after all), rounded off by John Williams’s divine music. Doescher tries to overcome this difference by infusing the characters’ dialogue with faux-Elizabethan dramatics and by creating a Chorus that narrates parts of the intense action.
The faux-Elizabethan dialogue obviously suits Yoda best – for hyperbaton is his natural “figureless” speech – but also adds enough amusement to the campness of C-3PO. Also, we finally have R2-D2 divulging his great wisdom by uttering a lot more than beeps (as intelligent asides to us, the reader/audience), and the opening scene of Verily, A New Hope is something that few Star Wars or (not-so-jejunely-stuck-up) Shakespeare fans will fail to delight in. Chewbacca, however, remains limited to occasional roars, sadly.
Doescher does show sparks of skilful adaptation. In a subtly clever nod to Hamlet, he invents a scene in Verily, A New Hope in which Luke enters the stage holding the helmet of a dead stormtrooper:
And when Emperor Palpatine/Darth Sidious opens Tragedy of the Sith’s Revenge, one cannot be blamed for mistaking it for an actual Elizabethan tragedy:
In a laudable and daring departure from the Star Wars prequel trilogy, Doescher, in The Phantom of Menace, makes Jar Jar Binks—perhaps the most hated character in movie history—a creature acutely aware of what’s happening around him and who plays dumb in order for others to react to his secret wishes the way he wants. Some redemption there, perhaps!
One cannot, however, help but feel that many opportunities have been missed. Luke’s passion at the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi, or the bewilderment of his feelings for Leia through most of the original trilogy, or the torment of Anakin’s vision of Padmé’s death do not find themselves rendered into poetry. But, hey, Ian Doescher is not William Shakespeare. The entire project is tongue in cheek; it is not meant to go down in literary canons, nor is it meant to hit Broadway. (Oh wait! Why not?) What would be best, of course, is that it lead many hard-core Star Warriors to the marvel of Shakespeare and introduced many dedicated Sheakespeareans to the magic that is Star Wars, thereby ensuring a lasting amity between these two magnificent galactic empires.
But the season of myths is upon us, and we must get out of bed and hit the theatres. Doescher makes C-3PO begin Verily, A New Hope thus:
However, as this cold Christmas approaches, and verily we discern new hope for us in the form of Episode VII: The Force Awakens, one might as well feel the force of Shakespeare’s Gloucester in Richard III:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer...
Bishan Samaddar is Editor at Seagull Books, Calcutta, and an ardent admirer of Shakespeare and Star Wars.
The juxtaposition of Shakespeare to Star Wars should not raise eyebrows, at least not among Star Wars fanatics. One cannot fail to appreciate the majesty of narrative and setting and the vividness of storytelling common to both. And this is what makes Doescher’s “mash-up” commendably different from, say, the randomness of Seth Grahame-Smith’s Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
Jane Austen’s novel does not deal with death or deadness (Wüthering Heights would be a different case in point, though), making Grahame-Smith’s retelling merely arbitrary, even if entertaining. But Star Wars is a tale of Shakespearean dimensions – it is the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker that unfolds in six parts, full of sound and fury, signifying much, preoccupied with the grand themes of evil, power, glory, predetermination and free will. It is only fit that we also see it laid out in iambic pentameter with faux seventeenth-century illustrations on the pages of a series of hardcover volumes.
If there’s one overarching idea in Shakespeare’s tragedies and histories, it’s arguably the tumultuous rise and inevitable fall of an ambitious individual. The trajectory of Anakin’s life is precisely that.
He’s a gifted young man – both blessed and cursed by the gods (as in the Force) – whose essential goodness goes awry, triggered by attachment, a fixation, the inability to let go. The dark path appears to him as one of righteousness and he follows it unwaveringly. In his fall, brought about by the inevitable nemesis (his son Luke), he recognises the futility of this journey.
But, as with all tragic heroes, thiscritical discovery comes too late. In the wake of all this, the kingdom, the universe, lies in tatters. It is a tragedy of the hero, for sure, but also one of the commoners, the inhabitants of the universe – for they too suffer a blighted fate for that one man’s hubris.
Is this parallel all just coincidence? Perhaps not.
George Lucas, the initiator of this myth, was one of the first major filmmakers to consciously apply to motion pictures the theories of Joseph Campbell, the mythologist who famously wrote The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949) in which he studied the journey of the “archetypal” hero in world mythologies. In his pioneering work, Campbell discussed Shakespeare too, Prince Hamlet being one of his archetypal heroes.
Lucas has openly acknowledged Campbell’s influence on his writing of Star Wars, and hence, as Doescher himself writes in his afterword to the first volume of William Shakespeare’s Star Wars, “To put it more simply, Campbell studied Shakespeare to produce The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and Lucas studied Campbell to produce Star Wars.”
While Anakin Skywalker may be likened to a hero such as Macbeth or Richard III, the fun in comparing the Star Wars hexalogy to the Bard’s works lies in discovering the scattered shadows of Shakespearean motifs in the six films.
Prophecy, for instance. While omens abound in Shakespeare’s plays – Julius Caesar, Richard III, King Lear, even King John – it is again Macbeth whose story is propelled by one. Similarly, the Jedi prophecy that someone will bring balance to the Force leads Qui-Gon Jinn to identify young Anakin as the “Chosen One”, which seals the fate of our tragic hero. Then descends the tragedy of doomed love between Anakin and Padmé Amidala, the likes of which were immortalised by the Bard in Romeo and Juliet.
We see obsession murdering the very object of one’s affection – not unlike Othello. Twins Luke and Leia follow, separated at birth – somewhat like Twelfth Night. We encounter a complex father–son relationship between Anakin/Vader and Luke Skywalker, in which one can see the traces of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Let’s not forget how ghosts appear through this long story to guide and urge Luke on – Hamlet again. Comic relief, so characteristic of Shakespearean tragedy, appears in the form of C-3PO and R2-D2 – some would say a Rosencrantz–Guildenstern duo, although without inherent malice and with much greater narrative role.
Shakespeare borrowed all these motifs from existent literary and performance sources, as did Lucas.
The greatness in both lay in the supremacy of storytelling, weaving together strands of narratives often madly implausible to create a convincing story line. Shakespeare was hailed as a universal great only in the eighteenth century, thanks greatly to Samuel Johnson and Edmond Malone. In his day, he was mostly what Ben Jonson called “the applause, delight, the wonder of our stage”.
On its release in 1977, Star Wars (later Episode IV: A New Hope) failed to impress all the critics – “There’s no breather in the picture, no lyricism . . . [no] emotional grip,” wrote the revered Pauline Kael in the New Yorker – even though it quickly became one of the most successful box-office hits ever. Its “greatness”, its entry into the cinematic canon, was acknowledged much later. But such is often the journey of genius.
William Shakespeare’s Star Wars is conscious of these parallels and takes on the formidable challenge of blending two hallowed genres.
The problem is: what makes Shakespeare’s great storytelling exceptionally good is his sublime poetry. Lucas’s dialogues, on the other hand, are rudimentary – the poetry of Star Wars lies in its visuals, in its wordless action (it is cinema, after all), rounded off by John Williams’s divine music. Doescher tries to overcome this difference by infusing the characters’ dialogue with faux-Elizabethan dramatics and by creating a Chorus that narrates parts of the intense action.
The faux-Elizabethan dialogue obviously suits Yoda best – for hyperbaton is his natural “figureless” speech – but also adds enough amusement to the campness of C-3PO. Also, we finally have R2-D2 divulging his great wisdom by uttering a lot more than beeps (as intelligent asides to us, the reader/audience), and the opening scene of Verily, A New Hope is something that few Star Wars or (not-so-jejunely-stuck-up) Shakespeare fans will fail to delight in. Chewbacca, however, remains limited to occasional roars, sadly.
Doescher does show sparks of skilful adaptation. In a subtly clever nod to Hamlet, he invents a scene in Verily, A New Hope in which Luke enters the stage holding the helmet of a dead stormtrooper:
Alas, poor stormtrooper, I knew ye not,
Yet have I ta’en both uniform and life
From thee. What manner of a man wert thou?
A man of inf’nite jest or cruelty?
A man with helpmate and with children too?
A man who hath his Empire serv’d with pride?
A man, perhaps, who wish’d for perfect peace?
Whate’er thou wert, good man, thy pardon grant
Unto the one who took thy place: e’en me.
And when Emperor Palpatine/Darth Sidious opens Tragedy of the Sith’s Revenge, one cannot be blamed for mistaking it for an actual Elizabethan tragedy:
Hung be the heav’ns with black, yield day to night!
The dark shall rise an ’twere a second sun.
In a laudable and daring departure from the Star Wars prequel trilogy, Doescher, in The Phantom of Menace, makes Jar Jar Binks—perhaps the most hated character in movie history—a creature acutely aware of what’s happening around him and who plays dumb in order for others to react to his secret wishes the way he wants. Some redemption there, perhaps!
One cannot, however, help but feel that many opportunities have been missed. Luke’s passion at the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi, or the bewilderment of his feelings for Leia through most of the original trilogy, or the torment of Anakin’s vision of Padmé’s death do not find themselves rendered into poetry. But, hey, Ian Doescher is not William Shakespeare. The entire project is tongue in cheek; it is not meant to go down in literary canons, nor is it meant to hit Broadway. (Oh wait! Why not?) What would be best, of course, is that it lead many hard-core Star Warriors to the marvel of Shakespeare and introduced many dedicated Sheakespeareans to the magic that is Star Wars, thereby ensuring a lasting amity between these two magnificent galactic empires.
But the season of myths is upon us, and we must get out of bed and hit the theatres. Doescher makes C-3PO begin Verily, A New Hope thus:
Now is the summer of our happiness
Made winter by this sudden, fierce attack!
However, as this cold Christmas approaches, and verily we discern new hope for us in the form of Episode VII: The Force Awakens, one might as well feel the force of Shakespeare’s Gloucester in Richard III:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer...
Bishan Samaddar is Editor at Seagull Books, Calcutta, and an ardent admirer of Shakespeare and Star Wars.
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