I Love This Stupid, Bad Star Wars Movie

The Mandalorian and Grogu, the twelfth and latest installment in the Star Wars movie franchise, is, well, something. That is to say, it’s kind of nothing. Despite my buying two tickets (I’m sorry, babe, I’ll plan a better date night soon), it underwhelmed audiences, the box office, and nerds alike.

I was there on opening night. I laughed. I almost cried. I sighed a lot. I cheered a little. I was disappointed.

Honestly, I hated it.

But I also loved it.

That evening, I walked out of the theater with a few insights that I suppose money ($39.09 to be exact) can buy: a deeper frenemyship with Lucasfilm, deep questions about the financial stability of the modern theater experience (there were seven people in my opening night showing), and a realization that I truly long for my life to have real stakes, meaning, and purpose—things this movie never had.

Spoiler-Free Comes with a Cost

Don’t get me wrong—there were still a ton of fun moments, and I genuinely had a good time in the theater. Bad guys got, er, gotten. Cute puppet aliens did goofy things. The score was pretty solid overall, even without the legendary John Williams composing it. That’s what I loved.

Buuuuuuut, that was about it. No main characters died. No storylines advanced. No fan service was given for those who watched the Disney+ show. No big themes were conveyed. No cameo appearances occurred. No lightsabers were lit. No Death Stars were blown up. Heck, I couldn’t spoil this movie for you if I tried, because nothing really happened.

The story felt like one long, random side quest consisting of tiny, sometimes fun, sometimes boring, generally insignificant moments…and then it ended. The movie really was about nothing.

And somehow, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It caused me to reflect on my own life and confront some questions you don’t bring up on a date. Can a bad movie send you into an existential spiral? Asking for a friend.

More Questions Than Answers

The same questions I was struggling to answer about this movie were the same questions I’ve also struggled to answer about my own life at one point:

• “What is this all about?”
• “What is it for?”
• “What changes because of it?”
• “Does any of it have lasting impact?”
• “Is this leading to anything greater?”
• “Is this it?”

What if life didn’t have an intrinsic, inherent, built-in meaning? What if it was really just a bunch of fleeting, passing moments that provided some entertainment but ultimately led to a black screen when all was said and done?

The Mandalorian and Grogu was such a no-stakes, no-risk piece of art that it shook me awake to how miserable I’d be if that were how real life actually was. Just like anyone else, I’ve spent too much time (hours, days, months, even years) chasing stories that ultimately went nowhere. I’ve mistakenly believed that the point of life was to have an easy one, a “good” one, where the stress is low, vacations are Instagrammable, and everyone smiles.

But this movie put the pieces together for me unlike anything else I’ve seen in a long time. It proved that when the risk is low, so is the reward. As much as I think I want an easy life, the path of least resistance is, frankly, pretty boring.

Thanks to our friends (or foes) at Lucasfilm, I’ve been reminded of what does count—a story that has real, eternal implications. The opportunity we all have to give ourselves to something greater. A story with fun popcorn moments and secured funding for a sequel.

A Story So Bad It Reminded Me of the Best Story

Ironically, in Andor, one of the better Star Wars projects I’ve ever seen, there’s a moment that addresses the very thing this Mando project failed to understand—that real significance requires real stakes.

In an early scene of the first season, Cassian Andor, a lifelong self-serving swindler, is rescued from Imperial hunters by the mysterious Luthen Rael, a leader of the early rebellion. He offers to drop Cassian off wherever he pleases, but before he does, challenges him to consider giving his life to something greater.

Luthen: Seems to me you have two choices. Either I drop you somewhere, and you start running, or you come with me and help with something important.

Cassian: I'll take the drop-off.

Luthen: And do what? Continue as you are?... I’m offering you everything you want, all at once.

Cassian: I think it’s all useless … It’s better to eat, sleep, do what you want.

Luthen: “Wouldn't you rather give it all to something real, rather than carve off useless pieces till there's nothing left?”

Cassian’s line of reasoning is both modern and ancient, all at the same time: “Why not just eat, drink, and be merry?” The author of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes offered a similar proposal but found that this, too, was ultimately meaningless. Art imitates life, I guess.

You can already predict where this goes, because a TV show about a guy who takes the easy way out isn’t worth watching. Cassian eventually accepts Luthen’s proposal, is changed in the process, and makes space cowboy history.

Andor is a great story. But it’s not the best story—that one’s so good, it’s hard to even comprehend it all.

It’s a story where we, designed to bear the image of God, actually serve as His ambassadors in the world. It’s a story where we are entrusted with eternal, meaningful purpose. A story where we are given gifts and callings that are unique to each of us, where everything we do has ramifications that echo into eternity. It is a story that, when the credits roll, the screen doesn’t go black, but ignites into a light that burns forever.

The best story presents us with a trade—everything we have, in order to gain something we could never achieve on our own. Where God makes every moment matter, will fix every broken thing, and calls us his own.

It’s a story that He is still writing. The best news of all? He’s pleased to include us in it.

You, Me, and Baby Yoda

The Mandalorian and Grogu is what it is—a fun, but ultimately meaningless, popcorn movie. I love it for that (and I also just love Star Wars), while also recognizing that I’d hate it if every movie followed that same formula. And I’d hate it even more if life were like that: an erratic side quest where you turn off your brain, don’t experience any growth, meaning, or impact, and just wait for it to end.

I love this stupid, bad Star Wars movie because it reminds me that life is meant to have real stakes, real meaning, and real purpose—and that those three things are tied together. A life of impact will never be found with my feet up in a recliner, staring at a screen, my fingers dripping with whatever butter-oil-mixture they slather on popcorn these days.

Thank goodness, the best story isn’t in a galaxy, far, far away—it’s ready, here and now, for us to step into. Consider this your invitation.