Andor and the Reimagining of Star Wars

Star Wars, as a franchise, is almost 50 years old. It remains extraordinarily popular—as much or more than any other cinematic universe. At the same time, nearly all Star Wars properties are divisive in some way.

As I noted in the introduction to our special series Star Wars Subjectivities:

...search around the internet and you'll find many a lengthy opinion piece on which Star Wars properties are good and which ones are bad. Some will be Original Trilogy fanatics like me, others will tell you how secretly great the Prequels are. Others still will opine on how The Last Jedi is really a Top 3 Star Wars film sandwiched between two cinematic commercials for Disney theme park rides.

This is not only true for the films, but also for the various television shows, animated series, video games, books and comics that bear the Star Wars logo. Except Andor. I have yet to meet someone who loves Star Wars but dislikes Andor. Sure, I've met people who found the first season a bit dry and joyless (as I did, at the time), but not one fan who thinks it's bad. Nearly everyone—fans and critics alike—agree that it's good. Many think it's the best Star Wars property ever made.

I'm too heavily invested in the Original Trilogy to go that far—after all, it did change the way we think about movies. But after the masterpiece that is season 2, I think there's a serious case to be made for Andor. I want to delve deeper into why this show is so compelling to so many people—and, in the spirit of Star Wars Subjectivities, why it is so compelling to me.

(Before getting started, I'd like to note that Phoebe has written extensively on the show, including a great review of Andor Season 1, as well as an essay for Star Wars Subjectivities on Andor as community action—and is currently running a weekly review series breaking down each episode (ep 1, ep 2, ep 3, ep 4, ep 5). All are must reads, if you ask me. This will be a complementary take.)

Andor is a grown-up story for grown-ups

Star Wars has always tried to thread the needle between its two core audiences: adults and children. I discovered the Original Trilogy as a boy—and it captivated me the way media only can when you are that age. But the genius of the Original Trilogy is that it continues to captivate as you grow older. However, when George Lucas launched the prequel trilogy in 1999, it was obvious to all of us who were now teenagers or adults that these films were not aimed at us, but at a new generation of children. At Cannes in 2024, Lucas said that people like me were just grumpy because we weren't looking at the films through 10-year old eyes.

It's true that I never saw the prequels through 10-year old eyes, but I have consumed a metric ton of children's media over the years—as an adult—and can say with confidence that The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones are not good, not even by the relaxed standards of children's media. As I wrote about The Phantom Menace:

The writing is bad. The acting is bad. The direction is bad. The production is bad. The pacing is bad. The design is bad. The effects are bad. The characters are bad. The plot is bad. The concept is... well... okay, maybe this could have actually been a good movie, in theory, but unfortunately... the execution is, in a word, bad. Like, bad on a very basic, fundamental level.

Or as Vance more succinctly put it in his piece on Attack of the Clones:

Of all the millions of stories that could exist in that galaxy far, far away, Lucas picked the wrong ones to tell in these prequels.

Nearly everyone, including yours truly, agrees that Revenge of the Sith is a much better film. The story is actually interesting—and highly political, weaving the tragedy of Anakin's turn to the dark side alongside the broader tragedy of the Republic's dissolution and the death of democracy. It has its cringe kid content moments ("Nooooooooo!"), but ultimately Revenge of the Sith aspires to be a serious film for whoever is watching, regardless of age. Like the Original Trilogy, Revenge of the Sith successfully threads the needle between its core audiences.

Most Star Wars content since has attempted the same feat. In the Disney era, this has worked sometimes (e.g. Mandalorian, Ahsoka) but more often not (e.g. Solo, The Book of Boba Fett, Obi-Wan). You could argue that success just boils down to quality, but the fact is that designing content for the broadest possible audience usually leads to bland, mediocre fare that is passable to everyone but not great to anyone.

Perhaps for this reason, Disney has recently grown more and started to develop properties specifically for each audience. I'm focusing on Andor here, but Skeleton Crew is also worth mentioning—it's a true kids' show designed for parents to watch with their little ones. And it's good!

Meanwhile, Andor is a mature show written for adults, a complex political drama set against a dark background, featuring hard-boiled characters who shoot first and don't fight according to Queensbury rules. There are no adorable creatures, no comic relief characters and no Jedi. Instead, there are real people struggling against very real oppression, making tough choices that don't always work out—and which almost always come at a high cost. Yet it is also a moving, sensitive and stirring portrayal of those people and the terrible world they were born into. I'm still astonished that this is a Star Wars story—and that it is almost the exact Star Wars story I've long wanted to see told.

The best Star Wars stories enhance the Original Trilogy; the worst cheapen it

This is something I've been chewing on since we ran Star Wars Subjectivities back in 2023. The Original Trilogy is the keystone for the Star Wars universe. All subsequent works—whether in film, television or other media—are essentially contextualizing those films. More precisely, they try to either (a) help you understand why things happen the way they do in the Original Trilogy; or (b) explore the aftereffects and consequences of what happens in the Original Trilogy. The good stuff adds richness, depth and gratifying exposition to a story with a lot of whitespace, or render something silly, well, less silly—in all cases enhancing the Original Trilogy.

Consider this example: In A New Hope, we learn that rebel spies managed to obtain plans for the Empire's Death Star. When Darth Vader boards the Tantive IV, he is specifically looking for those plans—which Princess Leia gives to the droid R2D2, with instructions to hand them over to the Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. The plans demonstrate a fundamental weakness in the Death Star's design, which the Rebel Alliance hopes to exploit, thus winning a first major victory in their rebellion against the Empire.

Rogue One tells the story of how those rebel spies obtain the plans and transfer them to the Tantive IV. Andor then gives us the backstory for one of its main characters, Cassian Andor. But it doesn't only do that. We get a deep dive into Mon Mothma, the political leader of the Rebel Alliance—who has a small but compelling role in Return of the Jedi. And we get to see the Rebellion—and the Empire—from a range of perspectives, from Senators to regular people (none of whom, I'll note, are lightsaber-wielding Force sensitives of destiny).

In every way possible, Andor fleshes out the story and world presented in the Original Trilogy, enhancing our understanding of what happens, why it happens and who is important to the story it tells.

Contrast this with the Disney-era Sequel Trilogy. In The Force Awakens, director JJ Abrams eschews the opportunity to explore the New Republic's struggles to govern under the power vacuum left by the Empire's dissolution (which all of us who participated in this roundtable were keen on), in favor of... just remaking A New Hope with new, less interesting characters and cheaper-looking sets. As Haley put it, Abrams remade A New Hope for Gen Z. And that's probably the nicest way to put it.

The Last Jedi is more daring, but its aspirations are weighed down by inconsistent writing and direction, plot holes and—again—the misguided urge to just remake a film that everyone already loves (in this case, The Empire Strikes Back). As I wrote in a (fairly grumpy) review back in 2017:

This brings us to the on-going Disney trilogy, which so far has presented a vision of... the exact same one as the Original Trilogy. Actually, there is a mild subversion of the original trilogy’s meta-narrative, but one so mild that it's barely a critique. Once again, we have a ragtag group of plucky individuals who confront immense power and (are sure to) triumph against all odds. And the films hit you over the head with the referential frying pan. Starkiller Base from The Force Awakens is the Death Star, but bigger! Kylo Ren is Darth Vader, but emo! Luke’s island is Dagobah, salt planet is Hoth, casino planet is Cloud City and so forth and so on. It's the same old same old, only with crappier design and little romance—the kind of thing dreamed up by corporate executives with checklists in hand and theme park rides in mind.*

So how does the Sequel Trilogy function as Star Wars canon? Not well—and especially not well when the big reveal occurs in Rise of Skywalker (which all of us in the Disney Star Wars roundtable agreed is the worst of the three). All it achieves is to make the Original Trilogy less consequential in terms of canon, while rendering the few redeeming bits of The Last Jedi null and void in favor of insipid fan service that didn't even appeal to the fans who complained about The Last Jedi. I can say one good thing about it, though: it features such an unsatisfying ending that this instantly rendered all those contrarian critiques of Return of the Jedi null and void. After all, why would anyone complain about that ending when there's another one that's so drab, colorless and utterly devoid of life?

We finally see the Empire for what it really is

Back to Andor, this is the first major piece of Star Wars media where we truly see the Empire for what it is. And I don't mean that we get a quantitatively higher level of grimdark badness (the Empire destroys a planet in A New Hope, after all, and it's hard to get much worse than that). What I mean is this: in Andor, we get to see how Imperial rule is experienced by noncombatants; we get to see what animates the Imperial project; and we come to understand why the Empire behaves the way it does.

These are not zealots of the 20th-century grimoire, animated by nationalistic hatreds, a radically remade society or a murderous desire for purity. Rather, the Empire is more or less a traditional empire. It is a fundamentally extractive enterprise, the way Dutch colonialism was fundamentally extractive in present-day Indonesia—that is to say, the Empire is motivated by the straightforward desire to take and hoard.

For example, in Season 2, we learn that Director Krennic needs a mineral called kalkite for his top secret Death Star project; a rich source of the mineral exists beneath the crust of the planet Ghorman, a sparsely populated colony world whose leadership had backed the Separatists during the Clone Wars, but mining the kalkite from Ghorman would render the planet unstable—and unsuitable for habitation. Krennic gathers a council of officials from the various military branches, directorates of the Imperial bureaucracy and, of course, the Imperial Security Bureau (ISB) to discuss their options. The meeting is straightforwardly designed to evoke the 1942 Wannsee Conference, where a group of 15 Nazi officials decided to exterminate Europe's Jewish population (as Tony Gilroy himself has stated).

But while there's no doubt that the Empire will commit genocide, if it decides that doing so will further its goals, the Empire isn't motivated by any specific hatred for the people of Ghorman. Rather, the people of Ghorman are an inconvenience, as is the need for their removal—so the conspirators decide to look for alternatives, but ready a plan to reduce any blowback they might face if they ultimately decide to commit genocide and the mass ethnic cleansing of the planet.

Despite the aesthetic similarities between the Empire and Nazi Germany, this is not at all like the Holocaust, which was the culmination of several decades of consistent, ideological antisemitism from a political party founded on the premise that Jews were to blame for just about everything. It is, I'd argue, much more like the atrocities committed by both land-based and seafaring empires: there was something the empire wanted, there were people in the way—and if there was no more expedient way to take it, they would deploy extreme levels of violence to get it. This is bad, by the way—very bad; just not bad in the specific way the Nazis were bad, or as consistently bad as the Nazis were.

For me this as a refreshing take. Popular media routinely ignores 95% of human history while obsessing over a few historical cases, relating anything and everything to said cases. But there is a lot more material to draw on, and the fact that Andor steps out from the shadow of the ever-present Nazi analogy to portray the Empire in ways that evoke other things is, to me, one of the things that give the show depth.

Andor is about people making difficult choices

One of the show's main subplots focuses on the radicalization of Mon Mothma, who by Return of the Jedi has become the leader of the Rebel Alliance. But when we are introduced to Mon Mothma, she is if anything a beneficiary of the Empire. That is not to say she supports the Empire (we know she does not), but that her class privilege—being a wealthy, connected human from the core worlds—gives her the option to pretend the evil isn't happening and keep living her life of luxury. She does not, but we see, by the end, most members of her social circle will choose to follow the path of least resistance.

This contrasts with life outside the core worlds, where societies are mixed (human and non-human), few people are rich, life is harsh and the decision to rebel is more often imposed than chosen. As it is for Cassian Andor. Resistance, though, comes in many forms—and requires many kinds of sacrifices.

Andor portrays a range of resistance fighters—from the patrician senators Mon Mothma and Bail Organa to art dealer turned spymaster Luthen Rael and his indefatigable protégé Kleya Marki (played by a scene-stealing Elizabeth Dulau); from the hard-boiled Cassian Andor and Lezine to Supervisor Jung, Luthen's mole within the ISB. None are "chosen," none are Force sensitives; all are simply people trying to do the right thing as best they can under terrible circumstances. These are heroes every resistance movement can claim, from the mighty to the ordinary. All play their part, at great cost, because they cannot simply stand by.

Andor isn't just great Star Wars; it's great science fiction

If it isn't clear already, I see Andor as a triumph. It is—easily, in my view—the best Star Wars story since the Original Trilogy. It achieves this feat by taking bigger, bolder risks than any other film or series since Return of the Jedi hit theaters in 1983.

But it isn't only one of the best Star Wars stories ever told—it is also one of the best science fiction stories ever developed for television. Indeed, if you were to swap out all the Star Wars content and replace it with standard space opera content, it would be just as effective a story. This is rarely true, even for the Star Wars stories I love. It is very difficult for me to see, to cite one example, how The Mandalorian would work outside a Star Wars context—and I love The Mandalorian.

Hats off, then, to Tony and Dan Gilroy, to Diego Luna, Stellan Skarsgård, Genevieve O'Reilly, Elizabeth Dulau, and to everyone else involved in the making of this absolute masterpiece.

***

(My view is not an institutional one. There are other ways of looking at all these films and shows, which are well represented across our flock. Haley loves the prequels—all the prequels. Paul enjoyed The Force Awakens—even I did the first time around, as did Joe. Arturo has argued that The Last Jedi is significant, in that it redefines what it means to be a Jedi—and then poses a novel theory, that the film is about the meaning of fandom. It's definitely an interesting theory, one worth engaging with.) 

***

POSTED BY: The G—purveyor of nerdliness, genre fanatic and Nerds of a Feather  founder/administrator, since 2012.

Rebellions Are Built on Hope: Andor S2E5

 Disaster is around every corner for Cassian and his comrades

In episode four, “I Have Friends Everywhere,” Cassian goes off to Ghorman undercover as a fashion designer while Syril plays double agent with the Ghorman Front. Meanwhile, Wilmon is working with Saw Gerrera (Forest Whitaker) as an engineer to help him steal fuel, his position becoming more precarious as Saw considers killing him. Luthen and Kleya are also in trouble as they realize one of their listening devices is in danger of being found, and they must extract it at a party that will include high-ranking Imperial officers.

In the middle episode of this arc primarily focused on Ghorman, we get to see what makes Cassian one of Luthen’s prized agents as he goes undercover as an excited, young fashion designer on a rite-of-passage trip to the famous Ghorman, but in reality, he’s assessing the Ghorman Front for Luthen. Diego Luna’s acting brilliance is on full display as Cassian turns on and off his cover character and uses the disarming personality of Varian Skye to encourage information from the bellhop, for instance, who was present at the Tarkan Massacre as a youth and recounts the experience of people filling the square outside the hotel’s windows: “We thought there was safety in numbers.” Even as the square filled with people, including children, Tarkan still landed his ship, massacring the protestors.

This moment is a theme of the episode in some ways—a naiveté about the Empire and what lengths they will go to. This idea is repeated when the leader of the Ghorman Front, Carro Rylanz, still can’t accept that what is happening to Ghorman is being done purposefully, and even suggests to Syril: “Many of us believe the Emperor has no idea what’s being done on his behalf.” Again, showrunner Tony Gilroy and his team hit on a real feeling under occupation, especially for someone like Carro Rylanz, a wealthy business owner and politician. He cannot accept that the pain being caused is by design.

In the last episode, viewers were primed to see the Ghorman Front as inexperienced as they welcomed Syril into their group a little too quickly, which is confirmed by Cassian. In a wonderfully acted scene, he sits in a café in character as Varian Skye, and Carro’s daughter Enza (Alaïs Lawson) walks up to him, welcoming him to the Ghorman, and invites herself to sit. Once some other people nearby leave, Cassian breaks character and says she just risked everyone she loves on the assumption that he is who he says he is, pointing out her inexperience and hurry. He says, “People die rushing.” To which she responds, “It’s hard to be patient when your world is falling apart.”

I’ve already seen people posting about the power of this line, but almost nobody has pointed to Cassian’s line, which is the more important concept. In moments of struggle, there’s a great surge of energy, which we are seeing right now in the U.S. and in different parts of the world, and often, this new burst of energy is from the inexperienced. With this new energy also comes urgency over the issue that inspired people to get involved, but without listening to those who have been doing the work, that urgency can be dangerous, whether it’s breaking security protocols or trying to do too much and causing burnout. In Cassian’s case, there are operational security concerns if the Ghorman Front is captured, that could lead back to Luthen and the Axis network. Cassian ultimately discourages them from their plan to attack transports carrying weapons to the armory they believe is being built in town, because it would endanger the group, which prompts the leader Carro to say, “You’re not much of a revolutionary, are you?” Cassian agrees, and in some ways, it’s true. He’s not their version of what they want out of revolution, which is Ghorman safe. Cassian has a longer and larger battle in mind. Ghorman may be part of that, but currently, their goals do not align.

This discussion of revolution contrasts with one of the great monologues of the show. Much like in season one, Gilroy and his team still manage to seamlessly work in monologues or speeches that are beautifully written and manage to stick in my head, whether it’s Nemik’s speech (“Freedom is a pure idea…”) or, in this episode, Saw Guerra’s story about becoming addicted to huffing fuel fumes.

During this arc, we have an extended look at Saw Guerra and his loyal band. While in contrast with the carefully quaffed Luthen, Saw’s band is intensely loyal to the point they don’t blink when he kills an Imperial spy in their midst and provides proof of his treachery. At first, Wilmon seems offput by their intensity, but he still helps them steal fuel, even if he is being threatened to some degree.

The device used to steal the fuel takes intense concentration to run, and while Wilmon is sweating over the variations, Saw waits, monologuing in the background about his childhood, when he was forced to work a labor camp. Wilmon, wearing protective equipment, successfully opens up the pipeline, and when the fuel fumes smoke out, Saw breathes them in, to Wilmon’s horror, which prompts Saw to say one of the most memorable lines of the show: “Revolution is not for the sane.”

Saw goes on to say that he essentially knows and believes that he will die trying to overthrow the Empire, and that sense of being alive in this moment, ready to burn for the revolution, is vital. In his own way, Luthen expressed a similar sentiment earlier in the episode when trying to encourage Bix, saying he would win or die trying. For Luthen and Saw, and their followers, they know the revolution extends beyond their lifetimes. This sense of scale and purpose is what the Ghorman Front lacks. For them, this is a blip, a disturbance they are fighting against so they can go back to their normal lives. They cannot see that, as long as the Empire stands, there will never be a normal for Ghorman.

POSTED BY: Phoebe Wagner (she/they) is an author, editor, and academic writing and living at the intersection of speculative fiction and environmentalism.

Book Review: The Folded Sky by Elizabeth Bear

Elizabeth Bear adds pirates, a chewy social drama, and a big alien puzzle to her White Space space opera universe. 

Sunya is a researcher traveling to the edge of the galaxy. She studies information and the collection and interpretation of information, and a cache of ancient alien information is the biggest known. But her arrival there is not easy. Pirates are blockading the system. The star that the cache is orbiting, as well as the space station for the researchers, is probably going to go supernova any time now. And then there are the attempted murders. And just what are those mysterious things Sunya is seeing in the corner of her vision?

This is the story of The Folded Sky, the third and latest in her White Space space opera, following Ancestral Night and Machine. It takes place roughly in the same time period as Machine, thus some time after Ancestral Night (the actual Ancestral Night ship makes a brief cameo in the novel). If you will recall, these novels revolve around a spacefaring community of aliens, humans among them. Ancestral Night involved salvaging lost ships, and weird alien technology, as well as doing a lot of the heavy lifting in setting up this verse for the reader. Machine was very much Bear’s love letter to the James White’s Sector General novels, focusing on alien medicine an the ethics of healing and medical care.

So what is The Folded Sky, then? Well just like I was rather reductivist in my descriptions of Ancestral Night and Machine, I could be reductivist with The Folded Sky and say that it was a pirate novel (yes there are pirates in Ancestral Night, but this is a pirate novel). The pirates are a big threat in the novel, but of course, as with any Bear novel, a lot more is going on here. Just in terms of plot, we have the Baomind, an artifact/information reserve of the lost civilization of the Koregoi (who built the Ancestral Night by the way). We have attempted murders. Oh, and did I mention that the star that the Baomind is around that is being studied is on the verge of going supernova?

But, of course, a Bear novel is hardly just about the plot these days, if they were ever. Let’s take our POV and primary character, Dr. Sunya Song. She’s an archinformist, a data historian, someone perfect for taking on the task of organizing the vast library of information sitting in the Koregoi datamind. It’s a work trip of months and years away from her wife and children, or so she thinks. Turns out they are coming to stay at the ramshackle orbital station (really just a collection of ships and parts) after all. Unfortunately for Sunya, they also came on the same ship as Dr. Vickee DeVine, who has also come out to the site. To say that Sunya and Vickee have a personal history would be to say that the Battle of Kursk was a tank battle. Vickee is Sunya’s former mentor, former girlfriend, and is always sets herself as the center of any group of people, and quite successfully at that. She is quite literally the last person Sunya wants to work with on this space station.

Thus, in addition to the overall ticking time bomb of the plots (in additional to the stellar problems, the pirates get a pretty effective blockade going, and supplies are running out, and there is no ansible to easily contact civilization for help), we get a lot of chewy social and philosophical drama, debate and discussion. Rightminding comes in for discussion and debate here, as it did in both Ancestral Night and Machine, but here since we have attempted murders, the debate is how someone who was rightminded (whoever it was) make the attempts. We also get debates on interspecies relations and tolerance (the pirates are intolerant of AIs, transhuman technologies, and aliens), first contact protocols, and the challenges of a work life balance with your spouse and your teenaged kids.

And did I mention the cats?

The central image that I keep going back to in this novel, however, a throughline and a symbol of Sunya, of humanity, of the entire interspecies culture she belongs to, is a bonsai. Sunya’s family has had the bonsai for over a hundred years, from planet to space station, to starships, and all the way here to the Baomind. The bonsai is resilient, but needs care. It’s shrunken and under stress, but it has survived a lot. It is not the biggest, or the baddest, but for some, such as Sunya, it is the epitome of beauty. Humanity is a bonsai. The interstellar polity is a bonsai. And most importantly and most directly, Sunya is a bonsai.

This is never so clear, and never so unmistakable, in comparing her to Vickee DeVine. Their clashes and comparisons are throughout the book. Vickee is seemingly everything Sunya wants to be. Successful, the center of attention and power, supremely confident in her abilities. She is the Queen Bee of the high school of the group of scholars and researchers in Town, and she knows it. Their interactions and conflicts are a major portion of the book. Sunya is constantly seeing herself in the shade of Vickee, and part of the journey of the book is Sunya coming to terms with Vickee. There are some extremely messed up dynamics here, even in a society of Rightminding, People are, in the end, going to be people, and those social dynamics and personal dynamics are central to the book and what it does.

And then there are the social dynamics with the AIs (can AIs be assholes? Bear explores that!), the aliens, all in a confined and restricted space (see above, blockade). Bear has a lot of fun of seeing how these people react to each other under pressure. There is a lot of thought about pirates, and why they fight and strive for what they do, social dynamics laid bare at the barrel of a gun in a blockade.

In addition to those social dynamics, Bear is interested in history, sociology, archaeology, anthropology, first contact (which I mentioned before and mention here again, but am being deliberately vague about any further, save to say that Bear treads into, and exceeds, some of the ideas of Stephen Baxter in his Xeelee novels.). There are also echoes and reflections of writers such as L.E. Modesitt's space operas, Kristine Kathryn Rusch (the Diving novels) and Jack McDevitt, just to name a few. 

So, thinking about Baxter for a moment, in addition to the social science fiction there are also relativistic space battles, interesting technology, quirky and unusual physics, codebreaking (of a sort), and much more. Bear has put a variety of scientific disciplines and speculations into the novel, and seemingly no matter what kind of science fiction speculation you are into, you are going to find something to love here.

And then there is Town itself. It’s a fascinating place to set most of the narrative, even without adding that blockade into the mix . It’s more than a bit of a cobble, something that is commented on multiple times. It’s been slapped together because, as Bear notes, high manufacturing of a habitat in a solar system far away from the Core is just not practical. It’s rather skin-of-your-teeth engineering and general feel puts me in the mind of the Finder universe of Suzanne Palmer.

So with all of this going on, you might be asking one important question at this stage, and indeed, it is a concern going into this book? Does it hold together? Yes. Bear manages this by a strict and tight point of view on Dr. Song. There is a creed, for lack of a better word, said at the 4th Street Fantasy Convention (which the author does help run), that “point of view solves everything”. This is the idea that a lot of problems that come up with a narrative can be tackled by how and from whose perspective, or perspectives, you tell your story. Or as the musical Hamilton put it “who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”. But the problem and challenge for the author here is a big book with lots of plots, narratives, big damn ideas, a big damn object, pirates, attempted murders and family drama. And that doesn’t even cover some of the other subplots and the setting and other things to find. How can a reader make sense of this as a narrative? So Bear’s solution is a tight and intimate third person point of view that gives us a deep and penetrating dive into her story, her mindset, her concerns, and her perspective. We get to intimately know Dr. Song, enough that when the murders occur, Vickee is immediately a suspect (and immediately questionable as one) because of how Song feels about her and their shared history and how it comes though that first person perspective and narrative.

As far as the question of whether this book stands alone, I think it does, although you will need to do a tad more work than if you had read Ancestral Night or Machine. There is no overlap of characters (sadly, there is no “Mantis Cop” in this one, although Xhelsea makes a damn good Goodlaw in his stead). This book relies a bit, but only a bit, on you having been in this universe before, but it is not a complete plunge into the unknown. You could start here, if the prospect of this narrative intrigues you the most. Like the previous two books, The Folded Sky is queer, full of interesting characters, and immensely readable.

--

Highlights

• Queer, inclusive space opera, with aliens, AIs and more
• Pressure cooker environment turns up the drama 
• A bonsai tree of a space opera novel.

Reference: Bear, Elizabeth, The Folded Sky [Saga Press, 2025]

POSTED BY: Paul Weimer. Ubiquitous in Shadow, but I'm just this guy, you know? @princejvstin

Film Review: Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning

Your mission — if you choose to accept it — is to enjoy the spectacular stunt pieces while ignoring the uncharacteristically bad dialogue in this final film of the series. 

30 years after the very first installment, Tom Cruise has put the finishing touches on his Mission Impossible franchise with The Final Reckoning. Clocking in at nearly 3 hours, it's stuffed to the brim with the usual spy-versus-spy hallmarks — double agents, military air, land and seacraft, death defying stunts, and, of course, Tom Cruise running at full speed across bridges and highways. But first, let's recap how we got here.

The plot

I asked a friend if I needed to go back and rewatch Dead Reckoning so I could be fresh with my plot lines, and she laughed and said no. It's true — these types of blockbuster films are popcorn movies in the same vein as Fast and Furious. I did anyway, of course, and honestly had forgotten where we last left Ethan and company back in 2023. So, real quick: Ethan and his team are once again (and as usual) at odds with the U.S. government, working solo to prevent a worldwide nuclear war. The primary antagonist is a malevolent AI called The Entity, who has a once-and-future-type relationship with the secondary bad guy, Gabriel, who is as bland as they come and honestly unrepresentative of the kind of evil-doers this franchise is known for (RIP Phillip Seymour Hoffman).

The Final Reckoning picks up with Ethan and his crew chasing after a series of robotic MacGuffins in absolutely wild locales, from the depths of the Bering Sea to the skies above the jungles of South Africa. Recapping the plot is ridiculously complicated, however, and the first hour of the film is mainly just exposition in various board rooms with U.S. government higher-ups, including a criminally underused Janet McTeer. The tasks are, as you'd expect, the most impossible of any task Ethan has been given, and the stakes, as per usual, are the end of the world. 

What works

Tom Cruise saved cinema back in 2022 with Top Gun: Maverick, and I firmly believe that there's no living actor more committed to the craft of moving making than he is. His love for this franchise in particular is clearly evident. Even though I have some gripes with this movie (which I get into below), it's a hell of a ride, and completely entertaining.

Seeing the crew all together — Ving Rhames and Simon Pegg — after 30 years is impressive and adorable, and it doesn't feel like they're acting when they're talking and reminiscing, there's that much chemistry. 

There are also some incredible casting choices that keep surprising you every few minutes. Hannah Waddingham plays an admiral in charge of an aircraft carrier, and that was definitely not on my 2025 bingo card. It was awesome. 

Tramell Tillman, better known as Mr. Millchick from Severence, shows up as a sub commander and absolutely steals every scene he's in, providing some much-needed comic relief.

A mustache-less Nick Offerman plays an army general who's all bluster and bluff, but ends up saving the day.

The best set piece in years

Under a constantly ticking clock  — of which there are literally many in the film — Ethan is given carte blanche with the U.S. Navy to head to the frozen wastes of the Bering Sea to retrieve the source code of the evil AI. The only catch? It's locked deep inside a sunken Russian sub called the Sevastopol, sitting 500 feet under the surface in frigid waters. 

As a scuba diver, I realized instantly how insane this mission is. 500 feet is at the limits of human diving ability — the average vacation diver gently coasts along beautiful reefs at 30 feet — and it appears Ethan has no experience or training in underwater technical diving. 

But have no fear! The badass divers of the friendly American sub give him a crash course, a dry suit (warmer than a wetsuit), and a final reminder to constantly breathe out during his ascent to the surface or else his lungs will explode. (This scene also had a fantastic appearance by Katy O'Brian, who you might remember from Love Lies Bleeding and The Mandalorian.)

After Ethan suits up, he's shot into the freezing cold, inky black water to take on the submarine. For the next 15 minutes, there's no dialogue, the tension is ratcheted up to 11, and you could hear a pin drop in my IMAX theater in between the shrieks of expanding metal and watery deluges.

It's hard to explain just how incredible this scene is — even looking on Google for images, you can't capture the claustrophobia or fear that permeates every shot. Even if you hate the rest of the movie (which some people might!), this set piece alone is worth the price of admission. 

After Ethan finally retrieves the source code, he attempts to escape out of a torpedo tube, but his life support equipment doesn't fit. In typical Ethan fashion — or maybe Tom Cruise fashion? It's getting harder and harder to tell them apart – he sheds his dry suit, his oxygen, and his mask, then on a single breath ascends to the surface. 

I think my jaw literally was open for 5 solid minutes.

Yes, this action should have killed him. Yes, he has hypothermia. Yes, he literally drowned. Yes, he has the bends. But fortunately the team is at the surface with a portable decompression chamber and a knowledge of CPR. Some folks will absolutely lose it at this point, calling it unrealistic. But that's the movie for you. Of course he wasn't going to die. 

Some fans will argue that the plane stunt in the final act overshadows the sub stunt, but I disagree. But the plane sequence is objectively incredible, as well — Ethan basically wing walks for 20 minutes on two different biplanes, managing to unseat both bad guys and take control of the aircraft by himself. 

What doesn't work

I think my primary gripe with The Final Reckoning is the bad guy(s). First, having a malevolent AI not only has been done, but The Entity in this film is incredibly impersonal. Skynet and the various terminators in the Terminator franchise had a constant boot-on-your-neck threatening feeling that actually was kind of scary. The Entity is mysterious, all-knowing, and playing fast and loose with the world's nuclear powers. I guess that objectively is scary, but it never hooked me in. Much like how creative works produced with AI lack no heart, a villain that's just AI similarly has no heart. Not even an evil one.

Speaking of nuclear threats, it's wild that it's the primary doomsday weapon in the film. It just seems out of place and very Cold War, and today's generation will never fully know just how scary that threat has been. 

Gabriel, the supposed link to Ethan's past life before the IMF, is somehow connected to The Entity, but it's never really explained, and he just doesn't give off evil vibes. He's probably my least favorite villain in years. Give me somebody to really hate!

Finally, the dialogue just really threw me off. It's over-the-top bad — and I have a very high cheese level when it comes to action movies. It's so bad it keeps you from emotionally investing in the outcome, and my viewing partner was scoffing or laughing at every other line.

The Final Reckoning somehow has the militaristic scope and shock-and-awe factor of a '90s Michael Bay movie, but without the actual emotion of a Michael Bay movie — and this is coming from someone who usually cries at Armageddon on every rewatch, so I mean this without irony or sarcasm. Yes, I realize how silly this sounds, too.

All of this to say, of course, that if you can get over the fact that there's not a compelling emotional heft to the film, you'll have a grand time with a bucket of popcorn and an icy beverage. I comforted myself by telling a friend, "If I want good dialogue, I'll go watch a Jim Jarmusch movie!" and then proceeded to fan girl about the stunts and action sequences. That's what makes a Mission Impossible movie, anyway — the scenes where Tom Cruise defies death and manages to blow our minds with what's possible to film.

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The Math

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10

POSTED BY: Haley Zapal, NoaF contributor and lawyer-turned-copywriter living in Atlanta, Georgia. A co-host of Hugo Award-winning podcast Hugo, Girl!, she posts on Instagram as @cestlahaley. She loves nautical fiction, growing corn and giving them pun names like Timothee Chalamaize, and thinking about fried chicken.

Book Review: Harmattan Season by Tochi Onyebuchi

Playing with language, tone and contrast to make something that feels familiar and new at the same time.

This is a story of juxtapositions. Tone and content and setting and expectations and language, many unexpected bedfellows rub up against one another. It's interest and success comes from how well managed those contrasts are, and how the unexpected intertwine to emphasise the meaning coming from both sides.

Harmattan Season is set in West Africa under recent French colonial rule. The main character, Boubacar, has mixed ancestry, with one foot in each of the cultures in his home city. In the past, he has fought for the French, but in the present is a down on his luck, struggling for work chercher - someone who finds people for money. When a grievously injured woman stumbles into his room one night, the police hot on her tale, he's set on a journey to discover who she is, where she came from, what happened to her, and what it could mean not just for him, but for the whole city.

That sounds familiar, right? Maybe not the specifics, but the tone, the setup. A detective, a woman with a problem, a mystery that might be more than it first seems... if your genre senses are telling you "noir", you would absolutely be right. Within even the first few sentences, the vibe is settling itself in for the long haul:

Fortune always left whatever room I walked into, which is why I don't leave my place much these days. It works pretty well; I keep my office close (downstairs, actually) for others' sake. Means that the bad-luck radius stays small. But, of course, the work suffers.

This could be any hard-boiled detective in any black-and-white office in any number of stories. Onyebuchi sets out his stall on this right from the off, and that tone never dips, not even for a second. There are familiar phrases, quirks of grammar - a lot of sentences clipped at their beginning - that put you right into exactly that framework and keep you there. Obvious, but not so over the top as to be egregious. And part of why that is is because so much of the rest of the story runs counter to that clear tone.

To start with, the setting. It's about a generation into French colonisation (given that mixed heritage adult characters exist), which puts us a bit early for the typical time period of the hardboiled detective, never mind that none of the characters are speaking English. Obviously the book is in English, but there's a frisson that comes from these very familiar US-specific linguistic flourishes in a story that takes pains to specify when different languages are spoken. Onyebuchi wants you to remember what this is - and isn't. But even if not for the time, the noir detective is typically at home in his US city, so taking him out into the world beyond is already a little unexpected. Add into that the mentions of fashion - the gendarme uniform and the djellaba - and the picture we hold in our heads is never the pinstripe suit and the brimmed hat. Again, these details of dress are constantly noted, this is another contrast being made clear.

And then of course just... the story. The typical noir detective isn't dealing with bodies who float up into the air, their blood hanging in mesmerising droplets over the city square. Nor are they reckoning with the ongoing legacy of colonialism or the difficulties of being tied to two different and opposing sides in a conflict that keeps on going.

There's a lot going on here.

And somehow... it all works. It's not just that the disparate elements are kept tightly under control, but that they are used to intersect productively. The contrast and the frisson turns into something new and better, something that reinforces the points being made on all sides, rather than just adding an unexpected twist.

Take, for example, the standard fantasy trope of the woman in danger who needs the comfort of the hard-boiled detective. The dame. Or, in a French-speaking context, the dame. It's not just a pun. Several moments like this, where the language or tropes of one side of the equations cuts through into one of the other pieces in play and you realise there's a connection going on, that there's a through-current you hadn't thought about at all. The pun, the visual cue, the little moment of knowing is just the nudge you need to get you across into the deeper well of connection that Onyebuchi is drawing from.

And there are likewise moments of disconnection, of language choices that feel deliberately set to break you out of immersion, and make you step back from the story - anachronisms like the protagonist talking about "batting average" as a metaphor for success rating (and his conversation partner not knowing what he meant), meme references like "I don't think that word means what you think it means", sitting in an alley with a little kid planning a heist - an "impossible mission" - in a scene achingly reminiscent of the movie staple. It's full of knowing winks telling you that what's being done here is, always, deliberate.

And it works. It shouldn't, but it does, because it feeds back into this being a story about contrasting culture, and a character unsure of himself and his place in his city, his role in the events unfolding.

Aside from all this linguistic playfulness, there's a depth to the thematic core of the book that is surprisingly hefty for the relatively short page count. Because so much of the heart of the story turns back to the recently ended war and the very present current legacy of the violence enacted as part of it. Whether that's the injured ex-soldier we meet in a care-home, his one glass eye unnerving the protagonist, or the upcoming election whose result may bring about a Truth and Reconciliation Commission, uncovering ghosts and literal bones many wish left undisturbed, the spectre of the past hangs close overhead. Bouba himself fought, and he too must face up, by the end of the story, to his role in what came before, and what that might mean for his future.

And the story is unflinching about facing up to that reality. By the time it becomes a pressing concern, we've spent a lot of time along the road with Boubacar, seen him being kind to street kids, bantering with beautiful women, trying to do his best for a dead woman and to remember her as a person, not just a clue. There are things to be sympathetic with in his character and his actions. But there must also be a reckoning. Can doing good in the present outweigh the sins of the past? Can there ever be closure, or forgiveness? Those are all questions asked of the story, and the character. Onyebuchi doesn't necessarily have answers tied up in a bow, but he doesn't shy away from having his protagonist face up to them. There isn't an easy answer to many of these questions. But asking them on the page makes for deeply engaging, thoughtful reading, and a story that lingers after you close the final page.

There is one aspect of the whole that doesn't quite sing as loudly as the rest of the choir, and that's the logistical nuts and bolts of the mystery plot itself. If this were just a detective story, where the only focus was on solving the crime, that might be a problem. As it stands, there were a few moments where it was a little unclear how A led to B, but I found myself willing to gloss over them because it was far from the most important or most interesting thing going on. The mystery is there to serve some of the thematic interweaving, and so I found it less critical that it be executed absolutely perfectly. It never detracted from the atmosphere, the sense of a city poised on the edge of something big, and of a character trying to find how he fits into his own life. So it was more a niggle than anything else.

All in all, it's a beautifully written story, and I love how knowingly it messes around with how its different pieces all fit together. Tonal incongruity well managed is one of my absolute favourite things in books, and Onyebuchi does it with panache, leaving a novel worth lingering over, to make sure you enjoy how every word fits into the pattern of the whole. 

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The Math

Highlights: 

• Willing to look the hard themes square in the face
• Thoughtful and unexpected use of language and genre cues to play with reader expectations
• Plot that brings great surprises without being deceitful or sneaky

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

Reference: Tochi Onyebuchi, Harmattan Season, [Tor Books, 2025].

POSTED BY: Roseanna Pendlebury, the humble servant of a very loud cat. @chloroformtea.bsky.social

Book Review: Late Star Trek: The Final Frontier in the Franchise Era

An unexpectedly enjoyable deep dive into the storytelling of Star Trek in the twenty-first century

Adam Kotsko’s Late Star Trek is an unexpectedly enjoyable deep dive into the storytelling of Star Trek in the twenty-first century. I’ve watched Star Trek for decades and my significant attachment to the earlier television shows influenced my world view. Later in life, I discovered that my love for the show—the characters and the stories—paled in comparison to hard core fans. Late Star Trek does a good job of meeting the needs of superfans while still discussing the storytelling intentions of the various series through a more general literary and social lens. Even if you don’t agree with the ultimate conclusion regarding a particular show, film, or novel, the analyses provide useful context and theories for why some shows resonate with viewers and why some leave them feeling disappointed. In our current era of franchise saturation from brands like Marvel, Star Wars, and D.C., Star Trek stands out as a forerunner of the trend to launch multiple television shows, films, and novels to feed the desires of both old and new fans. Star Trek also stands out in terms of its core values and high fan expectations. Late Star Trek reminds viewers of what we loved about the earlier shows—particularly Star Trek: The Next Generation (optimism, diversity, curiosity, adventure, moral questions) and how those ingrained expectations shape our appreciation of newer iterations of the story, even as the real world changes around us.

Late Star Trek is a focused analysis of what went wrong and what went right with Star Trek in the post Voyager Era. After providing brief background comments on the original Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and Star Trek: Voyager, the primary analysis shifts to Enterprise and the content thereafter, including the novels, the Chris Pine/Kelvin timeline reboot films, Discovery, Picard, Strange New Worlds, and brief discussions of Lower Decks and Prodigy. The most thorough discussion is the chapter on Enterprise which provides an interesting analysis of that show’s struggles to create a prequel backstory for the Star Trek universe we know so well. Kosko discusses Enterprise in the context of a post 9-11 world, particularly in terms of the perceived need to shift from the relative optimism of The Next Generation era shows, to instead adopt a tone that felt more gritty, more negative, and closer to the stress of our (then) real-life world. The chapter posits that the societal shifts influenced the plotting of the series but that the attempts to align to societal changes was ultimately alienating for fans who wanted the Star Trek they knew and loved. The analysis is fascinating and intensely readable with plenty of specific citations to episodes. Surprisingly, the analysis does not discuss other science fiction shows at the time for a comparison of how other series, such as Battlestar Galactica, utilized grittier storytelling in their reboot, and how the comparative fan expectations may have affected the success or failure of such tonal shifts.

In discussing the Star Trek reboot films starring Chris Pine, the book takes a more superfan and mostly negative analysis of the plots and execution of the films Star Trek and Star Trek: Into Darkness. This analysis is apparently not meant to be a general one but a specific voicing of superfan opinions that generally ignore the substantial commercial success of the two films. This is both the advantage and the potential shortcoming of the text: the way it discusses Star Trek from a general artistic or academic point of view but also from the point of view of superfans specifically.

Just as the shows and novels vary greatly in terms of tone, theme, and appeal, the analysis presented in Late Star Trek adjusts depending on the topic. The discussion of Discovery does a nice job of providing an overall analysis of the initial strengths of the series and the ways it diverged from fan expectations in ways that were both positive and negative. The discussion of Strange New Worlds is shorter but still captures the essence of why that series has met with particular success by embracing the traditional Star Trek ethos and staying true to the existing cannon while still allowing the characters to develop in much more intriguing ways than their original versions.

Late Star Trek is enjoyable for Star Trek fans but also provides a solid overall analysis for storytellers in an established universe who must balance fan expectations and creative freedom. The framing of Star Trek in stages or eras rather than an unending continuum is helpful. Although the through-line of connection remains, the ability to discuss the series, films, and novels in terms of eras allows for a more helpful analysis of what resonates and what disappoints in a universe in which many of us are, for better or for worse, deeply invested. And most of all, it’s a reminder of why, after so many decades and variations, we still love Star Trek.

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The Math

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10

Highlights:

• A broad range of Star Trek content with helpful citations
• Superfan focus sometimes outweighs larger storytelling analysis
• Engaging exploration of strengths and weaknesses in Star Trek

Reference: Adam Kotsko, Late Star Trek: The Final Frontier in the Franchise Era, [University of Minnesota Press 2025]

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Film Review: The King Tide

What if we were really nice to the kid in Omelas?

Life has proceeded uneventfully on a secluded island of fishermen, somewhere in Canada, for many generations. But one day, during a storm, a boat crashes ashore, carrying only a baby. The villagers are amazed to discover that this baby has magical healing powers, and decide to keep her a secret from the rest of the world. In just a few years, she becomes the center of their faith and the guarantor of their prosperity. As long as she's around, no one gets sick, the boats catch abundant fish, and all goes well. She's a happy child with loving parents and an entire community devoted to her. Sounds like utopia.

Except that the meaning of an "uneventful" life has been warped. In this version of utopia, to keep the miracle to themselves, the islanders have cut off all contact with the mainland. The village doctor is now a jobless drunkard, the school doesn't teach about the exterior world anymore, the men hold bloody brawls for fun because they know any broken nose will be fixed, and the children routinely play with poisonous plants. No risk matters anymore. There are no consequences. But this time, the price of utopia isn't a tortured child: everyone is unfailingly kind to the miraculous girl. They ritually thank her for her gifts. She doesn't have to suffer for their happiness. She just has no clue there's anything more to life.

Among many possible readings, the film The King Tide seems to suggest that one of the dangers of religion is learned helplessness. Why make any effort, when you're guaranteed infinite blessings? Perhaps God is wise to keep his distance and stay invisible to us. We might not want to let him go.

Soon enough, the islanders get a glimpse of what they could lose. One day, while the girl is busy elsewhere, a kid dies. She arrives too late to heal him, and it turns out her gifts don't include raising the dead. The shock is so heavy on her that the magic seems to go away. People's wounds stay open. Hangovers won't go away. The sea carries no more fish. The village doctor may even have to reopen his old clinic. But don't worry: they still love the girl. They love her so much. They keep standing in queue every day to see her for a few minutes. They haven't lost hope. They won't countenance the thought of going back to the way things used to be, when health and prosperity took effort.

It's often said that people reveal their true face when they're given power. At first, you don't feel like the people of this village have changed. They don't think so, either: as far as anyone can tell, they're all smiles and polite words. But just because they don't mistreat the child, as in Omelas, doesn't mean she's any less exploited. That's the most chilling part about this film: until almost the very end, you won't find a sinister attitude in any of them. It's with the most level-headed, measured tone that they discuss the extremes they're capable of going when they discover that the girl can still work wonders when she's sleeping.

The King Tide examines how alarmingly easy it is for people to lie to themselves with open eyes in the name of sincerely good intentions. This time, the price of utopia isn't paid by one child. It's paid by everyone else, once they get used to actions not having consequences. They have so lost themselves that they react to the possibility of having their perfectly normal lives back as if it were the end of the world, and that panic makes them willing to turn their placid, guilt-free luckily-not-Omelas into a totally-definitely-Omelas if that's what it takes.

But there's another angle to this situation: the reason why the sea has no fish left is that industrial fishing leaves nothing for the villagers. They aren't to blame for their suffering. But since the girl's arrival, they've been buffered from it. Of the available strategies to deal with the ills of modern life, they've chosen denial. You don't need to help fix a broken world if you have your own personal Jesus who can multiply fish on demand. Over the years, the island has developed a strong local identity, but there's a difference between proud self-reliance and uncaring isolation.

That's the thorniest question throughout the film: every increasingly awful step these people take to preserve their little magical corner of the world is ostensibly done to protect the girl from what the modern world would do to her. And yes, it sounds reasonable to want to prevent her from becoming a lab rat. On the island, she plays with other kids, goes to school, is lovingly cared for. But the loss of her gifts reveals that love as conditional. The implication is left unspoken, because it burns the tongue: would you still love God if you didn't receive any blessings?

This is not the same question as the one asked in the book of Job; I'm not talking about a miserable life. I'm talking about an ordinary one, where you rely on what your hands can hold. If nothing terribly catastrophic were to happen to you, but you had no promise of eternal, painless bliss, would you be satisfied? Or more poignantly: if you had experienced a brief taste of that heaven, would that be enough for you? In the film, the villagers do have the impending disaster of running out of fish, but the script goes out of its way to highlight several times that at any moment they could simply move elsewhere. The danger isn't inevitable. It's by choice that they don't bother to interact with the mainland and possibly push for a better deal with the fishing industry. They have plenty of mundane options for fighting that injustice. But with a miraculous child, they can afford inaction. And it's very seductive to have a life that allows and even rewards inaction.

The thought experiment proposed in Omelas is usually framed in these terms: Is it ethical for all to enjoy infinite happiness if it requires the infinite suffering of one person? It's less common to find it in these terms: If one person could provide infinite happiness for all, is it ethical for that person to refuse? In other words, would you demand that Jesus die to save humankind?

It's subtle, but you can notice that it never occurs to the people in The King Tide to inquire what the girl wants. On one hand, it's unfair that people take her for granted. On the other hand, it looks like it pleases her to help people. On the other other hand, she's legally a minor who has not made an informed choice on the matter. The film wisely stops before she has the chance to walk into the exterior world, so these questions are left hanging for the viewer to mull over. It suffices to explore what our endless asking does to God. It's up to you to ask yourself what it does to you.

Nerd Coefficient: 9/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.