That most human element, love, is awakened in the young Anakin by his secret romance and marriage with Princess Amidala. However, his capacity to love becomes distorted by the death of his mother at the hand of Tusken raiders. In a sequence that recalls the Western movie universe of John Ford's The Searchers,
Anakin finds his mother horribly tortured by the savages and overreacts to her death, unleashing a tide of bloody revenge that makes him almost unredeemable in an audience's eyes.
In Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Anakin becomes obsessed with the fear of losing that which he loves, Princess Amidala, and is haunted by prophetic dreams of her dying in childbirth. He is thus easy prey for the temptations of Senator Palpatine, who holds out the promise of an elixir that can rescue loved ones from death. Anakin makes further bad choices, preventing positive Jedi mentor Mace Windu from killing Palpatine and allowing Palpatine to kill Windu. When Amidala pleads with him to leave public life, Anakin errs again, choosing to remain at the center of things in the vain hope of overthrowing Palpatine someday.
Paradoxically, Anakin nearly causes that which he fears the most, Amidalas death, by almost strangling her when he suspects she has betrayed him to Obi-Wan. She dies of a broken heart after giving birth to the future Luke and Leia. Anakin's descent into monsterhood is completed in a final duel with Obi-Wan, who cuts off both his arms and one leg, leaving him to roll near the scorching lava of a volcano. Palpatine, now revealed to be the evil schemer Darth Sidious, rescues Anakin and uses machines to turn him into the less-than-human creature we know as Darth Vader. In this dark and tragic climax, the only ray of hope is that the infants Luke and Leia are sent to be raised by surrogate parents, Luke going to his aunt and uncle on Tatooine and Leia being raised by a noble family, the Organas, on the planet Alderaan.
Audiences and critics had mixed reactions to the three prequel films, ranging from strong criticism of comic elements like the character of Jar-Jar Binks to expressions of disappointment that Lucas seemed to have lost some of the bright, cheerful spirit of episodes IV-VI. One possible explanation for the markedly different tone of the prequels is that Lucas was in a different stage of his life when he returned to his youthful creation. In making the first three films in the '70s and '80s, Lucas had only a short walk backwards to reach his childhood, and was firmly in touch with the optimism and hopefulness of youth. The road back to innocence was a lot longer by 1999, and his perspective was no longer that of a young rogue filmmaker, but that of a responsible parent and head of a huge network of companies. Although in Episode I Lucas was dealing with the early childhood of his protagonist, Anakin Skywalker, the boy genius in the film sounds more like a world-weary adult.
Though Lucas has said he has completed his original vision with the six feature films, the universe he founded continues to be developed in countless novels, comics, animation series, and games. It has a definite life of its own, quite apart from the intentions of its creator, and it has been embellished by original contributions from fans who feel they own it. And we are entitled to wonder if someday, perhaps in a universe far, far away, one version of the original scheme will ever be realized, one that called not only for three prequel films, but also three sequels, presumably Episodes VII, VIII, and IX, that might deal with the further adventures of Luke, Leia, and Han Solo, and perhaps their descendants or students. It would be interesting to see, in that hypothetical universe, how the perspective of the creator might mellow, perhaps producing a tone completely different from those of the first six films, in a future where humans will have to make ever more difficult choices about the Force and the god-like possibilities of technology. Having explored idealized goodness in the first three films, and the roots of evil in the prequels, Lucas and his successors might find a synthesis in a future triad of films that finally brings a balance to the Force.
In 2001 I participated in the making of a documentary film, A Galaxy Far; Far Away, looking into the "Stars Wars phenomenon" that was cresting in the public imagination because of the revival of the series. The film took a light-hearted view of the curious obsessions of Star Wars fans and the importance of the movies in their lives. Given that fathers and sons are so significant in the films, it's not surprising that a major conclusion of the filmmakers was that the Star Wars saga is one of the few cultural events that unites generations, making strong bonds between fathers and sons. Many young men interviewed for the documentary reported that the Star Wars films were among the few movies that fathers and sons could watch together, and that they had become an important part of family memories. Despite their occasional flaws and missteps, the films collectively are an impressive achievement of the mythic imagination, continuing the epic tradition and proving that abundant energy still surges in the motifs of the Hero's Journey.
The beauty of the Hero's Journey model is that it not only describes a pattern in myths and fairy tales, but it's also an accurate map of the territory one must travel to become a writer or, for that matter, a human being.
The Hero's Journey and the Writer's Journey are one and the same. Anyone setting out to write a story soon encounters all the tests, trials, ordeals, joys, and rewards of the Hero's Journey. We meet all of its Shadows, Shapeshifters, Mentors, Tricksters, and Threshold Guardians in the interior landscape. Writing is an often perilous journey inward to probe the depths of one's soul and bring back the Elixir of experience — a good story. Low self-esteem or confusion about goals may be the Shadows that chill our work, an editor or one's own judgmental side may be the Threshold Guardians that seem to block our way. Accidents, computer problems, and difficulties with time and discipline may torment and taunt us like Tricksters. Unrealistic dreams of success or distractions may be the Shapeshifters who tempt, confuse, and dazzle us. Deadlines, editorial decisions, or the struggle to sell our work may be the Tests and Ordeals from which we seem to die but are Resurrected to write again.
But take hope, for writing is magic. Even the simplest act of writing is almost supernatural, on the borderline with telepathy. Just think: We can make a few abstract marks on a piece of paper in a certain order and someone a world away and a thousand years from now can know our deepest thoughts. The boundaries of space and time and even the limitations of death can be transcended.
Many cultures believed the letters of their alphabets were far more than just symbols for communication, recording transactions, or recalling history. They believed letters were powerful magical symbols that could be used to cast spells and predict the future. The Norse runes and the Hebrew alphabet are simple letters for spelling words, but also deep symbols of cosmic significance.
This magical sense is preserved in our word for teaching children how to manipulate letters to make words: spelling. When you "spell" a word correctly, you are in effect casting a spell, charging these abstract, arbitrary symbols with meaning and power. We say "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me," but this is manifestly untrue. We know that words have power to hurt or heal. The simple words of a letter, telegram, or phone call can strike you like a hammer blow. They're just words — marks on paper or vibrations of air — but mere words such as "Guilty," "Ready, aim, fire.'" "I do," or "We'd like to buy your screenplay" can bind us, condemn us, or bring us joy. They can hurt or heal us with their magic power.