We are required by law, apparently, to throw some Star Wars content at you.
The movie — the real movie — should prove “the final, shining nail in the coffin of originality,” The Guardian’s Catherine Shoard writes today.
Some young characters are introduced, but the old faithfuls are present and correct, blingy bot and beepy bin included. Likewise the spaceships, the weapons, the sliding titles, the masks, the wheezing and all those intergalactic beasties, as if someone drew a hippo while tipsy. The plot, too, is what the diplomatic might call a fond homage to the first film.
So far, so familiar. We all know mainstream cinema is now a cannibal’s conveyor belt which seeks to refeed us yesterday’s breakfast, and to eke it out over as many portions as possible. And that movies are comfort food for the crowds, cash cows for studios and an endless jackpot for a few fat-cat creators. Where this film breaks new ground is in outsourcing the regurgitation. Star Wars: The Force Awakens is, essentially, fan fiction.
“Sating an appetite is great,” she says. “But the eagerness and means of replenishing the trough is unseemly.”
As if Star Wars fans care.