“I am your father.” Those words still echo in my mind. They take me back to the moment when Darth Vader revealed the terrible truth to Luke Skywalker, and I remember how it shattered my expectations—and those of millions of others—in the best way possible: dramatically. The first three mythic Star Wars films (Episodes IV, V, and VI) embedded themselves in our cultural consciousness. Twenty-eight years later, George Lucas brings us full-circle—to the end of the beginning—with “Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.” In this final chapter, we find out the answers to the questions we’ve been asking since day one: what happened to make the Evil Empire, well, evil; what made Luke’s father turn to the Dark Side and become Darth Vader; and how did he become Darth Vader in the first place? Episode III does answer these, but it still leaves a lot of other questions unanswered.

Stephanie Zacharek, a movie reviewer for Salon.com, voices a similar opinion in her article “Same Old Sith.” Her commentary on Episode III is best summed up with her statement that most people will see Episode III as “a scathing indictment of the Bush administration.” In fact, (nearly) her entire review shows displeasure with the film’s political commentary. This is not to say that Zacharek gives the movie short shrift. To the contrary, she delivers a fairly complete (yet bitingly satirical) summary of the events in Episode III. But this summary only serves as a brief detour. Zacharek resumes her list of issues with Lucas’ absolutist storytelling, and the political parallels contained in the movie: “Clearly, the hope is that moviegoers will find it rousingly topical.” I think this is where she’s missing the point; fans like myself had some expectations that weren’t met, and that is where Episode III disappoints.

Zacharek’s review usually echos the thoughts that I had about the movie after I had gotten over the fun of actually watching it. She says “compared with its predecessors, at least, the picture moves along reasonably swiftly.” Well, that’s certainly true. The pacing of this movie is actually a little too quick. There’s a scene in which Anakin is defending Palaptine (the manipulative antagonist) so he can be tried in the courts. Mere seconds later, he is pledging to be Palapatine’s right-hand man, and tromps off to go wipe out everyone at the Jedi temple. Anakin’s transformation from gloomy, conflicted Jedi to glowering, murderous stooge takes about forty-five seconds to complete, and that’s including some Jedi killing. Why couldn’t this agonizing—and potentially, deliciously dramatic—transformation have been spread across two films? Had it taken more than a few seconds, we would have actually rooted for Anakin to fight the temptation of the Dark Side. At this pace, however, it’s hard to care at all.

At times, Zacharek sounds like a stuck record; she keeps coming back to politics. It’s not that she’s off the mark in her analysis – she’s actually quite astute. She does hurt some of her political commentary by using pretentious language: “Preoccupied as they are with good and evil, with so little gray in between, the ‘Star Wars’ movies are more like faux Wagnerian epics that have been clumsily retrofitted with democratic ideals.” Huh? Why not simply say “There are some silly political parallels and two-dimensional moralistic themes,” and then move on to the meat of the movie’s flaws? Ok, so she swings and misses on that one. Zacharek tries again, saying Episode III “doesn’t work as a political statement because for all the lip service Lucas pays to democracy, he barely seems to know what it is.” That’s pretty fair, but honestly, who cares about the political parallels between today’s society and one from long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away?

If Zacharek is looking for issues, why doesn’t she mention problems with the plot or characters? Or the issues Episode III creates in continuity with the other films? Those are surely bottomless wells of topics to pick from. For example: why is it that, when Palpatine tells Anakin that the Force can create life, Anakin completely ignores it, despite his own virgin birth? Seeing as how for the last three films, he’s constantly told that he is “the chosen one,” it seems unlikely he’d gloss over that detail. In a world of antigravity cars and robotic limb replacements, why in the galaxy does Padmé’s pregnancy end in a painful delivery? Don’t these people have laser epidurals? If you were General Grievious—an asthmatic, lightsaber-wielding, Jedi-killing cyborg—and your duty was to destroy people who can deflect laser blasts with a sword, wouldn’t you spring for a cyborg body that actually covered your vital organs? Is Obi-Wan Kenobi only pretending he doesn’t know R2-D2 in Episode IV? After all, he’s known R2-D2 ever since Episode I, and has extended interaction with him in Episode III. The list of questions goes on and on – I only wish that Zacharek had asked some of them.

While her summary is a little editorial for my taste, I think that Zacharek’s review of Episode III is fair, especially as the movie stands. But her fixation on the political and moral overtones, and how they damage the movie is misguided. The problems with Episode III are deeper than shallow politics. They’re ingrained in fans and the twenty-eight years they had to fill in the plot. They came from Lucas under-delivering on the drama that we all knew happened: the collapse of a noble Republic and the rise of a despotic Empire; the dispersal and all but total destruction of the Jedi Order; and the sad, tortured soul of Anakin Skywalker as he slipped from grace and became Darth Vader. Sure, the conversion from Republic to Empire would have still required a little politics, but there would still be plenty of wonderful opportunities for truly complex characters and mythical storytelling.

It was blank.

They always were.

Jack tossed the little piece of paper on his plate between his unfinished kung pao chicken and the other half of the cookie.

Tess sat across from him at the dimly lit table, pushing the last piece of sweet and sour pork around and around her plate, as though making it do laps would burn off her meal. “You’re twenty-nine,” she said. “Can you ever remember having one that wasn’t blank? I mean, how many have you had? Do you know?”

“Five hundred and thirty-four,” he replied as the pork ran another three laps. “Thirty-five,” he said, as he pulled the fortune from another cookie. “That’s something like one a week since I started counting back when I was sixteen, and including the half-dozen bags I’ve bought over the years.” He tried to pat down his short mop of hair, using the restaurant window as a barely-functional mirror. He poked a few bucks under the tea kettle. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Tess said, wrapping her scarf around her neck.

Jack tossed his Visa on the counter, and handed the clerk a dollar. “For these,” he said, grabbing a handful of fortune cookies from the countertop jar. He jammed all but one in his jacket pocket and signed the receipt as Tess opened the door. As they walked out, the chill in the air made him wish he had a long coat like hers, just maybe in a color other than leopard print. He pulled on his gloves and zipped his jacket, then flipped up the collar against the breeze.

Tess took a couple of steps then stopped abruptly, shaking her head. Jack was fussing with a fortune cookie and nearly bumped into her as she turned around. She stopped him with a finger in the chest, saying, “I guess we’ll never find the car if I lead, huh? Come on, Cookie Monster.” She grabbed his arm, and unceremoniously spun him to face her car. “Were you planning on telling me I was headed in the wrong direction?”

“Your keen sense of direction will take you far,” Jack mumbled as he looked at the fortune.

“You got a fortune?!?!” Tess burbled excitedly.

“Just kidding.”

That earned him a punch in the kidney.

They had known one another nearly three years now, and her curiosity never seemed to wane, asking about his affliction whenever they ate Chinese. Or Thai. Japanese. Korean. Vietnamese. Even Fiori’s served chocolate-dipped fortune cookies nowadays. As they neared her Jeep, she asked, “So—as far as you know—you’ve never had even one that wasn’t totally devoid of even the tiniest blot of ink?”

“Not one,” he replied as he cracked another cookie open. Blank.

Tess’ keys were dangling from her fingers and her normally placid brow was rumpled, eyes searching for something that apparently wasn’t in her purse.

“What’s wrong? Sense a disturbance in the force?” Jack teased.

“Ha, ha,” she sneered. “My phone’s not in here. I must’ve left it on the table. Back in a flash,” she smiled, and started jogging back towards the restaurant.

“Rough day?” he yelled after her.

She turned and jogged backwards, sticking out her tongue.

Jack chuckled as he watched her round the corner, her long, dark braid swinging behind her. He leaned on her Cherokee, admiring the gold trim, and dug the last cookie out of his pocket. He cracked it open, and a car alarm beeped for attention behind him. He turned to look, and across the street saw a distinguished gentleman in a long, black overcoat opening the door of his Beamer.

“Nice coat,” Jack said to himself as he turned back to his fortune cookie. The chill had seeped through his thin gloves and he fumbled with opening it, dropping it into the gutter. He grumbled, and crouched to fish it out of the crumpled leaves. He picked up the fortune, and flipped it over.

“Stay down,” it read.

That’s when the Beamer exploded.

It’s funny how you remember little things about your first fight. I don’t remember how it started, or if it was during lunch. Maybe it was after school. I don’t even remember why Todd wanted to pound me. I do remember I was scared – my heartbeat was throbbing in my head so loud, it drowned out almost everything that was being said. There was no crowd of kids chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” like you usually see in school; I wasn’t that important. It was just Todd, Ogre, and a handful of lackeys – a nice even number, knowing you’re gonna get your face caved in. There was this orange traffic cone sitting next to the bench – I always thought it was out of place there. Like that girl playing hopscotch on the blacktop surrounding the park; she must have been close enough to overhear, but she ignored us completely.

Todd was your basic bully, not exactly brainy, but meaner than you’d expect – even counting how horrible his mom was to his dad, he was just mean by nature. Bigger than me by a couple inches, his red hair, ultra-pale blue eyes, and near lack of eyebrows made him look all the more ruthless. Ogre was two years older, and two years bigger – nearly four inches in every direction but smarts. Even though he was the scarier by a big margin, he must have had some complex, ’cause he was putty in Todd’s hands. Whatever the reason, Ogre put his pubescent muscle to work backing Todd from day one.

Todd’s arm was an accident. I wanna say that right now. I didn’t break his arm with martial arts or sheer strength – neither of those are things a geeky 7th grader has. Something—probably fear of death—made me rush him as he swung at me, and we toppled backwards, his arm between the slats of the bench as I fell over him. God, it seems so simple now – I’m sure at the time it must have been disorienting and chaotic. I don’t think he made any noise come to think of it, he just kinda went limp. Everything else got quiet real fast, too. That girl kept hopping as though no-one’s arm had just made a stomach-churning noise.

I was tryin’ to figure out which way was up, when a blinding pain seized my attention as Ogre’s foot came stomping down on my knee. Even though he was late to his master’s aide, that didn’t stop him from hauling me off the ground and off my feet. Then just as suddenly, he let go, slipping to the ground with the same eerie silence that Todd had maintained when I heard his arm snap.

I must have hit him with the small rock in my hand, I just don’t remember it. Then again, I don’t remember picking it up or spraining my wrist either. He was lying face down in the grass, breathing softly, blissfully unaware of the small cut on his head and the headache he’d wake up to.

Todd, as I look back at it, was never anything more than a collection of images. His hand on my throat, pinning me to my locker for looking at him wrong. His fist in my stomach, after talking to ‘his’ girl (who never had anything to do with him). The pieces of food that flew through the air at lunchtime, aimed at anyone he derided.

That day… that day he was made up of different pictures. His eyes wide with shock and the slack jaw. The wooden bench propping him up as he sat slumped next to the traffic cone. The lackeys drifting back to wherever they came from before they met him. A twisted limb and a tattered sleeve. A girl playing hopscotch.