#13 ‘Star Wars’
Daddy Issues in Space with a Side of Incest
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away… a whiny farm boy became the chosen one, a planet full of women exploded, and somehow this became the cornerstone of modern mythology. Yes, I’m talking about Star Wars (1977), the original sci-fi opera that launched a thousand thinkpieces and gave generations of men an excuse to grow up without actually growing.
Let’s be clear: Star Wars is not a feminist space adventure. It’s a boys’ clubhouse with lasers, where the only woman allowed in is either being rescued, lectured, or ogled—and where the greatest power in the universe is having a famous dad.
Luke Skywalker, our supposed hero, is an irritating man-child with the emotional depth of a soggy cracker. He spends most of the movie either whining about power converters or blindly stumbling into heroism like a golden retriever with a lightsaber. We’re told he’s special, destined, full of potential—because nothing says “relatable” like an intergalactic nepotism fantasy.
And then there’s Princess Leia. Oh, Leia. Played with razor-sharp brilliance by Carrie Fisher, she’s smart, competent, and furious in every scene—and for good reason. She’s the only person in the film who seems to realize she’s surrounded by idiots. But instead of being celebrated for her leadership, she’s belittled, bossed around, and eventually slapped into a metal bikini by her own franchise. We’re supposed to believe she's a symbol of empowerment, but the story treats her like the nagging mom in a household of petulant sons.
Han Solo, meanwhile, is a space cowboy with the emotional range of a smirk. He gaslights, negs, and grabs his way into Leia’s affections, and it’s all framed as “charming.” Consent? Mutual respect? Not in this quadrant.
The plot? An oppressive fascist empire blows up planets, and the only people who can stop it are a bunch of robed monks with vague metaphors and daddy issues. The Rebellion is suspiciously lacking in nuance, diversity, or infrastructure, but never mind that—there’s a prophecy to fulfill, a throne to reclaim, and a whole lot of pew pew pew to distract you from the fact that this is essentially King Arthur in space, if Merlin were a cryptic ghost and Guinevere got to fire a gun exactly twice.
Darth Vader, let’s not forget, is a mass-murdering warlord who gets a redemption arc because he throws one guy down a shaft after decades of slaughtering children and coworkers alike. But he’s a dad, and dads, apparently, always deserve forgiveness in the Lucasverse.
Sure, the score is iconic. The production design is groundbreaking. The crawl at the beginning is pure cinematic adrenaline. But when you strip away the space dust and nostalgia, Star Wars is little more than a patriarchal power fantasy dipped in space glitter. The women are sidelined, the politics are simplistic, and the moral is clear: trust the force, unless you’re a girl—then you’d better trust the men who use it instead.
2.5 out of 5 death stars
(One for the music. One for the costumes. Half a star for Leia’s side-eye. The rest was lost in hyperspace somewhere between Alderaan and male fragility.)
