There is, here, a sense of the Star Wars universe passing lengthily through a complete circle. Close to 50 years ago (yikes!) George Lucas unleashed a film that drew shameless inspiration from the space serials he had grown up with at his local fleapit.
They were still showing the original Flash Gordon serials on RTÉ just a few years before the first Star Wars film arrived.
This undemanding romp sticks closer to the venerable serial patterns than any feature in the franchise since that ground-breaking original. Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu is essentially a mission film. We are expected to already know who the characters are. At the close we are left in open-ended expectation of next week’s adventure.
No surprises there. If you have bothered to read this far you will, no doubt, be already aware that this is the first spin-off film from the likable Disney+ series The Mandalorian. The folk behind that show have allowed it to be described as a space western, and that continues to make sense.
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The (until recently, anyway) perpetually masked Pedro Pascal plays Din Djarin, a character not unlike the “man with no name” (he actually had several) whom Clint Eastwood baked into legend from the late 1960s. Djarin – aka the Mandalorian – initially appears an utter cynic, but, like the hero of A Fistful of Dollars, he is capable of being swayed towards reluctant compassion.
Hired by the Imperial despots to track down Grogu, a child of the same species that gave us Yoda, he ends up falling for the green tyke and adopting him as mascot and partner.
Fans of the show will have a fair idea what to expect. Blissfully short on the tedious “lore” that clogged up the most recent trilogy, the film flings us into the action quickly and doesn’t let up until spitting us out after a satisfactory mass of explosions.
We begin with Din Djarin receiving instructions from the New Republic to rescue Rotta the Hutt – son of Jabba – in exchange for information about a potential target. A delightfully ageless Sigourney Weaver turns out as an irreverent New Republic colonel who has the Mandalorian’s measure. Jeremy Allen White, who in no way resembles a giant alien slug, provides a voice for the not unsympathetic Rotta.
What you didn’t get on the ancient film series was this class of production values. Ludwig Göransson, winner of three Academy Awards, provides a predictably appealing score that swings from lush strings to playful electronica. The cinematographer David Klein brings damp reality to the alien landscapes.
One might argue this is all a bit lavish for the sort of pulp that, in prose form, they used to sell cheaply at railway station newsstands, but that blend of low culture and high professionalism has always been at the heart of the Star Wars project.
There is little story worth spoiling. Rather than expand on its premise, Jon Favreau’s film biffs its characters through a series of escalating crises. There is a massed cage fight that would not be out of place in a Japanese kaiju flick.
Our hero dispenses the odd nugget of wisdom while lugging his green appendage through sucking damp and clinging mud. “Fighting is not a sport,” he says. “It’s a last resort.”
Even Pascal, who gets to pull off the helmet for extended periods, does not have quite enough charm to elevate such low-temperature dialogue, but the relationship between human and “baby Yoda” – often compared to that in the famous Lone Wolf and Cub manga – is compelling enough to keep us emotionally attached.
The film ultimately amounts to not much more than an empty distraction of the old school. That is not altogether a bad thing. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away we were happy with that on a rainy afternoon.
In cinemas from Friday, May 22nd
