Disney’s dominion over the Star Wars intellectual property has been less than ideal for many fans of the franchise. The highly anticipated sequel trilogy was divisive, leaving a fractured legacy. Although wildly successful from a commercial perspective, “The Force Awakens” was a rather inane imitation of “A New Hope,” not particularly beloved by fans today. “The Last Jedi” was a genuinely daring and inventive addition to the series, meaning it, of course, was subjected to the most vitriolic criticism from the darkest corners of the internet. If “The Force Awakens” pissed off those who hoped for something more original and “The Last Jedi” pissed off diehard nerds, the trilogy’s finale “The Rise of Skywalker” reconciled these warring factions brilliantly, by being so dogshit as to piss everyone off.
Outside of the trilogy, Disney released two spin-off films during the 2010s: 2016’s “Rogue One: A Star Wars Story” and 2018’s “Solo: A Star Wars Story.” Both of these films were marred by production catastrophes, including reshoots and directorial changes, meaning the products both ended up as rather odd footnotes in the series chronology. “Solo” ended up as a largely forgettable end product, while “Rogue One,” found acclaim among the series’ fan base, regarded by many fans as the best Disney-made film in the series.
If Disney’s Star Wars film pedigree is mixed at best, the flood of television shows that emerged after has been an unmitigated disaster. “The Mandalorian” began as a major success for Disney. Season one of the series became something of a phenomenon, seemingly reviving a franchise that had teetered on irrelevance. However, the quality of the series dipped quickly after that and other Disney shows, from “The Book of Boba Fett” to “Ahsoka” were disastrous from the start. Among this barrage of prequels to sequels, prequels to prequels and sequels to prequels, many have questioned whether Star Wars fatigue is starting to set in for wider audiences. Are people tired of space adventures through a galaxy far, far away? Has Disney oversaturated their series lineup with Jedi and galactic rebels?
The ambitious and thrilling filmmaking of “Andor” fully quashes these questions. “Andor” stands out among its contemporaries thanks to its world-building — or rather, its refusal to spout off lore. Modern fantasy and science fiction stories often bombard the audience with factoids and history lessons about their fictional world, all of which attempt to add depth but come at the expense of plot and character work. “Andor” uses its fortunate place in a well-established galaxy to never explain more than what is necessary. The series doesn’t waste time on lengthy lessons about galactic hyperspace trade lanes or the origin story of Han Solo’s last name. Instead, it focuses on what matters: a consistent tone, intricate characters and tight pacing.
Taking place a few years before its progenitor film, “Rogue One,” and consequently the original Star Wars trilogy itself, “Andor” follows the story of its eponymous lead, Cassian Andor (Diego Luna, “La Máquina”). At the beginning of the show, Andor has not yet become the rebel leader he is in “Rogue One,” and the show follows the development of the rebellion from a loose faction of partisans and terrorists to the fully-fledged Rebel Alliance we see in the original trilogy. After season one portrayed Andor’s full entrance into the rebel cause under Luthen Rael (Stellan Skarsgård, “Dune: Part Two”), season two focuses on Andor’s pursuits as Rael’s go-to operative.
Rather than asking the audience to marvel at its mythology, “Andor” presents a world that feels lived-in and grounded. The show commits to the all too ordinary and achieves the extraordinary: Much of the series is spent with characters waiting for a radio message, getting through a long wedding full of family members and anti-immigrant sentiment. “Andor” redirects the audience’s attention to its characters’ emotions, instead of the spectacle of fantasy and intergalactic warfare. The show’s tensions are common in the real world, but its fantastical setting prevents the overtly political themes of the show from becoming trite. The show tackles the complexity of living under a genocidal authoritarian regime through the little moments, rather than through big-picture, world-ending conflicts.
It is exactly this nuance and tone that makes “Andor” stand out from the original “Star Wars” films. While the original trilogy portrays the Empire as an ominous force, there is a sort of inherent whimsy underpinning the movies. The leaders of the Empire are, after all, magic wizards who use glowing swords to fight against other magic wizards. “Andor” is mostly detached from the goofier, mystical elements of the films, making it a starkly different experience tonally. Rather than being pursued by Darth Vader, our heroes in “Andor” fight against the Empire’s paramilitary secret service, known as the Imperial Security Bureau. The ISB is drastically more vicious than the villains of Star Wars past — composed of cutthroat intelligence officers who engage in psychological warfare and intrigue. In the season’s middle two arcs, the story follows the burgeoning rebellion on a planet called Ghorman. In reality, the rebel uprising on Ghorman is a front perpetuated by the ISB, who stoke the rebellion to justify a brutal operation of repression to exploit the planet’s natural resources. The plight of these well-intentioned yet fatalistically doomed rebels culminates in the season’s eighth episode, which ends in a brutal massacre and is the series’ most devastating moment.
The tone of “Andor” would not work were it not for the brilliant writing of series showrunner Tony Gilroy (“Rogue One: A Star Wars Story”) and his brother, Dan Gilroy (“Magazine Dreams”). In the hands of lesser writers, an attempt to turn “Star Wars” into a tonally dark thriller would be prone to read like fan fiction. However, the Gilroy brothers navigate this act with tact, maintaining the unique aesthetic of the Star Wars world while shaping its plot points to real political conflicts. Within modern media, it would be hard to find a more incisive critique of the mechanisms totalitarian regimes use to enforce their power. The real dynamics of oppression — careerist military officers, corporate propaganda, ineffectual political opposition and partisan in-fighting, to name a few that “Andor” depicts — are painted with clarity and precision. The struggle against the Empire, so romantic in the original trilogy, becomes one of desperation and heartbreak in “Andor.”
As a prequel, “Andor” could have struggled to maintain dramatic tension. Its ending is a foregone conclusion — Cassian dies in “Rogue One”. There is no changing that, yet Gilroy manages to make each moment in the series feel immediate and full of peril. Knowing Cassian’s eventual demise doesn’t rob the show of tension; rather, it sharpens it. The worry is not that the primary characters will die, but rather that their actions will have dire consequences for their relationships and lives going forward. Gilroy isn’t just great with writing large-scale political conflicts or writing small moments, he also understands how to use Andor’s position as a prequel series to his benefit. Through its writing, “Andor” does what truly great prequels do: recontextualizes the original while operating excellently as a standalone work.
The one major downside to the efficient storytelling of “Andor” season two is its use of multiple one-year time skips. While helping to progress the narrative, these time skips create some odd character moments. Bix becomes extremely depressed between two of the season’s arcs, making her change in demeanor initially very confusing. This element was likely a product of necessity rather than choice; Gilroy explained that he initially planned on five seasons, which was simply untenable in the modern environment of television, resulting in such a compressed final season. The catch-up the audience must play to keep with the flow of the story is a trade-off — with only one season left, the show is forced to sacrifice more of its slow character moments to fit into its well-plotted story. Though each arc is excellent on its own, their transitional nature presents a flaw in an otherwise nearly perfect twelve episodes of television.
However, these time skips are often overshadowed by the several stellar performances that anchor the season. Most obviously fantastic is Skarsgård, who brilliantly portrays Luthen Rael as a hardened, political operative who will sacrifice anything and anyone for the rebellion. However, a more surprising breakout is Mon Mothma (Genevieve O’Reilly, “The Dry”), an Imperial elite who becomes disillusioned with the Empire and finds herself as a leader of the Rebellion. A minor presence throughout some of the original films, Mothma transforms into a fully fleshed character here. O’Reilly convincingly depicts the tension of elites leaving behind a life of wealth and comfort to support the rebellion, tying together the series’ themes.
Similarly, other breakouts provide complexity to the series’ villains. The performances of Dedra Meero (Denise Gough, “Monday”) and Syril (Kyle Soller, “Bodies”) elevate the empire to something far scarier than stock forces of evil. Dedra is competent and terrifying — not because she’s a cartoon villain, but because she embodies the obsessive, bureaucratic cruelty of fascism. Syril, with his need for order and purpose, is just as unsettling. The show dares to explore the seductive nature of fascism and how it instills righteousness in its foot soldiers. The ISB and other imperial officers are not cackling fairy-tale villains; they are bureaucrats conducting heinous acts of oppression.
The show doesn’t just excel with its characters and plot, but also in its successful use of visual storytelling. Cinematographers Christophe Nuyens (“Infiniti), Mark Patten (“Stingy Old Fella””) and Damián García (“I’m No Longer Here”) purposefully strip back its shot composition, primarily relying on straightforward establishing shots and naturally-lit characters. The simplicity of the camera’s style may seem minor, but its elegant execution gives scenes an honest power that more bombastic shots would diminish. This philosophy also carries over to the show’s stark lighting and blocking. Metaphors are simple and effective, like when characters facing an impossible choice are shown on the edge of shadows. This directorial restraint gives the visual language full resonance: It shows what it needs to, no more.
“Andor” is unique. All of its parts — the setting, the characters, the dialogue — come together seamlessly to create something that television has never seen before. It’s the culmination of the galaxy-sized potential Star Wars has always had, balancing disparate elements of the fable-like original trilogy, the political messaging of the prequels and the subversiveness of “The Last Jedi.” “Andor” not only lives up to the potential of this legendary franchise, but it also belongs to the highest tiers of prestige television in its own right. “Andor” reimagines what Star Wars can be — not just a franchise of lightsabers and Skywalkers, but a space for serious storytelling about rebellion and the price of freedom.
Daily Arts Writers Zach Loveall and Will Cooper can be reached at zloveall@umich.edu and wcoop@umich.edu.
