Normally, I am reluctant to even entertain the idea that I can – or should – weigh in on matters better left to the teeming masses of Nerd-dom that so infect the cultural marketplace at this fateful hour. That unrelentingly humorless corner of the internet that has, daily, in lieu of sex, social contact, or lives lived, no doubt covered anything and everything related to, spawned from, and ass deep in, the world of Star Wars.
And I’ll be frank: ever since I saw the revised and reedited versions that hit theaters in the mid-90’s, I’ve been less of a fan than ever. Not that I ever was, mind you, unless you count my adolescent years, when it was practically a mandate from heaven that an American lad own all the toys and wish he was Luke Skywalker. Since it’s mattered, I’ve been more of a Star Trek man, and not because I give two shits about science fiction or the upbeat messages concerning a harmonious future. No, I liked the fight scenes. And Kirk’s torn shirts. And Spock telling Bones to fuck the fuck off in his delightfully subtle Vulcan way. The World of Lucas, in contrast, has always been a distraction I’d prefer to avoid.
Still, I am vexed. Vexed by an issue that has persisted in my fevered brain for many a decade, if only because while the world burns, I am more apt to obsess over nonsense that doesn’t affect a single living soul. It’s my way. At last, I can express it to my handful of readers, most of whom likely share similar concerns. Simply put, I mourn for Jabba. Yes, Jabba the Hutt, the most misunderstood figure in the annals of fantasy.
Dying at the hand of a half-naked Leia was one thing, but what I really won’t stand for is the perception that our fine, flabby friend was ever a bad guy. Far from evil, he’s perhaps the most just character in the entire series. He played fair, held to the rules, and never demanded more than his share. Simply collecting a debt, he was persecuted, tricked, and eventually assassinated by a gang of buffoons I always hoped would succumb to the far cooler dark side.
Jabba loaned money. He was a banker of sorts, fueling the galaxy with fresh capital so that commerce might live. Grow. Spread prosperity to village and star system alike. Only there are those who don’t like to pay shit back. Deadbeats. Soldiers of fortune who believe their way is the only way, even if it undermines the very system they claim to support.
I’m speaking of Han Solo, easily the worst character in the pantheon, in that he’s hippy George’s idea of a righteous cowboy. Instead, he’s everything Southern California was at the time Lucas penned this horseshit: a layabout creep who took, took more, and expected everyone else to clean up the mess. Being frozen in carbonite was, in fact, getting off easy. He should have been sent straight to the gas chamber. Or its equivalent in a galaxy far, far away. He knew the terms at the outset and chose to ignore every last one of them.
So pardon Jabba for wanting an ever-present example for the rabble: cheat me, cheat the system, and you’ll end up like this guy. It’s eminently reasonable, and from 1980 forward when the punishment was first inflicted, I have always challenged the assumption that there was anything to correct. Reverse what, exactly? An unpaid debt that deserves recompense? Maybe I was just channeling my rage for my own tax-evading, gamble-the-house-away father, the very sort who did whatever the fuck he pleased, even at the expense of his children.
Is that it, then? I beam with pride at Han’s fixed, stone-like pain because I wanted that to be my pop? Even the dimeiest of dime store psychologists would consider that a tad simplistic, but it’s not altogether off base. Even to this day, I’m a big believer in paying my bills and putting in an honest day’s work (to say nothing of proudly paying taxes), largely because I felt I owed it to the very system that allowed my dad to evade prison. In that sense, Jabba was Uncle Sam himself, sailing the stars far and wide to make right the wrongs of an irresponsible lout.
More than that, though, I just liked the big lug. Jabba was completely himself, no apologies, and since I’m currently emulating his smirking slab in more ways than one, I choose to embrace the one character who defined himself by his leisure rather than any derring-do. Hell, who wouldn’t love a creature who, because of his girth and appetite, could forsake effort and have everyone come to him? That’s power, baby, and from where I sit, the closest science fiction has ever gotten to an LBJ doppelgänger.
Here’s Jabba, slurping and burping from on high, while everyone bows and scrapes to please. It’s Lyndon on his toilet, daring staffers to complain to HR. Here’s a guy who hasn’t one single physical trait anyone would fear, yet he runs an entire planet like a fiefdom. Vader himself should be so lucky. He had the Force to compel obedience, for chrissakes. Jabba, just a glare. Here’s to the fatty that made good. For a change.
Leave a Reply