The
Star Wars sequel trilogy is an unmitigated disaster. The Rise of Skywalker was the final
nail in the coffin of a story which managed to be both completely uninspired and radically
deconstructive to the point of completely polarizing the fanbase. If anything, the finale
at least managed to bring about the consensus that something had indeed gone terribly wrong
with Disney’s handling of the franchise. Even the cast members seem to have mentally
jumped ship a long time ago… That
was it. The franchise seemed to be on the verge of certain collapse. That was, until
Jon Favreau and Dave Filoni released the first episode of The Mandalorian, in which the main
character Mando literally finds the potential of new life in the form of a child…
The child, better known as ‘baby yoda’, has since taken the internet by storm and
has become the primary marker of the show’s popularity and success, spawning a seemingly
endless amount of memes and a number of highly quotable taglines. Some have argued that the
show’s success stems from the fact that unlike much of the sequel trilogy, The Mandalorian
effectively goes back to what made Star Wars great in the first place. Being a straightforward
space adventure story reminiscent of classic spaghetti westerns and old samurai movies
with new interesting characters and plenty of worldbuilding. Others, on the other hand,
have argued that the show’s story is actually rather lackluster, and that its success can
largely, if not completely be attributed to the cuteness factor of baby yoda.
Although both of these arguments have merit, I believe they only tell part of the story.
Far from being just a return to classic Star Wars or a blatant appeal to the emotions,
I believe that the true significance of The Mandalorian and the baby yoda phenomenon is
found in the symbolic structure of its story, and the way in which it maps almost perfectly
onto the tale of St. Christopher. As such, I will argue that we should view the show’s
success as a manifestation of a larger cultural pattern, marked by unlikely marginal figures
confronting an upside-down world and attempting to flip it back on its feet.
The legend of St. Christopher is the story of an animalistic, arbitrary man who ends
up serving the highest being by carrying Christ the child across a chaotic river.
St. Christopher, who initially goes by the name of Reprobus, is often described as a
fearsome giant, and even as a monster-like dog-headed man, living on the edge of the
world. As a mighty warrior, Reprobus sought to serve the greatest and most powerful being
in existence. This quest leads him to serve various kings until he ends up serving the
devil himself. Like St. Christopher, the mysterious bounty
hunter going by the nickname of Mando, is a man of the margin. It is revealed that he
lost his family during the clone wars, after which he was adopted by the Mandalorians,
a warrior-cult itself ripped from its home-planet by
the Empire. Mando is thus a man without a clear identity, initially speaking only sparsely,
and operating in the outer rim, on the very edge of the galaxy. Known as the fiercest
warriors of this galaxy, the legendary Mandalorians seek to prove their prowess by besting great
opponents in order to carry their sigil on their sleeves. And like the Christian saint,
Mando serves a variety of clients, seeking ever greater reward in order to survive in
an increasingly chaotic and scarce world… But we also find this marginal St. Christopher-like
nature in some of Mando’s companions. His direct superior, Greef Karga, is a disgraced
magistrate, a man of the law turned into an arbitrary agent of the bounty hunter’s guild.
Cara Dune on the other hand is an ex-Rebel shock trooper turned mercenary, a person who
lost her sense of identity and purpose and who only finds meaning in her desire for revenge.
A desire driven by the annihilation of her home-planet Alderaan.
Mando’s aims are purely material and pragmatic in nature, seeking merely to survive, and
to add to his armor in order to increase his strength and his power. The Mandalorian’s
beskar armor in essence becomes his identity, and to have it removed in front of another
living being would be to lose one’s sense of self, to reveal one’s nakedness, an ultimate
disgrace… This hiding of his humanity under his armor becomes the image of Mando’s robotic,
inhuman nature, the equivalent of St. Christopher’s monster-like appearance. And like his Christian
counterpart, he opportunistically executes assignments without much regard for the moral
implications, at times even relishing in the pain and violence he inflicts upon the galaxy...
But perhaps the clearest representation of Mando’s nature is found in his fear and
distrust of droids, in particular of the assassin-droid IG-11. In IG-11 we find the ultimate image
of the mindless warrior who by nature only knows to follow orders and to kill and destroy.
Mando’s fear and hatred of droids therefore not only reflects his trauma in the death
of his parents but also, and more importantly, acts as the mirror-image to his own being.
Mando’s distrust of droids ultimately reflects his repressed disgust of himself and what
he has become. And this twisted nature ironically ultimately leads him to serve the Empire,
the very power responsible for the genocide of
his people. Back in the St. Christopher story Reprobus
eventually finds out about Satan’s fear of Christ and decides to devote himself to
the service of the Lord. But in his journey to find Christ, Reprobus almost dies and is
narrowly saved by a hermit, who takes him into his home and instructs him in the Christian
faith. And just like in the journey of St. Christopher,
it’s in Mando’s search for the Empire’s elusive, and highly dangerous asset, that
he crosses paths with a hermit who saves him from death. This hermit Ugnaught, named Kuil,
invites Mando into his home and vouches to help him in his search for this mysterious
asset. And so he teaches him not to utilize his brute physical power, but his voice to
tame and ride a wild blurg, marking a move away from unthinking, animalistic power, into
focused, purposeful action, a literal taming of his animality. And in a similar manner,
Kuil also instructs Mando in dealing with the Jawas who disassembled his ship. Not by
mindlessly using violence against them to no avail, but by utilizing his strength to
aid them in obtaining a rare egg. This guidance towards inner transformation
is played out again later on in Kuil’s salvaging and retraining of IG-11 into a nursing droid,
programmed not to destroy, but to protect. For Mando, the miraculous transformation of
IG-11 thus becomes the image of the potential of rebirth into new life.
But at the center of this change of course is the magical child, baby Yoda. It is both
through the child’s innocence and through his great power that Mando ultimately decides
to turn against his client and protect him from harm. And just like in the story of St.
Christopher, who after leaving the hermit is tasked to carry the increasingly heavy
Christ across the waters of chaos, baby yoda becomes Mando’s greatest burden as he carriers
him across the chaos of outer space towards a new life. This burden forces Mando as well
as his companions to slowly reconfigure their lives, enlightening them, and transforming
them into servants of good. Visually, this change is marked by a baptismal
des cent into death. In the Christian legend, Reprobus descents deeper and deeper into the
river, before he comes up again on the other side, baptized and reborn as St. Christopher.
Similarly, what started with the imagery of rigidity and death in The Mandalorian, is
gradually transformed and turned into a clear ascent into new life in the season finale.
Having been cornered by the Empire, Mando finds himself on the verge of being swallowed
up by chaos. However, in volunteering to stay behind to cover the escape, which will inevitably
lead to his death, the previously opportunistic and careless bounty hunter has decidedly transformed
into a caring, protective and selfless warrior. To mark this inner change, he appropriately
loses the marginal and anonymous identity of Mando and regains his true identity in
his birthname: Din Djarin. This transformation is similarly shown in the unveiling of his
face, revealing his vulnerable nakedness, his true humanity underneath the cold, robotic
armor. In doing so he has had to let go of his fear and mistrust of IG-11, and has thereby
also regained his faith in the potential for goodness in himself. But before he can be
truly baptized and reborn into new life like St. Christopher, Din first has to descend
down into the bowels of the city, where he first meets the armorer who grants him his
new identity and confirms his responsibility in his role as the guardian of the divine
child. And as they continue their journey downwards, they ultimately descent down into
a fiery river of lava, into the image of Hades and of death itself. This blatant imagery
is supplemented even further by the appearance of a Charon figure in R2-BEEF2, who guides
them over the river Styx. And just like in Christ’s own descent into death, it’s
through an inversion, by using death against death in the self-sacrifice of IG-11, that
the heroes manage to trick the Empire and come back out on the other side. As the final
image of this ascent, Din Djarin flies away with his appropriately named ‘Rising Phoenix’
jetpack, having been reborn and baptized into a new identity, and now voluntarily carrying
the burden and the responsibility of baby yoda on his shoulders.
Having analyzed the symbolism of the story, we may ask what the show’s immense popularity
can tell us about the state of our culture. The legend of St. Christopher is the story
of marginal, chaotic, often subversive figures, transforming into heroes, and acting as vehicles
of meaning. As such, the fact that the show resonated with audiences seems in line with
a larger cultural pattern of tricksters, fools and other unlikely marginal figures confronting
an upside-down world, and in some cases, attempting to flip it back on its feet. We’ve seen
it recently in the massive popularity of the movie Joker and in Quentin Tarantino’s Once
Upon a Time in Hollywood. But we also witnessed it in Kanye West’s gospel album Jesus is
King, and in Ricky Gervais’ confrontational Golden Globes speech. The baby yoda phenomenon
however is perhaps the most potent marker of this cultural shift to date. Yes, of course
we like baby yoda because he is cute, and of course The Mandalorian is well liked because
it’s a return to old school Star Wars, but we can’t let that blind us to the fact that
it’s also pointing at something much more significant. As evidenced in the way that
baby yoda was appropriated for the holiday season, The Mandalorian’s true symbolic
significance is found in the fact that it showcases a clear desire for not only a return
to traditional storytelling, but a desire for communal participation, for being part
of a larger story, a desire for a rebirth of meaning as marked by the emergence of the
fantastical, yet completely familiar figures of a divine child and his larger than life
warrior guardian.