Star Wars: The Mandalorian And Grogu review – an unintelligible mess

The cumbersomely-titled Star Wars: The Mandalorian & Grogu, in many ways, feels fearful of change. The film effectively begins and ends in the same place and status quo in which it began, with its eponymous father and son duo working as contractors for the ​‘New Republic’ who peacefully govern the galaxy at the beginning of The Force Awakens. The story in-between these bookends mostly feels like a regurgitation of any pair or trio of episodes from the series – and mostly looks like it too. 

In its better moments, ​‘The Mandalorian’ (the TV show) resembled an exploration of the different threads of genre and film histories that the first Star Wars was assembled from, through its various ​“cowboy rides into town” stories of the week (eventually this all gave way to backdoor pilots and transparent brand management). The film awkwardly stacks a couple of these kinds of stories on top of each other, following the titular character to a couple of locations as he hunts down a remnant of the evil Empire who has since become a crime lord, and then runs afoul of relatives of Jabba the Hutt. 

There’s little to no friction between The Mandalorian and his compatriots as he takes on this job and makes decisions which conflict with the bigger picture, and there’s no real sense of consequence for when these decisions go wrong. Little of it means anything. Perhaps the producers worried that if it were to try and mean anything, people might get angry.

It’s tricky to even try and extract meaning from the actual course of the journey with a series that is so insistent on keeping its lead behind a helmet. There’s no emotion to observe on the face of Pedro Pascal – the one time it appears only serves to remind that the film has been deprived of this for no discernible reason other than he might not have been on set for much of it. (If he was, then I’m even more baffled). It dulls the impact of any consideration of The Mandalorian’s mortality, of his ward’s fledgling independence, of any notion of their limited time together. Perhaps it never feels like there’s a threat of either of them having to leave the other behind because the film is so visibly resistant to shaking things up. 

Beyond these two, the main character arc of the film involves Rotta, the muscle-bound son of Jabba the Hutt, played with little conviction by The Bear’s Jeremy Allen White. His uncanny, often awkwardly-posed CG visage aside, he spends much of the film feeling like if Woody from Toy Story explained his pathology about his father every time you pulled the string. Perhaps there’s something to be gleaned about leaving a more peaceful path open for one’s children, but if there is, The Mandalorian & Grogu doesn’t have much interest in it – Rotta is mostly a means to fit in a few more references to the original trilogy. 

Jon Favreau and Dave Filoni repeat themselves in other ways: most fights involving ​“Mando”, as other characters call him, feel like they return to the same few narrative beats. There’s nothing more exciting in these moments than what composer Ludwig Goransson is doing with the soundtrack, perhaps the only element of the film which has any real sense of adventure through its clashing electronic and traditional instruments. The same can’t be said for the film’s visual component: often an unintelligible mess during its action sequences (a Colosseum battle perhaps the worst offender), and just completely inert outside of those moments. 

As well as the composition, the puppetry and animation are the real stars of the show: Baby Yoda (or ​“Grogu”) is an expressive little wonder, who feels more alive than any of the flesh and blood people sleepily reciting perfunctory dialogue. As the little cohort of Anzellan aliens (basically, the people of Babu Frik from The Rise of Skywalker), Shirley Henderson might give the best vocal performance in the film, as well as one Martin Scorsese. Beyond the little creatures, the immediately identifiable work of Tippett Studios lends some much-needed tactility to some hulking droids in a final act battle. Glimpsing the genuinely great work of these craftsman makes the flat lighting and murky colours of the rest of the film look even worse. 

Beyond occasionally marvelling at the lively work of the puppeteers, there’s not a lot to hold on to in The Mandalorian & Grogu, not even the supposed father and son connection between its marquee characters. As the story returns things to status quo, it’s hard to think of what has even changed between the two, what they might have learned about each other, and if the filmmakers will ever take an interest in finding out.