“Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is.”
Yoda says these words in the 2002 film “Star Wars: Episode II—Attack of the Clones,” responding to an insight offered by a Jedi youngling under his tutelage at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. But the little green Jedi’s words also cut to the heart of the recently concluded first season of “Skeleton Crew,” the latest live-action Star Wars show on Disney+. It’s wonderful, in large part, thanks to the imagination of children.
The story is as fun as it is simple, weaving together spacefaring pirates, planets with hidden treasure and more than a few nods to the 1980s coming-of-age classic films like “E. T. the Extra-Terrestrial” and “The Goonies.” But it’s the curious minds of its child protagonists—and the heartwarming performances delivered by its young cast—that really make the story of “Skeleton Crew”soar.
We find our would-be heroes a long way—in both time and space—from where Yoda made his insightful quip. A lot has happened in the galaxy in those intervening years. The Jedi Order has fallen and with it the Republic; the Empire has risen to power and been consequently defeated; and the New Republic is now struggling to keep order in a fractured galaxy. (In the Star Wars timeline, “Skeleton Crew” takes place after “Star Wars: Episode VI—Return of the Jedi.”)
But all of that means very little to the citizens of At Attin. Known as one of the “Jewels of the Old Republic,” the planet and its people have been kept sequestered from the wider galaxy for countless years. At Attin is guarded by a mysterious “Barrier” made of gas and deadly mines that hides the planet from prying eyes, keeping both its citizens safe and unwanted visitors out.
Why all the secrecy? The planet is home to an Old Republic Mint that has been sought after for generations. There are more than a few pirates in the galaxy who would like to plunder the treasure planet and assume control over At Attin’s money-making operations.
Our young heroes know none of this. It’s hard for them to even imagine that their boring, suburban homeworld could be harboring such secrets. They’re instead focused on schoolwork, on performing well on exams that will dictate the trajectory of their lives—you know, normal kid stuff.
Most of them, at least. Wim (Ravi Cabot-Conyers) can’t shake his dream of becoming a Jedi knight and exploring the galaxy. He wants a real adventure like the ones in his books, not some monotonous systems coordinator job like his dad.
That dream is what drives Wim into the woods with his best friend Neel (Robert Timothy Smith), where they stumble upon an old and forgotten starship, the Onyx Cinder. Together with classmates Fern (Ryan Kiera Armstrong) and KB (Kyriana Kratter), the kids accidentally launch themselves into an adventure that will take them well beyond the Barrier and into a galaxy that is far less orderly and far more dangerous than they could have possibly imagined from the vantage point of their sheltered lives on At Attin.
It’s no wonder the kids want to return home—everyone but Wim, that is, who remains determined to have his great adventure. And so, over the course of an eight-episode arc, in one adventure after another, we watch as our heroes slowly but surely get closer to returning to their worried parents and their mysterious homeworld.
They are helped along by the equally mysterious Jod Na Nawood (Jude Law). The Force-sensitive, on-again off-again captain of a ruthless pirate crew, Jod is no stranger to the legend of At Attin; he sees these lost children as his ticket to wealth and pirate fame. But if he’s going to get his prize, he has to at least pretend to care for them. He has to earn their trust. He pretends to be a well-intentioned Jedi. When that doesn’t work, he instead convinces the young ones that they’re working together, that they’re pursuing the same goal: safety and prosperity.
These are just kids, after all, lost and afraid in a great big galaxy. Wim, Neel, Fern and KB don’t have the power of the Force or the influence of royal parents or the backing of some powerful rebel cell. They’re children who got tangled up in an adventure when they should have been doing their homework. They’re kids who play at being Jedi; they’re not the saviors of a galaxy.
And ultimately, that’s what makes this series so much fun—and so resonant. We know these children instinctively; we are these kids. What Star Wars fan hasn’t dreamt of wielding a lightsaber, of chasing down rogue TIE-Fighters to the endearing sounds of pew pew pew? And what fan hasn’t had to ultimately put away those wild dreams of adventure in favor of this galaxy’s version of a systems operator?
Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is, because of the imaginative worlds it can conjure. But what happens when those worlds don’t align with reality? Does the imagination die, and with it our sense of adventure and our willingness to trust in the goodness of others?
In the end, Jod is a pirate, and trust is not a pirate’s preferred currency. The kids are betrayed and overpowered, and Jod struggles to contain his deadly rage. These scenes—where simple children stare down a broken bully—are some of the show’s most powerful. It is in these moments, when the powerlessness of our young heroes is most clearly on display and in which they must re-engage their childlike wonder and imagination in the face of galactic cynicism, that “Skeleton Crew” most shines.
“What exactly are you going to do?” Jod asks the children. He has just commandeered the Onyx Cinder in the season’s penultimate episode, ensuring his takeover of At Attin. “You’re weak. Weak, sheltered, spoiled children.”
What do they do? They refuse to give up. They remember who they are, what drives them. They rely on one another. They inspire the adults in their lives to be better, to want more. And—after a moonlit speeder bike chase reminiscent of another iconic moonlight bike ride—they save the day.
There’s a moment in the season finale when Fern is trying to push her mother, Fara (Kerry Condon), to act. They’ve been captured by Jod, the pirates are invading and things look bleak. All Fara can think about is how she and her generation have failed her daughter and her friends, how the Barrier was supposed to keep them safe.
In truth, the Barrier was meant to keep them frozen in time, trapped in a status quo that never dared to risk, never allowed growth. And now that status quo has been shattered. So what comes next?
“Now we have to do something,” Fern insists. “Yeah, the galaxy is scary and dangerous. Everywhere we went—even the worst places—there were good people, too. People that can help us. You have to trust me.”
“Skeleton Crew”—not unlike “Star Wars: Episode VIII—The Last Jedi” before it—succeeds where it places ordinary people with ordinary abilities at the center of both the story’s problems and its solutions. Luke Skywalker doesn’t show up to get our heroes out of a tight spot; C-3PO doesn’t suddenly wander into the room with the answer. There’s no magical armor or hidden weapon to turn to.
“Skeleton Crew” is a far cry from “The Acolyte”—the Star Wars show that most recently preceded it. But like “The Acolyte,” “Skeleton Crew” has some powerful critiques of the all-knowing Jedi, even if they’re delivered a bit more subtly. In a galaxy so preoccupied with saviors, have we forgotten the power of everyday citizens? Have we become too ready and willing to rely on someone else to do the good work that we fail to take up our own responsibility?
Have we become stuck in a status quo that makes us feel comfortable rather than risk the unknown and all the possibility it might hold?
Even in the show’s final moments, when the children manage to call for help and the New Republic ships arrive to chase the pirates away, we see unfamiliar faces. No heroes of the rebellion: just regular folks doing their jobs, trying to make the galaxy a better place.
We look for the good people; we trust that even in the worst moments they’re there. Is that foolishness? The baseless hope of a child? Perhaps. But it’s a challenge, too—and a hard one at that. It’s a challenge that casts us into a wider galaxy, that lowers the barriers of our own lives and lets strangers in.
When the Barrier around At Attin finally disappears, the citizens look up at a dark sky suddenly illuminated by thousands of pinpricks of light. Is that the power of the mind of a child? A dogged determination to see light where others see only darkness?
Perhaps it’s the ability to see both light and darkness and still muddle onward, determined to grow and learn and live.
