Small Is Not Slight
In defense of The Mandalorian and Grogu, and the cinema of the moment.
There’s a bar these two set, and I’ve been carrying it for years. At the end of the second season a hooded Jedi walks into the dark, a green blade ignites, and a grown man who knows exactly how the trick works is suddenly hanging off the front of his own couch whispering it can’t be, it can’t be. I’ve been chasing that feeling since I was ten, watching a man in black tell a boy the truth about his father on a Cloud City gantry. Star Wars gave me the wound first. Decades later it gave me the rescue.
So I walked into The Mandalorian and Grogu holding the highest bar I own — and I walked in beside three men I’ve known since the nineties. Hold onto that. I’ll come back to it.
The wrong exam
The reviews were split, and I understand why. The knock is that nothing happens — that everyone ends where they started, that it could’ve been a couple of episodes or half a season, that it’s “content, not cinema,” a streaming arc blown up to IMAX. Sixty-one percent. Faint praise and a shrug.
Here’s what I think they got wrong. They reviewed a story. I watched a film. Those are not the same exam. And the more I sit with it, the more certain I am this movie understood something their rubric can’t measure: small is not the same as slight.
The moments
Watch what it actually does. Din vanishes into the dark, taking troopers off their feet with a grappling line, men yanked screaming into the black. Then a single blaster bolt fires, and for a fraction of a second the dark goes red — and you catch it: the glow sliding off polished beskar. A quarter of a second. That’s all. And it floored me. Sit with the confidence that takes. The film flickers an image at you and trusts you to be worthy of it. Restraint isn’t thinness. Restraint is respect.
Or the doorway. Din walks toward us; the camera gives us the two troopers waiting on the far side that he can’t see, so the geometry of the room becomes the suspense. A step short of the threshold he paints the floor with fire and crosses through the confusion already solving the problem. People call that “action.” It’s choreography. It’s blocking. It’s legible space — you always know where everyone stands, which is the one thing almost no modern blockbuster bothers to give you anymore. It’s poetry, and it’s nearly a lost art.
The AT-AT sequence does the thing I didn’t know I was starving for: it takes you inside — the carriers, the cockpit, the controls, angles no one shoots because the wide shot is “enough.” It treats the hardware with the reverence of someone who loves the machine. Beneath the Hutt’s dais, the dragonsnake uncoils in a single image lifted straight off a Frank Frazetta canvas — and that comparison is the whole argument. Frazetta never painted plots. He painted moments so charged they implied an entire story you’d never be shown. That’s the older art this film is practicing: the pulp serial, the mythic illustration that moves. It’s the soil Star Wars grew out of in the first place.
There’s even a beat where another hunter out-hunts Mando at his own trade, and if you know who that is, the screen lights up a second time — privately, just for you. That isn’t fan service. It’s fidelity rewarded. And the closest thing to a plot is small and good on purpose: Rotta, son of the most infamous gangster who ever lived, clawing to be his own man out from under that enormous shadow, betrayed by an old Imperial, throwing in with Mando to get free. One clean human want. The film doesn’t need twelve.
What the Stoics knew
Two old traditions taught me to prize exactly this, and I’ll name them plainly.
The Stoics were forever pointing at the present moment as the only thing that is actually real. “Confine yourself to the present,” Marcus Aurelius kept reminding himself, because the past is spent and the future is a rumor. A story sprinting forward is always living somewhere it hasn’t arrived. A film content to be here — to rest in the firelight on the armor, to love the cockpit, to let a child stack mud into a roof — is practicing a kind of attention the Stoics would have recognized on sight. Presence over progress. That is not the lesser thing. In art, as in a life, it is the harder thing.
What the Inklings knew
The Inklings gave me the other half. Tolkien had a word, eucatastrophe, for the sudden joyous turn, and he insisted the lump it leaves in your throat isn’t sentiment but a rumor of something true. He had another word, Recovery: the way a good myth wipes the glass clean so you see the ordinary world freshly again — a horse, a hill, a father, a son. That is what the great Star Wars moments have always done. Not advanced a plot. Cleaned the glass. Made you ten years old again, able to be astonished.
Eleven words
Which brings me to the line I haven’t been able to set down. Late in the film it’s Grogu doing the caring — nursing a poisoned Din, building his ridiculous, perfect little mud hut, the foundling become the protector. And somewhere in there:
“The old protect the young, then the young protect the old. This is the Way.”
For three seasons “This is the Way” sounded like a warrior’s code — the helmet, the discipline, the dogma. That one sentence quietly turns it into something else entirely: a covenant of reciprocal care across the generations. Not a creed about fighting. A creed about the cycle. The Stoics had a name for embracing that cycle whole — amor fati, the love of your entire fate, mortality and all — and memento mori lives right inside those words too: you protect the young because one day you will be the old who needs protecting. The torch only means anything because it gets passed.
The Fellowship
That’s the vertical thread — one generation holding the next. But there’s a horizontal one, and it’s the reason this particular night will stay with me.
I saw this film with three men I’ve known since the nineties. We grew up on this stuff together. And one of us just took a job out of state, which means there’s a good chance this was the last time the four of us will sit in the dark like that for a very long while. I knew it walking in. It put a thumb on the scale of every frame.
The Inklings weren’t theorists in an ivory tower; they were a circle of friends who crowded into a pub to read each other their myths out loud. Tolkien knew the shape of this better than anyone — his own boyhood fellowship was scattered and mostly killed in one war, and he spent the rest of his life writing about companies of friends who form, and walk a road together, and are broken by the world anyway. The book I’d just finished, The Fellowship of the Ring, ends on exactly that note: the company breaks. Everyone who loves these stories carries the same quiet knowledge — the fellowship is always temporary. That’s not the tragedy of it. That’s the weight of it. The reason it counts.
So there I was, watching a movie about who protects whom across the turning of a life, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the friends of my youth, knowing the configuration was ending. Memento mori doesn’t only mean you will die. It means this will end — this table, this row of seats, this exact set of people in the dark. Which is precisely why you show up for it.
Small is not slight
I came to this film carrying a wound I took as a boy and a rescue I was handed as a man, and it gave me the thing underneath both — the quiet machinery of people holding each other across time, up and down the generations and across a row of theater seats. I never needed it to move the saga forward. It moved me, exactly where I sat.
They graded the story and called it minor. I watched the light come off the armor, and the fire spread across the floor, and a green child build a roof out of mud, and I heard eleven words about who keeps whom — beside three men I may not sit beside again for years — and I think it was perfect at precisely the size it chose to be.
This is the Way.
— Mark