Pixar's Elemental: strong on romance, weak on allegory

I have similar feelings towards Elemental, Pixar's latest film, as many others (judging mainly from YouTube). On the strength of trailers and movie clips, I wasn't too eager to go to the cinema to watch it, and was tempted to wait until the Disney + release. When I did watch it at the cinema, however, I was pleasantly surprised and had a really good time.

Why wasn't I more excited for the film, then, as I could see from the trailers etc. that the animation would be stunning and colourful? The general impression of the Elemental's premise seems to be "haven't we seen this before?". A world with humanised elements doesn't come across as very innovative from a studio that has already given us humanised toys, bugs, monsters, fish, emotions and more. What bothered me more than a certain staleness in the Pixar formula, though, was the staleness of the themes addressed. Were we really getting "let's overcome prejudice" and generational conflict? Again?

I've seen the "let's overcome prejudice" theme in animated films and elsewhere many, many times. Zootopia (or Zootropolis in Europe, but as I don't know why the title was changed I'll stick to the original one) is the most high-profiled example among the animated flicks, and to be fair I thought it handled the subject matter rather cleverly. More recently, we've had Raya and the Last Dragon and Luca, and apparently Trolls World Tour from Dreamworks (which I haven't seen) tackled the same issues. It's especially popular to use allegories when trying to put the anti-prejudice message across, and while I can appreciate the good intentions behind them, I feel as if I see another clunky metaphor for immigration (looking at you, Marvel's Secret Invasion) I shall scream. I've already expanded on why I especially dislike allegories where humans are the discriminators and the discriminated against are another species of some kind. At least Elemental doesn't go down that road, but still: this has been done.

Generational conflict is the latest favourite topic of animated Disney films, and it sometimes crops up in Pixar too. I'm getting pretty tired of this as well, especially as generational-conflict films tend to be short on villains. Encanto, Strange World, Turning Red and now Elemental all have the younger generation questioning and/or wanting to break free from the older one, and zero villains.

But enough whining (for now). In spite of my misgivings, I very much enjoyed Elemental, which luckily isn't just Zootopia all over again. What I especially liked about the film was the romance. Here we have two protagonists – the prickly fire girl Ember and the somewhat mushy but endearing water guy Wade – unapologetically falling for each other in a classic romcom scenario. When's the last time we got that in an animated film? Seems like ages. And it's not just one of the characters doing all the running, either. Ember and Wade see the point of each other and complement each other: she appreciates his ability to connect to others, he admires her spark and can-do approach. It's really sweet.

The other main story thread, about Ember's parents' experiences as immigrants to "Element City" and how they affect Ember, has its moments too, though for my part I was more into the love story. Ember's sudden realisation that she doesn't really want to take over her father's shop felt as if it surfaced a bit abruptly after we've seen her repeatedly trying to prove to her dad that she's ready to take over. But maybe that's the point: she feels so guilty about not really enjoying shop work that she's suppressed her ambitions.

The main problem with Elemental is that the allegory of elements living together in one city doesn't serve either of these plot threads. Yes, it's visually impressive, and has inspired the animators to a lot of creative character and city designs. But it doesn't really work. However romantic the scene is where Ember and Wade finally dare to touch and manage to do so without destroying each other, you can't help wondering what will happen when they get even more tactile, plus if and how they'll manage to have children. 

As for the immigrant story, its personal approach is both a strength and a weakness. Unlike Zootopia, Elemental isn't about bringing harmony to a whole society; it's just about Ember trying to have a relationship and find a career that fits her talents without upsetting her parents. This makes the film more engaging and less finger-wagging than if it had gone further down the social commentary route. On the other hand, it can't use the same gambit as Zootopia, where there were no one-to-one parallels between different animals in the film and different groups of people in the real world, which lead to more general and less infected musings on the nature of prejudice. But in Elemental, the fire people are immigrants; they've already been established as such within the story. However, the physical danger that water poses to fire, and fire to everything else, has no equivalent in the real world. Elements really don't mix, but humans can. 

I don't think Element City is meant to be a one-to-one parallel to, say, New York (what would that imply about the air and earth people – that there are some immigrants who've had it easy?), but with some real-world parallels being so explicit, Elemental falls between two chairs when it comes to its world building.

Quibbles aside, Elemental is a heartwarming love story and sometimes touching family drama which is beautifully animated. It's definitely worth watching in a cinema. But Pixar does need to look out. In a film like Inside Out, they were really committed to the idea of animating a girl's emotional development by making her emotions into characters of their own. They had fun with the concept, whereas in Elemental, the animated elements are mostly a way to dress up a story that might as well have been told as a live-action romcom featuring humans. If the story and concept don't gel, then maybe one of them has to go.

Filling a Downton-shaped hole: Sanditon series three

Yep, I'm late with my blogging, which should really have taken place last week. My excuses are pre-vacation stress and a complete lack of inspiration. But now the vacation has started, and I have a given subject after having watched the whole series three of Sanditon.

Admittedly, there's not much scope for in-depth analysis (which suits me fine, to be honest), as this remained an enjoyable soufflé of a show throughout. The main difference to series one and two was that this time around, we got a satisfying ending. Series three was the final one, and its creators knew it, so they tied everything up in a pretty bow, something critics hate but viewers like myself love. Much as I've tried to see the point of "dynamic" endings that are more like "real life", few things beat a conclusion to a story which clearly signals that everything will be all right.

And that's not the only thing this show succeeded with. I have an impression, too, that it was popular. In (admittedly anglophile) Sweden it was aired on our main channel in a prime-time Saturday slot, and a common line in conversations with other costume-drama lovers became "you've seen Sanditon, of course". Yanks seemed to have loved it as well. Also, the fact that the show was saved from cancellation and then got two more series demonstrates that it must have done something right.

So, what is its appeal? After all, there is plenty to criticise. It's unashamedly shallow, making Downton Abbey look like Dostoyevsky in comparison, and the characters' mind-set feels more modern than Regency. Charlotte's proto-feminism and "follow your heart" rhetoric, and the respectful way it's received by her swains as priceless pearls of wisdom, strain credibility. Marriages of convenience were very much a way of life, and Georgiana's mother, for instance, would not have any reason to be shocked to learn that her daughter wasn't head over ears in love with her fiancé. Arthur Parker refuses to live in a ménage à trois with Georgiana and said fiancé because he would rather "live alone than live a lie". Well, those are exactly his options. If a gay man in Regency England wanted to get any at all, he had to "live a lie". And a Duke was expected to marry and produce heirs, whatever his inclinations. While I could buy why Arthur was upset that his Harry chose to become engaged to Georgiana of all people, I did wonder what exactly he thought would happen.

But for all the clichés, not to mention the unnecessarily drawn-out romance of Charlotte herself and its idiotic misunderstandings, Sanditon was never dull. The acting was consistently good; the actors played every scene, however melodramatic, perfectly straight. The characters were likeable. While much of the story was predictable, there were a couple of surprises and nice details: the unenlightened judge who nevertheless sees himself obliged to judge Georgiana's case fairly; some nuance added to the rakish Sir Edward's character which kept you guessing whether he was serious about Augusta or not; the vicar's realisation that he disapproves of his sister's autumnal romance with Dr Fuchs, not because Fuchs is too sciency but because he (the vicar) doesn't want to live alone; Harry's mother being perfectly aware of and unfazed by his preferences, but anxious that he should escape the gallows (and preferably secure the family's future by doing so) – these were plot points you couldn't necessarily see coming, and were welcome because of it. 

I should also mention that Arthur's rejection of the ménage à trois plan (which sounded pretty good to me, if Georgiana hadn't had a better suitor waiting in the wings) was given some credibility by his fondness for both Harry and Georgiana. He wasn't just thinking of himself; he was convinced that two people he loved would be unhappy together and didn't want to witness it. Arthur's and Georgiana's friendship was a sweet detail throughout the series, which I thought added to their respective character.

Also, while highlighting the good points of series three, Colbourne's lawyer brother turned out to be hot (and better at shaving than his bro), so there's that.

So, to circle back: why does Sanditon work? One important factor, I believe, is that we've missed series like this. That's why I mention Downton in the headline, though Downton in my opinion is a superior show. The point I'm trying to make is that long-running period dramas that focus heavily on relationships, with a sizeable cast and room for plenty of twists and turns and parallel plots, have a large and faithful fanbase which TV producers should perhaps be more mindful of. There's a reason why Downton, Upstairs Downstairs and, in its day, The Forsyte Saga became such big hits. This is why I hope The Gilded Age will eventually become a bigger thing and fill the void. And maybe ITV should give Beecham House another chance?

Finally, we can expect a new Disney villain – but then what?

"That's just bad storytelling!"

This reaction to the lack of "bad guys" in a game was one of the few worthwhile lines in Strange World, last year's Disney animation offering. I didn't care for the film, for slightly ignoble reasons. 

I could claim that it was because of the bland characters, the unengaging generational conflict which compares very poorly to similar themes in Encanto, the unflattering character design which favours mushroomy noses and small eyes or the sometimes yawn-inducing story. But to tell the truth, what really annoyed me was the eco message, which I knew was coming in one form or another throughout the film. When it was delivered, it was in a different way than I expected, but the moral conveyed still boils down to the same: that we should abandon our modern, comfortable way of life to Save Mother Earth. The "get back in the caves" message always acts a red flag on me. If we'd been spared that, I think I could have forgiven the film much, even the three-legged dog (what demographic is he supposed to appeal to, exactly?).

But, to get back to the quote above from the disreputable adventurer grandfather we're not supposed to root for. (Nor did I: if anyone had my sympathy, it was the farmer dad, especially as his son was such a whiny, ungrateful brat.) When the old reprobate is right, he's right, and he was right here. As per usual, however, his views and those the film wished to pitch didn't match; there's no villain in Strange World. Nor is this a new thing in Disney animation.

Somehow, Disney managed to go from the played-out twist villain trope to no villain at all in several films in a row. Moana's head villain turned out to be something else, though it did still have the crab Tamatoa and his catchy villain song. The only antagonist in Wreck-It Ralph 2 - Ralph Breaks The Internet was a computer virus created by mistake by Ralph and his insecurities. In Frozen 2, the villain was Elsa's and Anna's long-dead grandfather, shown briefly in snow-statue flashbacks, which hardly counts. In Raya and the Last Dragon, the threat was the Druun, a faceless, impersonal plague. No villain in Encanto – though the villain-song style of "We Don't Talk About Bruno" could be a part of the song's success (however, Bruno turns out to be a sweetie). And now Strange World, where the only villains are Ourselves. After all that, I'd begun to despair of ever seeing a memorable bad guy in a Disney film again. For some reason I couldn't quite understand, villains didn't seem to be fashionable. 

And, then, suddenly, a new hope. Disney's animated film of 2023 is set to be Wish, and the trailer features: a villainous king! Voiced by Chris Pine in honour of the good old heartthrob-turns-villain-actor tradition, King Magnifico (subtle) is a good-looking, seemingly popular monarch who promises good times for everyone as long as they "give your wish... to me". Whereupon his eyes turn menacingly yellow, and we hear a sinister laugh echoing in the trailer's background.

Oh boy oh boy, as Mickey himself would say, how I've missed this. I'm a little nervous that Wish will try to accomplish too much, cramming in callbacks to previous Disney films and a lot of side characters. But for Magnifico, the bar isn't set very high. The very fact that he exists pretty much gets him over it. I'm quite happy to give one of my wishes – to once again set my eyes on a front-and-centre, larger-than-life Disney villain –  to him for safekeeping.

Does this mean that Disney animation is on the right track again? Not really. After having once again swapped producers, Disney animation has announced that its new projects will be: Frozen 3, Zootopia 2 and, for Pixar, Toy Story 5. Yes, the sequel avalanche is upon us again. One thing one can say about Disney's animated output these last years, villain-less as it has been, it has featured several new stories which didn't build on already existing franchises. Look, you don't need me to tell you how uninspiring these new titles are. Toy Story 5, really?

As for villains, things look bleak. But hey, I could be wrong. It's not as if the original Frozen and Zootopia didn't have worlds worth revisiting. Maybe Frozen 3 will forgo the nature-vs-civilisation rhetoric of the second installment and dive more deeply into Scandinavian folklore and fairy tales instead? And maybe we get to see Hans again?

Zhivago adaptations (no, the balalaika is not in the book)

This is a bit of a "duty post", to be honest: when I'd read Doctor Zhivago and blogged about it, I mentioned an interest in watching adaptations of the book, partly to see how they'd manage to tell a compelling story with such non-plot-driven source material. I have now watched both the classic film and the TV series, penned by Andrew Davies when the millenium was young and he was at the peak of his adaptation career. So I guess I should write about them.

I had a better time than this grudging introduction makes it sound. As I expected, the film turned out to be the more enjoyable viewing experience, while the TV series was more faithful to the book. But, somewhat unexpectedly, the TV version wasn't as faithful as all that, and it's really easy to be closer to the source material than the film.

Because the film takes great liberties indeed. What was most remarkable wasn't what it cut out – of course, a whole array of side characters who didn't contribute much to the story had to go – but what it added. There are grand set-piece scenes that aren't in the novel at all, such as when a group of deserters confront a new batch of soldiers on their way to the front. The whole framing device, with Zhivago's half-brother telling the story to the newly-found daughter of Zhivago and Lara many years later, is invented. Yes, there is a half-brother in the novel, and a love child, and in the epilogue it's hinted that the former will take care of the latter, but we never actually see them meet.

So the narrative monologues of Alec Guinness were all the script-writer, not Pasternak. Which brings me to a feature which really stood out to me: how good the script was, not least the unheard-of-in-the-novel material. All of Komorovsky's enjoyable cynical zingers, for instance? Not in the book. Add to this the sterling acting from the star-studded cast, and it must be said I hugely preferred watching the film to reading the book. The balalaika may possibly have been a step too far on the soupiness scale, though.

The first hour or so of the TV version, I seriously wondered why Andrew Davies had bothered. I had expected it to be closer to the book from the get-go than the film was, but no, not really. The same narrative short-cuts are taken as in the film: young Yuri is taken in immediately by the Gromekos after his parents' death, thus cutting out boring uncle Nikolai completely; Pasha is caught up in a demonstration where soldiers mow down civilians as a young man, not as a boy; and Lara gets hold of his gun in the process (in the novel, the gun belongs to Lara's brother, not present in either adaptation and no great loss). 

What's more, the TV series takes liberties of its own: it starts with Yuri's father's funeral, not his mother's, and Yuri is supposed to have been present on the train when his father kills himself (in the novel, it was his friend Misha). While Zhivago in the novel was clearly very fond of his mother and didn't really have any relationship with his father, in the TV series, the roles are somewhat inexplicably reversed.

So to start with, the TV series tells roughly the same story as the film less enjoyably. The scenes between Lara and Komarovsky are so drawn out that even I, who will mostly find excuses for all manner of "problematic" erotic power play in fiction, felt uncomfortable. It didn't help that Keira Knightley, undeniably pretty and good in more lively roles, is the wrong type for Lara, especially compared with the smouldering Julie Christie. As the lout in Notting Hill would say: "she's too 'olesome".

The series did pick up after a while, though, and tackled some of the bleaker aspects of the novel, which was gutsy. Lara's husband Pasha was much closer to Pasha in the novel, which I liked; instead of the priggish revolutionary of the film, we see the naïve and good-natured young man who only later becomes implacable, by way of his experiences and disappointments. I appreciated, too, that his final scene with Zhivago was included. Tonya was lovely in both adaptations, and in the Davies version she is allowed to voice some resentment in a conversation with Lara.

You can see how Pasternak's habit of letting his characters drift in and out of the narrative has proved challenging for both adaptations. That Zhivago's half-brother should play such a large part in the film and not be included in the TV series, and that both creative decisions make sense, is an example. Just to make them a little more important to the plot, existing characters are often partly reworked and repurposed: in the TV series, Misha (not included in the film) nourishes an unrequited love for Tonya; in the film, the prison labourer Kostoed (not included the TV series) becomes a colourful figure played by Klaus Kinski. As I mentioned, both adaptations cut out Zhivago's uncle, of whom Zhivago is very fond. But he doesn't really do anything, so out he goes.

To sum up, if you haven't read the novel, I'd say watching the film is quite enough; it does keep the most interesting part of the story (the romance) and is a good watch in its own right. If you have read the novel and are curious to see what a more faithful adaptation looks like, then the TV series could be worth a try. Be prepared for sudden departures from the original story even in the TV version, though. For instance, Davies provides Zhivago and Lara with a son (who for dramatic purposes looks just like his dad). Here, the film was closer to the novel: it was a daughter.

Eurovision time – the good, the bad and the loony

It's time for traditional Eurovision blogging – there's no excuse not to, seeing as Sweden actually won this year! I'm pleased, of course. Loreen's number is a little arty for me and not such a favourite as, say, Måns and his "Heroes". But my, can she belt, and she gave the song her all. A deserved win, in my entirely unbiased opinion. Don't ask me to explain the Struwwelpeter nails, though, because I can't.

Here are some other high- and lowlights from this year's competition:

Melodious hunk of the year: Cyprus The half-Australian singer's super-hero physique was enough to provoke a villain-lover like myself: it's guys like this who are usually in for a good Force choke (or similar) from baddies admired by me. But he was a joy to listen to, with a surprising mastery of high notes. Got a vote from me, not that it made much difference to the statistics.

Frank confession of the year: Switzerland "I don't want to be a soldier, soldier/I don't want to fight with real guns" – well, that's a perfectly valid reason to prefer peace to war, though not often brought up in a Eurovision context, where one typically concentrates on everyone getting along and children holding hands while doves fly overhead. I wasn't expecting downright pacifism to go down very well this year, and maybe this is why the fresh-faced Swiss only climbed to the middle of the field voting-wise, in spite of a sweet voice and professional handling of the classic tonal change. I liked it. Clearly, this boy is better singing than fighting material.

Positive national stereotype of the year (again!): France The French chanson "Voilà" did well back in 2021, and now we get more of the same, with no complaints from me. This chanteuse is so typically French you could easily drop her in a soupy mini-series set in World War Two Paris, where she is entertaining the occupying forces while secretly working for the Resistance, right under the nose of the smitten Obersturmbannführer. Can't you just see his monocled aide-de-camp pointing a gun at her while hissing :"I knew you weren't to be trusted, you slut"? Anyway, I'm getting a bit carried away now. Good song.

Slurred, catchy ditty of the year: Norway This is the song that will be stuck in your head a month from now. While it's probably meant to invoke a rider on a white horse clip-clopping through the majestic landscape of Old Dragonia/New Zealand (judging by the singer's fantasy-warrior-queen getup), it reminded me of a sea shanty, and I'm partial to shanties. The diction was far from clear, though, and the girl-power message pretty basic.

WTF numbers of the year that made the rest look good: Croatia and Finland I nearly included the surreal Serbian number as well, but at least it was seriously meant. What can you say about Croatia? Guys in their underwear and makeup chanting something something dictator bad tractor something, is that what counts as satire nowadays? And what's with the Hercule Poirot moustache, what did I miss? As for that Finland guy, he's got a nerve being miffed (allegedly) because he didn't win. I have no idea why he got to the final with his drunken party song, let alone made second place.

What I've realised by now, though, is that these crazy numbers serve their purpose in Eurovision. There have been years that were overstuffed with competent ballads, which made me less appreciative of how well they were sung as I was too bored. This year, out-there numbers I didn't see the point of made me like the Baltic ballads from Estonia and Lithuania more, although they weren't the most exciting songs on offer.

Wasted opportunity of the year: United Kingdom OK, I can see why the Brits would feel despondent towards Eurovision by now. There have been quite a few times since I last speculated on their lack of success where they have sent good, solid pop tunes and still scored a negligible number of points. But they did do well last year, and this year they hosted the whole show on behalf of the winner Ukraine. 

Positives first. The show was amazing (as jury representatives like to point out). Ukraine was let in on the action in the form of co-host Julia Sanina and several song and dance numbers, and British actress Hannah Waddingham (whom I've seen on stage as the Lady of the Lake in Spamalot) was a hoot. I think it's safe to say that UK:s goodwill was built up to a respectable level.

But then came their song, and it was the kind of slapdash, half-ironic number which has served them so poorly in the past. The light show in the background consisted of the singer making quirky faces. What's more, the lyrics weren't very clearly sung, so the advantage of having English as your first language was missed. It's not the worst thing the UK has sent and probably didn't deserve to come second to last, but the Brits should know by now: please don't try kooky irony in Eurovision.

Well, better luck next time. I really want the UK to do better, as I think that would make them more favourably disposed towards the rest of Europe. Not to mention that I want Germany to send a crowd-pleaser next year and, for the first time in forever, not come last. But for now, I'm just happy Sweden won.

Grown-up political drama on Netflix – or is it?

So this is what happens when I try to watch something that isn't nerdy and/or belonging to a global franchise. Not that I didn't have a good time with the miniseries The Diplomat on Netflix: it had a zingy script, some tense will-they-stop-world-war-three-in-time drama, and good performances, especially from Rufus Sewell as the titular diplomat's husband. I'm just not convinced, given the season's ending, that it's so clever and mature as it thinks it is.

The set-up of the series is that Kate Wyler, a successful American diplomat on her way to do some serious damage limitation in Kabul, is instead hoisted off to become the new US ambassador in Great Britain after a British ship has been torpedoed at sea and an international crisis looms. What Kate doesn't know is that she's being vetted for the position as Vice President, and her political assignment serves as a kind of test. Her husband Hal, who has also had a stellar diplomatic career but is now on the back burner because the Secretary of State doesn't like him, accompanies her. However, it's understood that he's supposed to leave after Kate has settled in as they're divorcing. That is, it's understood by Kate. Hal is a loose cannon and his motives are unclear at the best of times, but one thing is certain: he has no intention of divorcing Kate.

While finding her feet, Kate has to figure out how she can keep an irate British Prime Minister from blowing something up. Forty-odd British sailors have lost their lives in the attack and it looks like Iran is responsible. So of course, this being the kind of show it is, it's not Iran.

Now, to be fair, it's been a staple of political thrillers for a long time that the most likely suspect is not responsible. While it's harder to deliver surprises on the culprit front in this genre than in, say, a classic whodunnit, without looking silly, it doesn't stop writers from trying. The Sinister Third Party is a trope often used, for instance in Agatha Christie adventure stories such as The Secret Adversary and They Came to Baghdad and in James Bond films (I haven't read Ian Fleming's novels, so I can't be sure that his Soviet spies are always so blameless as in the films). And I can see why political thriller writers strive to introduce some kind of twist, even when it doesn't make a lot of sense. It just feels a little flat to simply point the finger at a country that's already considered a major military threat in the real world.

But what do you do if there is no organisation à la Spectre to blame? With The Diplomat I was along for the ride until the final episode. I had no problem with the usual suspects being discarded, especially as the series doesn't pretend that they're innocent little lambkins (with reactions to accusations ranging from "We didn't do it! I'll call off this assassination attempt we've been planning for ages just to prove it" to "Yeah, that sounds like us, but funnily enough I didn't give the order"). But then the reveal comes, and it's so forehead-slappingly stupid I found myself feeling less forgiving towards the show's other missteps.

It's not a solution you haven't thought of: it's one you briefly consider before thinking "no, this show is too clever to do something daft like that". Like I said, the script is good. I was lured into watching it by a trailer full of West Wing-style zingers (well, that and Sewell). But if you scrutinise The Diplomat more closely, you'll find some odd creative choices which make you wonder if the writers are as read up on, for instance, British politics as all that.

Why does the British PM Nicol Trowbridge (the "Nicol" being a dead give-away that the character is modelled on Boris Johnson – at least he doesn't have the hair) gate-crash a diplomatic meeting behind the wheels of a red sports car? Is it likely that his Foreign Secretary Dennison (to whom Kate is attracted) would refer to Brexit as a "self-inflicted wound"? Dennison is supposed to have been a front-runner for the leadership post, yet when does he sound like a Tory at all? Why does Kate's second-in-command Stuart sniffily refer to Trowbridge's erstwhile spin doctor as someone who can make "racists" look cuddly? Who exactly is she supposed to have been working for?

Celia Imrie does her best as the cardigan-clad spin doctor, but nothing about her character feels the least bit credible, and she is responsible for the biggest head-scratching moment apart from the finale reveal, when she claims that Trowbridge is tense because not only Scotland, but also Northern Ireland and Wales are on the verge of breaking out of the United Kingdom. What kind of weird parallel universe is this?

That a political drama has a certain political slant isn't to be wondered at. The West Wing certainly had. But its writers did try, for the most part, to understand the opposition's arguments, not least so they could script characters not belonging to the Bartlet crew in a credible way. There's none of that nuance in The Diplomat, and it does feel like its odder moments are at least partly caused by the writers' blank incomprehension of political opinions other than their own. 

Still, I enjoyed the series, and I'm hoping for a second season. Kate is a bit annoying (I'm not big on hairbrushing, but even I thought she looked aggressively scruffy), but her complicated relationship with Hal is interesting, and there's some amusing back-and-forth between Stuart and his sassy CIA girlfriend. Plus, they can easily retcon some of the silliness from the season finale. Hey, maybe we Swedes did it? We made it look like the Russians framed the Iranians so that we'd be welcomed into Nato with open arms? Believe it or not, that explanation would be less ridiculous than what the series has come up with so far.

Questions raised by The Mandalorian season three

Though I haven't stooped so low as to call those sceptical towards the recent output from franchises I enjoy names, I'm aware that I tend towards the over-positive side of the fandom spectrum. Of course there's a lot to criticise, for instance, in the Disney + Star Wars shows. But still I have an irrational urge to shout "shut up! Just shut up!" when confronted with too many negative fan responses. 

It's not just because of my old affection for the Mighty Mouse, which makes me cringe whenever someone uses the "oooh, Disney's so bad, they only want to make money" argument (I admit, my brand loyalty is waning of late – not because Disney wants to make money, but because they want to preach at the audience while doing it). I'm also somewhat of an anxious consumer. I've witnessed in the past how crucial good viewing figures have been for the continued existence – or not – of my favourite TV shows. That's partly why I've been obsessing over viewer responses to the latest season of The Mandalorian, to the point where it almost overshadowed my own enjoyment of the series. Because if various commentators talk down the season too much, and viewers consequently fail to tune in, Disney might quite simply stop making Star Wars TV shows. And then where would I be?

So, when I say that this season was somewhat unfocused and probably the weakest of The Mandalorian seasons, please let the record reflect that I still liked it very much and want lots more of this particular sort of fare. That said, here are a few points that puzzled me after the season finale aired yesterday:

So, who was the spy, then? An enjoyable part of The Mandalorian from the first has been the episode titles, which can often be interpreted in more than one way. The episode title "The Sin" in season one can refer to Din Djarin taking back Grogu (at that time still known as the Child) from a group of sinister ex-Imperials, after having accepted payment for delivering him. It's a clear violation of Din's wonderfully deal-based creed. But the real sin was handing over Grogu in the first place. The title character of the episode "The Jedi" can be Grogu or Ahsoka (though she left the order years earlier). "The Believer" can be Din Djarin, or the cynic Mayfeld who discovers something to believe in when confronted with a particularly nasty ex-Imperial, or even said ex-Imperial himself: what he believes in may be terrifying, but he does have conviction. And so it goes on.

So when an episode is called "The Spies", you certainly expect to see more than one spy in it. It could just as easily have been called "The Spy" and featured more than one spy, leaving you guessing as to which of them the title specifically singles out in true Mandalorian fashion. But no, here we have an episode title which is unusually insistent on the plural – and only one spy, Elia Kane who we already knew was crooked, is revealed during the run-time of the episode. This may of course be explained in the next season, but then the reveal that one of the assembled Mandalorians was playing false all along will have less of an impact because it has already been quasi-spoiled. In my view, the spy should either have been revealed before the season's end, or they should have gone with the episode title "The Spy" instead.

What's the Armourer's game? This isn't an original observation by any means, but the Armourer – the spiritual leader of the "covert" of Mandalorians Din belongs to – is awfully soft on Bo-Katan Kryze. Din Djarin, who's always toed the line, gets into trouble for having removed his helmet in public (all for the love of his boy) and has to fulfil a task the Armourer herself believes impossible and bring proof of it in order to get accepted again. 

It's another story with Bo-Katan, though she has lived in open defiance of the Armourer's creed. She is integrated into the covert, though that wasn't her original intention; her alleged sighting of a mythical beast is taken by the Armourer at face value without proof; later, she is singled out as the future leader of the Mandalorian people by the Armourer, who asks her to remove her helmet so that she can "walk both ways" and unite the covert and less dogmatic factions of Mandalorians. 

It's not that Bo-Katan hasn't proven herself useful, but still, it's a steep rise to the top for one whom the Armourer was very scathing about in The Book of Boba Fett (in one of the episodes where it forgot it wasn't The Mandalorian). This strange Armourer-behaviour made many speculate that maybe she was the spy, though her motives would in that case have been unclear. As it is, the Armourer remains enigmatic – which I realise is partly the point, but it's starting to get on my nerves.       

Whatever happened to Doctor Pershing? Unpopular opinion: I really liked the Doctor Pershing episode, though admittedly there wasn't much Mando in it. It's hard to pinpoint what I want from political intrigues in Star Wars, but maybe, like my expectations of the franchise or the genre as a whole, it can be summed up with the words: relatable but different. I shudder at clunky parallells with the real world. My heart sinks every time someone calls the Imperials "space Nazis". It's obvious where Lucas got some of the inspiration for his black-hearted Empire from, but still: this is a galaxy far, far away. Let the Empire be evil in its own way!

The limitations of the New Republic as seen in the Pershing episode don't have an obvious real-world counterpart, but it illustrates wider philosophical problems we too can be faced with. What some commentators took away from the episode was that the New Republic was too soft on Pershing and other ex-Imperials, thereby letting itself in for being double-crossed. Me, I saw the complete opposite. 

Pershing is allowed to give a lecture on cloning, but he isn't allowed to practise it or do any research at all. After having lived in a "re-integration" camp, he is housed with other ex-Imperials who are all busily extolling the virtues of the New Republic and condemning the Empire, yet none of them is keen to re-visit that camp. Pershing's job isn't only menial but gives no satisfaction at all, as he's tasked to make an inventory of Imperial technology which will then be scrapped when, according to him, it could be put to good use. His freedom is restricted: he's not allowed to leave a certain zone, and the Republic has planted a mole – double agent Kane – to spy on and employ entrapment strategies on him and other fellow ex-Imperials. 

There are more indications still that the New Republic's "Amnesty programme" isn't all it's cracked up to be, yet you can see their dilemma: ex-Imperials are a threat to their regime, and it can't be easy to know which of the Imps will make model citizens and which will remain bad news. All the same it was clear, at least to me, that they'd set the bar far too low with being "not as bad as the Empire".

But what happened to Doctor Pershing after Kane, seemingly, fried his brains out? And was it so smart to do it when her bosses clearly wanted their clone doctor's brains unfried?         

Will we ever see the end of the helmet rule? Are the Armourer and the other helmet nutters really expecting this genuinely stupid rule to survive, when they live side by side with Bo-Katan's buddies who don't adhere to it? And why hasn't Din Djarin abandoned it a season and a half ago? It's time he and his fellow Mandos saved their helmets for battle and started thinking about the future of their civilisation. Because how do you find a mate and procreate with your helmet on?