Making a Star Wars film must be one of the most daunting things in Hollywood, even while fans cry, “More, more, more!” with their wallets held wide open.
Disney paid George Lucas billions for the chance, and they’ve gone ham mining the Star Wars legacy for more cartoons, comic books, merchandise, anthology movies, and core trilogy films.
And in the thick of things, the company tries to corral a wary fanbase worried about the House of Mouse damaging a beloved legacy filled with lore and characters that are to American culture what air is to breathing.
It’s my opinion that no one, at this point, can create a movie in the series without inviting the wrath of fans. Not even the legendary Steven Spielberg himself could create a continuation film that would satisfy the masses and keep the vitriol from spreading to his Twitter feed.
It’s easier to give people an example of a tragedy rather than trying to explain the definition of the word itself.
And it would almost be a disservice to just call Things We Lost in the Fire a movie about tragedies.
It’s a visceral experience, like going through a wringing process, feeling what the characters feel, and standing alongside them at the edge of a chasm overlooking an unknowable depth. It’s a movie about tremendous loss and losing sight in the face of fear only to find solace in knowing there are others out there struggling more than you.
It’s taut, emotional, and so intimate that you can’t help but feel like a prisoner to the scenes in which you can’t escape unless you turn off the movie and step outside for a break.
Some might call TWLitF a tearjerker, but that would be like calling a tornado a breeze – there are moments in this movie that are so painful and raw, it makes your insides hurt.