"Henceforth you will be known as Darth Vader!" These dire words, addressed to a tormented Anakin Skywalker as he crosses the threshold to the much-mentioned Dark Side, mark the definitive moment of his Luciferian journey, which will end with him in a black, neo-Wehrmacht helmet-mask, with incipient emphysema and a walk that makes him look as if he has had concrete hip replacements.
It supposedly forms the mythic heart of the gigantic Third Episode of George Lucas's colossally inflated Star Wars prequel trilogy. Yet when this moment happens - after what seems like seven hours of CGI action as dramatically weightless as the movement of tropical fish in an aquarium - I looked blearily around the cinema and sensed thousands of scalps failing to prickle. We had all been bored into submission long ago.
And their review of Don’t Believe the Truth
“Every time a new Oasis record hoves into view, band, fans and sympathetic critics collude in the myth that all they need do is rediscover their Britpop Eden and the nation will once more sing along with one voice. It's this disastrous thinking that has reduced the band's concerts to bathetic exercises in 1990s nostalgia.”
New Star Wars films and post-Morning Glory Oasis albums have followed a similar pattern.
The first time around, the hype, expectation and sheer goodwill to both projects meant that even though everyone knew they were rubbish, we all kidded ourselves that we enjoyed them.
The second time around, this effect was weaker. Hope definitely replaced expectation. ‘This time it really will be good”, we prayed. We sat through them, looking desperately for something to like, then heaved a sigh of relief that it was all over and carried on untroubled by any desire to sit through the movie or listen to the CD again.
Of course, there are only so many times you can fool yourself like this.
I won’t bother with either this time around, and I feel a strange sense of elation about it, as if I’ve managed to bunk off a particularly dull school field trip.