I will discuss some plot-revealing elements about Rogue One. If you care about that kind of thing, save the article until you’ve seen the movie!
When I went to the theater to see Rogue One, I was excited to see Donnie Yen play Chirrut Imwe, a staff-wielding blind monk who devoutly trusts in the Force. I’ve liked Yen’s work in other films, and I was interested to see the martial artist/actor star in a Star Wars movie. He didn’t disappoint. His character was engaging, showed a compelling trust in the providence of the Force, and added some good comic relief to an otherwise heavy film.
I’ve always appreciated the monk-type hero. Showcasing discipline, peace, and wisdom, the archetype is an interesting one, and it often runs afoul of our more contemporary virtues of self-fulfillment and personal satisfaction. This conflict alone makes the character interesting. In the film, Chirrut serves as an anchor to the spiritual world of Star Wars and an embodiment of faith and hope, themes that run all throughout the movie.
I was impressed with the character, so I googled what people were saying about Chirrut. Primarily, the discourse centered around whether or not he sleeps with his friend Baze Malbus.
Fan speculation was created so quickly that even before the film was released to wider audiences, an interviewer asked director Gareth Edwards about whether or not there was a sexual subtext between the characters. He responded with a dodge worthy of the blind monk himself, saying “I don’t mind people reading into [Chirrut and Baze’s relationship]. I think that’s all good. Who knows? You’d have to speak to them.”
If you’ve seen the film, this may confuse you. There is, after all, little to no evidence to support a sexual relationship between the characters. It is perplexing why the conversation around Chirrut is so fixated around his suspected sex life.
Vulture writer Kyle Buchanan makes the argument by citing the death scene of Chirrut, where his friend holds his dying body and “stares down at him, devastated, Chirrut raises his hand as if to caress Baze’s cheek. It’s the simplest gesture, but it packs a potent, more-than-platonic current, and as Chirrut expires, it’s clear that Baze does not want to live in a world without this man.” Buchanan then proceeds to cite this as the example of the first gay relationship depicted in Star Wars.
A compassionate look and touch of the face is to Buchanan enough to evidence a sexual relationship. I’ll be honest, I don’t buy this at all. It’s a poor thesis, and it reflects a frustrating trend in our approach to art. We have hyper-sexualized relationships to the point that there is no other conceivable close relationship.
The first issue with this idea is that there is no reference to sexuality or even romantic desire in Chirrut. A homosexual, let alone sexual, Chirrut is simply nowhere to be seen in the film.
Perhaps more glaringly, this fan-theory ignores the fact that both characters are monks. Monks are usually celibate, which makes a sexual relationship impossible. And before we speculate that these force-monks are a little more loose with the rules, remember that the Jedi order also demanded celibacy. Both monks live a lifestyle and participate in a religion that forbids any sexual union. To see two monks acting together and to read romance into their companionship is to actively ignore prominent characteristics of Chirrut and Baze’s identities. It would be tempting to see this fan-theory as a way to give representation to sexual minorities, but redefining all affection or tenderness as sexual is shockingly regressive. It reduces all human interaction to sex.
This idea subjects any affection to a strict sexual reinterpretation. There is no friendship in the eyes of an internet fan-critic. To be tender, to be compassionate, is to show sexual desire exclusively, and the final conclusion of any friendship is for it to develop to romantic love. Look at Marvel’s Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes: as soon as these characters were established as close friends, communities sprung up around the internet reinterpreting them as passionate lovers. This form of thought has eliminated any relationship other than a sexual one.
So let’s say a writer is going to create two close, tender peers who have a platonic friendship. How can he/she convince the audience that they are not romantically involved? In a climate where two likely celibate monks are called lovers because one is sad when the other dies, it is nearly impossible to keep sex out of friendship.
This doesn’t just impact the two force-monks. When I left the theater, I heard many fans discussing Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor as if they were romantic leads, complaining that they faced their death with a hug rather than a romantic kiss. As before, neither of the characters show or profess romantic love for the other. In fact, it isn’t until the last fourth of the movie that they can even trust each other. Their romance would do nothing for the plot, it makes little sense given the context of the characters, and it would be a meaningless distraction. She shared about the same level of friendship and intimacy with the droid K-2SO. Nevertheless, because two attractive leads are roughly the same age, they are, in many viewers minds, destined for romance.
Fan-theorists go into a movie theater with a specific set of items that they want to see. This leads to plot points being forced into unwieldy shapes to service this list of items. Often, viewers will look at a film strictly in how it can service them and their plot hobby-horse, and the list of demands almost always includes romance for the heroes. This approach reduces art down to a series of strategic pairings and plot points, sapping nuance, human interaction, and depth from the work.
Edwards was willing to write a story where there was no love interest, a rare absence for an action film. Unlike Rogue One, in the film Guardians of the Galaxy, a romance is awkwardly forced onto the plot. This movie, already lambasted by my co-writer Eric Marcy, features a male and female lead, both attractive. Even though the film offers little to no reason for romance and the characters have known each other for, maybe, a few days, by the end of the film they are a couple. The romance serves nothing for the movie and exists solely to demonstrate a pairing for the fans, pleasing the fan-theorists. This pattern has beaten itself into the minds of viewers, causing them to be senseless to any exploration of other types of relationships.
This plot abuse exists only to tantalize the viewer. It gives the fans a jolt of satisfaction but offers little else. It’s the cotton candy of plot points—it’s flashy, sticky, and ultimately disappointing. We must stop forcing our “theories” or imagined pairings onto our stories when they have little grounding in the plot—it isn’t just distracting, it actively contributes to the destruction of potentially helpful plot points. If I sound like a disgruntled curmudgeon, spitting on wide-eyed fans “ships” and “headcanons,” then so be it. Somebody’s got to.