In deleted scenes from
Revenge of the Sith, Padmé
meets a few sympathizers
from the Galactic Republic,
which is faltering toward fas-
cism. They form a coalition
of planets concerned about
democracy. Padmé leads the
delegation to deliver their
demands to Chancellor Palpa-
tine; behind him, Anakin.
This story stretches back
to The Phantom Menace,
when Palpatine convinced
young Queen Amidala to call
a vote of no confidence in the
Senate. Despite the shatter-
ing consequences, it’s a story
the movies somehow couldn’t
tell. A 14-year-old queen made
one misstep and doomed the
galaxy for a generation; it’s
almost too painful to face such
a mistake. What would she
have thought once she real-
ized what she’d done? As the
Senate applauded its emperor,
did she think the galaxy got
what it deserved? What cal-
culations would she have to
make to justify her love for
Anakin? What does it mean
for a story to worry so much
about Anakin’s gullible hatred
and leave all this behind?
THE NOVELS, COMICS, AND
TV series offer Padmé plenty
to do. Spy on aristocrats.
Defend the innocent in court.
Demand the Senate stop com-
missioning soldiers and alle-
viate some suffering instead.
In this expanded universe, she
and Anakin fight—each other,
or side by side. She uses any
gambit within the rule of law,
and when the law stops work-
ing, she goes around.
The storymakers must
know how inert she seemed in
Revenge of the Sith. They give
her canon space wherever they
find it. The one thing they can-
not do is turn back time and put
a knife in Padmé’s hand. Some
things it’s too late to alter. Some
stories stay untold.
AMID THE THINGS that can’t be undone, there are endless Star Wars stories.
(Willrow Hood’s ice cream maker is still poised for a more satisfying narra-
tive than Padmé.) If there’s one franchise that knows the value of ghosts, it’s
Star Wars. And Padmé casts long shadows over the canon.
One shadow looms over the new trilogy: Anakin and Padmé’s impos-
sible love story echoes through their grandson Ben, whose obsession (at
first antagonistic, later mutual) with Rey reshuffles half a dozen facets of
the first star-crossed love story. Rey is a scrapper from a sandy nowhere, in
dire straits until a high-stakes emergency intervenes, and strong enough
in the Force to make everybody nervous. Ben Solo grew up with a politi-
cian and was sent through the proper channels to get training for his abil-
ities. It’s Ben who gets paranoid, kills his competition, changes his name,
and flees to the fascists. Rey, who had only as much time to contemplate
justice as starvation allowed, still dreamed of the Resistance before it ever
landed at her door. And her loyalties run deep. She fell in love with Ben in
The Last Jedi, enough to give herself over to the First Order, trying to get
Ben to change his allegiance.
He does. He kills his emperor for her; he and Rey fight side by side. But
hunger wins out, and he was Kylo Ren a long time. He claims Supreme
Leader, one hand out for Rey. She begs him—once: “Don’t go this way.” Then
she fights him, and she flees.
That’s the other shadow: all that fighting. Politics gets heavy, and the
psychological tolls are too close to the real. Trade blockades and murder
by committee isn’t the struggle people come to see. Everyone understands
that loyalty will spur a hero to draw their sword against a sworn enemy;
Padmé railing against a darkness with a hundred thousand hands is too
much to think about. Even in Rogue One (the rare Star War where heroes
make tough moral decisions), the Empire lurks on every corner, an enemy
so obvious there’s no question what needs doing.
Whatever the outcome in The Rise of Skywalker, it will
happen in a world where fascists are fairly easy to recognize
and where everyone—even, occasionally, Kylo Ren—under-
stands they’re in the wrong. (It’ll happen in a movie that had
to leave a story behind. With the loss of Carrie Fisher goes
whatever burden Padmé’s daughter, Leia, a political royal
who fought her mother’s losing battles for so many years,
was originally meant to carry in these last hours.)
The fights will happen without much political background
noise. We do not yet know if any of the heroes have made
catastrophic mistakes, but we understand any risk taken in
the name of a good cause; the movies have made it clear
enough that the law won’t save you once the emperor comes.
We know it—but we go to Star Wars for a myth. Some things
have to be settled by the sword. Someone has to be right.
“AT THE END, ON MUSTAFAR, WHEN [PADMÉ] GOES
TO SEE [ANAKIN], SHE HAS A KNIFE IN HER HANDS É
SHE’S GOING TO KILL HIM É BUT SHE CAN’T DO IT.”
—IAIN MCCAIG
There’s another piece of concept art in The Art of Star Wars. In the murky glow
of Mustafar, Anakin stands with his back to us, saber drawn, black robes swamp-
ing the foreground—a familiar moment that made it to the screen. The part that
didn’t: Facing us, staring him down, is Padmé in a burgundy cloak. Out of the
shadows her face is sharp, tired. Determined. In her hand she clutches a dagger:
bright, blood-red. She has recognized the danger. She’s about to make a choice.
Le Creuset released a nine-piece collection of Star Wars–themed
cookware this year, including a Han Solo Carbonite Signature Roaster.
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