Set between Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith, The Clone Wars is the first fully CGI episode in the Star Wars saga. It follows the jolly Jedi jaunts of Obi Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker and his new Padawan Ahsoka Tano, a gobby apprentice wench who’s keen to impress the soon-to-be child killer.
The civil war between the Republic and the droid army separatists is at fever pitch, and for some inexplicable reason both sides are trying to recruit Jabba the Hut to their cause. As part of a fiendish conspiracy, Count Dooku has had Jabba’s baby son kidnapped and made it look like the Jedis were responsible. Whoever brings the spoddy lump back to Jabba wins his allegiance. Sorted.
The plot itself just about beggars belief. The idea that Jabba, a slobby gangster with a few dozen bounty hunters in his crew, could ever have both Count Dooku and Yoda on their knees, trying to curry his favour is as preposterous as it is idiotic. For the fourth time on the trot, the film is layered so thick with politically-driven dross you start to feel like you’re watching The West Wing rather than a sci-fi adventure. The Clone Wars has most of the same diseases that left the modern trilogy a bed-bound spluttering wreck. It tastes as cold and sterile as a pint of chilled piss with a script that’s so flat it’s like Jabba printed it out and tried to hump it missionary.
The one welcome surprise comes in the form of Jabba’s uncle, Zero the Hutt. This purple lisping drag queen is so heinous is his manner he makes Jabba look like Luke Skywalker.
But the whole thing is just too twee for a cinema experience. Visually, it’s nowhere near as impressive as Wall-E with its creaky animation and wooden, lifeless faces. Most of the films’ cast didn’t even bother to turn up for voice talent duty.
As something to slap on the telly for 30 minutes on a Sunday morning while crying through your hangover – it would have done the job. But if you put aside a night out with the lads, spend good money on a ticket and miss two hours drinking time, you’re gonna feel about as satisfied as someone jerking off while wearing a boxing glove. Wait until it’s on the box.
