Nerding Day: Rebel Moon (Patreon)

Hey Zack,

You’ve improved so much this term! You started with a meaningless collage of feet, sex slavery, and unfinished cutscenes. Rebel Moon has a quarter of the feet, keeps all the rape to Act One, and I kind of see what’s happening most of the time. Wow! If they let you direct Watchmen today, I’d finish it.

That said, I have a lot of questions. A few questions. One question.

Zack, are you a fan of Star Wars?

Have you seen Star Wars, Zack? Like everyone else alive? And I mean everyone. Let’s say your annual Tropical Toesies pleasure cruise capsized. You float for weeks, living off willpower and a bulimic lead’s flesh. It’s hell. Raw, mind-shredding hell, like Sucker Punch. When you think you’ve died, you reach an island. An Eden lost to the rest of mankind, untouched by war or Sucker Punch. The inhabitants live for free love and free drugs, sans cults or aging into bigots. To them, you’re a strange, broken, talentless monster. But one they can heal. In your new home, the Den of Redemption, you find a humble robe, a book of songs your heart already knows, and more drugs. Next to A New Hope on DVD.

Everyone’s seen Star Wars, Zack.

This isn’t an accusation. I don’t have tenure, or anything that reminds admin I'm alive. These are friendly, constructive tips. A boost to help you grow. You can’t grow if Mouse lawyers find you. There’s an imperial marksman joke here, but you already know it. Because you’ve seen Star Wars.

Sure, you’ve tripped into an abortion or seven before. But in ways I’d call…idiosyncratic. Unique, even. Like finding dogshit in your freezer. Like finding a quarter in your tumor. Like finding Sucker Punch in your filmography. Why dim your light? It’s not improving the results.

Nice ship, Zack. It looks tough enough to wreck a sun. You called these Dreadnoughts, distinguishing them from Star Destroyers. Dreadnoughts are a type of Star Destroyer. The helmet guy rides one, in three movies every human’s seen. That’s nothing next to stealing aesthetics or plots or lightsabers. But it dings plausible deniability. You stole details, and you’re not a detail guy. You can’t even spell dreadnought. You paid less attention to Alan Moore.

Granted: you didn’t jack everything. While everything else screams Tatooine, Junkie XL left the fun orchestra at home. This soundtrack’s a tranq dart. The chanting and stuttering bass could undermine any action film made since streamers gave up. Yet Rebel Moon still sounds better than it looks. Forget “video gamey.” Games try. They fail in new, bizarre, fascinating ways. I’d pay money for Rebel Moon to glitch out and erase my hard drive.

I’m not trying to hurt you. This is slow-motion respect. It looks like you jacked Star Wars, and you’re different than that. Not better. Different. I expect arsons from you, not grave robbing the living. Artists, inbred or otherwise, emulate their heroes. Not skin them for fashion.

I’m not trying to hurt you. You can do good things. Some of the shots you used to beat Watchmen’s ideas to death looked sweet. You seemed fun in 300, when we thought those were just Frank Miller’s opinions. It’s physically impossible to watch Batman vs. Superman without laughing, making it a net good in the universe.

I’m not trying to hurt you. You’re my favorite Zack Snyder. There are good things here, and I’ll list all of them.

This alien looks cool. It jerks a dead human like a puppet, an idea that could get some mileage. You stay focused on the main non-story, instead of letting a fresh-ish idea lead you astray.

These priests look cool. Not the Space Wehrmact flanking them and driving the plot, you fucked those right up. Just their blessedly silent priests. They don’t match any Lucas or Cameron properties I’ve seen, as of press time. In a lost draft, I bet you even had a thought about religion. I like these masks. The Empire’s split between five or so aesthetics, and this one looks neat.

This spider alien looks like shit. But you deserve three compliments, so let’s add her. Besides, she fights in the lightsaber scene, where I cackled instead of slept. Why not let her into the winner’s circle?

The rest is a sewage milkshake.

If you take one thing from this workshop: quit. Stop typing. Stop shooting. Defer your dreams and seek the island. There’s peace, free drugs, and the real Star Wars.

I’ll explain—it’s a big ask. Let’s follow a character. I know you like characters, because you keep adding them. Rebel Moon introduces core party members 90 minutes in, which sounds illegal.

Meet Nemesis, an early addition (70 minutes in). Remember her? You wrote her.

She’s in charge of lightsabers. Her actress, Bae Doona, survived Jupiter Ascending—hinting at either blind love or ruthless hatred for space opera. Bae’s one The Orville cameo away from assassinating a genre.

After seventy minutes of rebellion, our main rebel is still hiring rebels. Think Seven Samurai (I saw you switch out The Hidden Fortress, Zack. You’re not clever, Zack), without payoff. They decide to find a stabber, and head to the strangely segregated planet of Daggus. Nemesis suspects our heroes are useless assholes, which is correct. That anything else is more important—again, right on the money. Good start, really.

The lone warrior (one of many) puts the call on hold to hunt a child-kidnapping spider. The details are elusive and boring, but Nemesis seems to hail from a long line of stabbers. And wanders around solving problems. I’m getting perplexed, Zack. That’s workshop-ese for pissed.

Something I almost missed/forgot: it's revenge child-eating. Which brings me to a secondary point: remember the predators you added to your cantina, and your stormtrooper attack? You have a tick, Zack. Taking a stock genre element, and adding off-tone misery. Nothing slick, artful, or personal. Just grime drizzled over nerdbait like a game of Limp Pocky.

Why’s everyone else just watching, Zack? Your heroes are all armed Mandalorian extras. No one seems to give a fuck about bad-touch Shelob. Or the laser ronin they want to hire. Ignoring amber alerts is one thing, but would you watch someone eat a kid next to your gun club? Or have a new story?

Anyway, Nemesis lightsabers it.

You get a little beggy here. You really want this to look cool. And you spam ramping until lightsabering a spider monster feels uncool. That takes work. My subconscious is just Ventress fighting Lloth over who gets to kill my dad. This sucking feels personal.

People liked that first bit of ramping in 300. That was fun! Most of 300’s problems are in its soul. Since then, you’ve drizzled ramping over nerdbait like…you get it. See how repetition stands out? Rebel Moon fights get very, very salty.

And then she’s done. Nemesis does nothing for the next hour. Your jedi’s a big red mannequin. After all, you have six more samurai to paste. You drop Nemesis in, flop through one scene, and forget her.

Game studios call this problem “corpse brain.” Or scope creep. You’ve had scope creep your whole life. I’ll adapt.

Meet Tarak, an early addition (60 minutes in). Remember him? Think hard. Try to duck the word “noble.”

Tarak’s the fourth-ish samurai: a bare-chested slave connected to nature. My career’s shrinking as I type, but we’ll enter exile together. Get me a Snyder-grade botnet, and I’ll teach you to word good. Deal? Deal.

The plight of Dickstain, Nowhere spurs Tarak to escape bondage. Unlike the bondage. A grim turn for anyone into history, stories, or people. Perfect for your fans. The trouble comes with Tarak’s trial: learning how to tame his dragon.

I kid, it’s more of an Avatar lift. You’re well-versed in films harder to avoid than see. Six minutes of theme park fodder let our minds flee Rebel Moon. I got a nice email from my sister, her kid can read now. And Tarak earns his freedom, liberating us from awkward, party-ruining guilt. I'll give you this: I’m equally inspired by A Child of Fire and The Way of Water.

The apathy of our armed, recruiting, time-racing heroes stands out again. For someone raiding every other corner of Comic-Con, you love DBZ bystanders. I’d cite wrestling commentary desks, but they’re famously involved. And decades in, JR hasn’t bantered over triangle trade.

Apologies: there’s plenty of non-Lucas ambition. You also wear James Cameron’s skin, and it’s much sadder. In your defense, it’s awkward skin. Moonwalks With Wolves now describes Avatar’s golden age. Cribbing from the Na’vi is like a crackhouse heist.

If it helps: once post-hookup regret for Avatar sets in, Rebel Moon, Part One: A Child of Fire may grow a whole half-star. Until critics reread the subtitle. “A Child of Fire” is the most doomed phrase without “leap forward,” “our time,” or “again.”

Anyway, Tarak dies. Figuratively. He and Nemesis share a bench, reflecting on trust, agents, and betrayal.

Do you see why I’m perplexed Zack? You don’t even focus on your new waifu. Space Babydoll fades into the same brown muck as the rest of the cast.

At least in the present action. Spacedoll has an endless flashback, detailing her meteoric rise from nazi intern to battle nanny. Or rather, from chosen one to messiah tutor. It feels like watching a failed quarterback teach gym class. They’re not dead, but their eyes are.

Your endless shonen flashback has one highlight: Spacedoll’s first run-in with the Star Fuhrer. He puts a unique spin on the Socratic method:

That scene’s perfect. Star Wars had zero dictators playing Hoth Roulette with kids. I couldn’t tell you the logic or meaning with a tiny gun to my chin, but the image is wonderful. You’ve blossomed into a comedian.

Shame about every other frame. You started this script ten times, gave up nine, and stitched the remains together. In the present, Spacedoll blinks at the sun until a man or robot tells her to shoot. She has no likes or dislikes, other than exposition and walking into Cloud City knockoffs. As hilarious as my nicknames are, I can’t remember her name.

But I have a new diagnosis. Feel free to quit, but there’s a second option. See, I can’t call Rebel Moon a pure Star Wars clone. A New Hope didn’t have four flashbacks, endless ramping, fuck-threats from stormtroopers, fuck-threats from aliens, Na’viface, or Junkie XL snoring.

Steal more from Star Wars.

Steal shots I can look at. Steal songs I remember. Steal action with weight. Steal the spirit of adventure. Steal mysticism that finds purpose in chaos. Steal space that feels alive, dangerous, and exciting. Steal whatever people like about Avatar too.

You’ve got one film left, Zack. Go klepto. Dig in. Ewoks. Carbonite. A bounty hunter named Bubble Tea that falls off a ship, dies offscreen, survives off-movie, and outearns The Caymans. Grab props from Skywalker Ranch if you can.

You have my blessing.

Denny D

Fun Professor

P.S - Like the best students, you’ve inspired me. I’m taking Gundam. The back of the book will say homage, pastiche, or parody. Sure. But it’ll be Gundam, with dick jokes between space tragedies. Look out for “Cosmic Anti-Ace Y.Sarian” next year. I’ll see you at the hack support group.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: John Minkoff, the only person brave enough to hold Dennard's hand through another Zack Snyder Masochism Meditation session.

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