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“What Is Thy Bidding, My Master?”: Star Wars and the Hegelian Struggle for Recognition

BRIAN K. CAMERON

 

 

 

 

Star Wars, as the name suggests, is about struggle and conflict, hope and renewal, war and death. On the one side, there are the Rebels, whose struggle for freedom from Imperial domination and fear motivate their supporters and give life to the movement. On the other side, there is the Emperor and his minions who, driven by what philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) refers to as the “will to power,” willingly sacrifice entire planets and their populations in a ruthless attempt to achieve their goals. Art really does imitate life or, at the very least, it illuminates an important feature of it—namely, the exercise of a certain kind of power.

It isn’t difficult to explain how this kind of power arises; fear is the mechanism that accounts for its existence and strength. It is fear of losing his sister that moves Luke to do the Emperor’s bidding and strike down his father. It is fear that motivates the Senate to form the clone army that ultimately brings about its own demise. And, it’s the fear of losing his mother that sends the young Anakin Skywalker down the path to the Dark Side and prompts the ancient Jedi Master, Yoda, to voice the mantra of his religion: “Fear leads to anger . . . anger leads to hate . . . hate leads to suffering.”

Fear illuminates the path to slavery and suffering, the path that leads to the Dark Side. At the same time, though, it reveals a certain mode of exercising power—the way of the Sith Master. The Master rises to his station and maintains his dominance over his apprentices or slaves by evoking and playing upon their fears. And the apprentice or slave maintains himself as a slave by allowing those fears to determine his being. This interplay between power and fear is what the nineteenth-century German philosopher Georg Hegel (1770-1831) called the “master-slave dialectic.” By looking at the Star Wars saga through the lens of Hegel’s master-slave dialectic we will not only better understand the nature and limits of the Emperor’s power, but also why—apart from the Hollywood impulse to give audiences a happy ending—that power failed. And, as an added bonus, Hegel’s analysis forces us to look most carefully at the personal exercise of power, bringing into sharper relief the various characters within the Star Wars galaxy and their motivations.

Masters and Slaves: Who Rules Whom?

Thales, the very first philosopher in the Western tradition, was once asked, “What is most difficult?” He replied, “To know thyself.” Indeed, Thales was not far off the mark: coming to understand ourselves and the value and meaning of our experiences really is one of the most difficult things any of us can do. Similarly, coming to understand how self-knowledge is itself possible, how it arises, and in what it consists is one of the more challenging problems philosophers grapple with. In Star Wars, two of the most compelling themes are Luke’s journey of self-discovery and his father’s redemption as the result of his own coming to a new self-identity at the end of Return of the Jedi.

As unlikely as it may sound, it’s the problem of self-knowledge that ultimately leads Hegel to examine the relationship between master and slave. For Hegel, knowledge about ourselves as individuals, knowledge about the value and meaning of our projects and experiences, necessarily implies a relationship to other people. Our individual self-understanding does not arise independently of others; rather, it emerges in the context of a relationship with other people. Their recognition (or lack of recognition) of us as having valuable, independent projects and experiences shapes how we perceive ourselves. Not surprisingly then, the type and quality of our relationships to others will have a direct influence on our capacity to know and value ourselves. Some relationships can enhance our capacity for self-knowledge while others, like the relation between a master and a slave (or between the Emperor and his subjects), distort the picture we have of ourselves. But, what’s really interesting about this is, the fact that it is the master, and not so much the slave, whose self-understanding is distorted by the relationship. Let’s see why.

From the standpoint of self-knowledge, the individual becomes aware of herself as an individual (she becomes self-conscious) at the moment when she confronts another like herself, a subject capable of interpreting and understanding the world.¹²² In this meeting, the two are aware of each other, but that awareness carries with it a certain tension. Insofar as the other is a co-interpreter of the world, she is a subject for whom the world presents itself. On the other hand, insofar as the world remains an object to her, the other is likewise an object within that world.¹²³ When, for instance, Luke and Vader first meet in The Empire Strikes Back, Vader is torn. On the one hand, he regards Luke as a trophy, a mere object of conquest. On the other hand, he also sees Luke as a potential rival to the Emperor, an equal and partner.

In any case, at this point the individual is only aware of herself in terms of her capacity to interpret and understand the world. What she lacks is an understanding of herself as an active creator, that is, as a being with meaningful projects and goals. Yet in order to know herself in this way, the individual must somehow fashion a world according to her own will; she must, in other words, make for herself a human world. Then and only then will her individuality emerge and itself become something to be interpreted and understood by another. The problem is that being creative in this sense requires that we impress our will on others by ordering our world. In this respect, we are all like the Emperor, attempting to remake the world in our own image.

The struggle begins! Each refuses to see the other as a co-equal subject, and each sees in the other the means to create a world of their own design. Both risk all in the life-or-death struggle for supremacy, for it is by such a struggle that, Hegel thinks, we come to know and value life with all its creative possibilities.¹²⁴ In the end, one reaches the brink of terror and backs down, only to become the slave of the other. This, in simple terms, is how Hegel understands the historical emergence of the relation between masters and slaves.

It’s tempting to think that at this point the master has what he wants. As master, he can command the labor of the slave and make the world into what he wills. Freed from the drudgery of mundane work, the master can live in lavish surroundings, indulge in fabulous pleasures, and do pretty much as he pleases (think Jabba the Hutt). It certainly looks as if the master has what he wants, just as it looks as if the Emperor, with his crimson-clad guards and fawning courtiers, has what he wants; but appearances can be deceiving.

It was to be recognized by another, an equal, that the master risked everything to become master, not to live a life of pleasure. The slave is a human being, but as long as he remains a slave he cannot give the master the recognition he desires—the recognition of an equal. Why does this matter? Hegel expresses it this way: “Self-consciousness exists in and for itself when, and by the fact that, it so exists for another; that is, it exists only in being acknowledged.”¹²⁵ Although I am surely something independently of others, the understanding I have of myself, of the value of my projects, of the meaning and sense of my experiences, is dependent upon the way others see me. Naturally, I must trust in and value the judgments of those who evaluate me. If I judge them to be unequal, incapable of understanding or passing judgment upon the value of my life, then their opinions are worthless to me. Only an equal is capable of understanding me in the way I understand myself. Thus, if I am to gain the recognition I desire as a self-conscious being, if I am to understand the truth about myself and my possibilities as a human being, then I must seek out an equal.

But this is impossible for the master. By definition, the master “prefers death to the slavish recognition of another’s superiority.” ¹²⁶ And it is only through death, his death or that of his adversary, that the master achieves what he wills—lordship. The possibility of peaceful co-existence with co-equals—with other masters—is likewise foreclosed. The original struggle for (a one-sided) recognition is merely transplanted to a new site. For as long as the master refuses to recognize the other as a co-equal subject, for as long as he wills that he be master, his most important human aims are, and will forever be, frustrated.

Of course it goes without saying that the slave’s aims are likewise frustrated. Being a slave is only a happy state of affairs in bad histories. In reality slavery is a brutal and inhuman institution, and the brief glimpse of slavery on Tatooine that we get in The Phantom Menace is tame and whitewashed. Nevertheless, the situation for the slave is also not what it might at first seem.

To begin with, it is the slave whose labor creates the world of things, and through that labor he comes to experience himself as a creative being. This is certainly the case for young Anakin working in Watto’s shop. While the master cannot in the end be satisfied with himself—for he can choose only to live a life of animal pleasure or fight anew and die in the field of battle—the slave can go beyond himself and his situation by overcoming his fears. In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke’s experience in the cave and his subsequent Jedi training symbolizes his own struggle with, and overcoming of, fear. His fear at first enslaves him and prevents him from acting as a Jedi Knight. Although Luke claims that he is not afraid, Yoda knows better and warns, “You will be . . . you will be.” His overcoming of that fear in turn constitutes an important part of his maturation and in their duel on Cloud City, Vader praises Luke for overcoming his fear. Consequently, it is the master who represents an historical dead end. He can never go beyond what he is and realize himself as a free self-conscious subject. The slave, on the other hand, has nothing to lose but his fear; he can and will go beyond what he is because his desire is not to be master, but to be free. Hegel says that he finds this freedom in his work, a space in which he controls his small, limited world and recognizes the freedom of having a “mind of one’s own.”¹²⁷

An Empire of Fear and Trembling

The management of fear is the business of the Empire, and fear is the coinage of power that must make itself visibly terrible in order to rule.¹²⁸ The Emperor, precisely because he is unequal in relation to his subjects, cannot exert his power at all times. Within such a system it’s the exceptional, the example or spectacle, which must circulate and demonstrate power. The decision to destroy the planet Alderaan, for instance, was made not because it constituted a threat, but because its visibility made it a useful show of force. “Dantooine,” Grand Moff Tarkin announces, “is too remote to make an effective demonstration.” True, the exercise of power is excessive, but it isn’t indiscriminate—its use is calculated to maximize fear and render unnecessary the actual deployment of force elsewhere: “Fear will keep the local systems in line, fear of this battle station.”

Like all weapons of mass destruction, the Death Star’s military function cannot be easily separated from its political and policing functions—its purpose as a method of domestic control. Its objective power lies not in its actual use, but in the threat of its use, and herein lays the secret of its political function of justifying the exercise of power. “This station,” says one overly zealous commander, “is now the ultimate power in the universe, I suggest we use it.” The suggestion can be ignored, but not the implication. By its very existence, the Death Star invites use and seemingly justifies the extension of Imperial power to every corner of the galaxy. The power to destroy a planet is the power to render obedient entire populations. When wielded by the master, it shows who his enemies are, and in doing so it explains and justifies the master’s power by revealing its strength.

The Death Star is the most spectacular display of a power that is not afraid of being seen as terrible; but it isn’t the only display of that power, nor the only way by which that power makes itself felt. The Emperor’s control over individuals, unlike that exercised over entire populations, must be managed with a degree of flexibility that corresponds with the interest he has in extracting ever more useful labor from them. In order to make those individuals useful and cooperative, the Emperor may replace the specific dread of a well-defined threat like the Death Star with the more constant terror of the unknown. “The Emperor is coming here?” a surprised commander asks at the beginning of Return of the Jedi. “Yes,” Vader replies, “and he is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress.” The threat is undefined and left to play upon the commander’s imagination. Almost without hesitation he responds: “We shall double our efforts!” And then a second ill-defined threat is voiced and left to hang in the air: “I hope so, commander, for your sake. The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am.” Vader’s “forgiveness” is legendary, after all.

In still other cases, the threat is defined but its meaning left unclear. In his confrontation with the Emperor, Luke’s fear of seeing the Rebellion fail, of becoming like his father, and of seeing his sister turned to the Dark Side all become real. But what would it mean to become like his father? Does the end of the Rebellion mean the end of all rebellion; what exactly does it signal? If the Rebel fleet is destroyed, are his friends necessarily killed? Can the Emperor find Leia and if so, what would it mean to turn her to the Dark Side? In no case is Luke confronted with a specific and implacable sign of what’s to come. Rather, a web of fear is spread by the Emperor’s taunting in order to elicit Luke’s anger and call forth that all-too-human power to override reason and give in to hate.

If the mechanism of fear explains how it is the Emperor rules his Empire and primarily relates to his subjects, it is hatred that explains his relation to his closest advisors and minions—Darth Maul, Count Dooku, and most especially, Darth Vader. Neither equality nor recognition, but instead hatred ties each to the other, because hatred is the primary way by which each makes sense of themselves and the world. Each is driven by his own hatred of life, of all things good, and (it is likely) of himself. Not surprisingly, then, each sees in the other a reflection of himself: something to resent and hate perhaps, but also something intelligible and understandable, a kind of common ground.

Earlier we saw that the master seeks after equals with whom he can relate as a self-conscious being. If Hegel is right and the master can never be satisfied with himself and his life, then it’s not surprising that the Emperor should come to hate life and himself. In other words, it’s reasonable to think that hatred will become the primary way by which the master understands his experience of the world and himself. Consequently, that same hatred will constitute the sole means by which the master relates to others as self-conscious beings, that is, as relative equals. Naturally those relations will be seriously impoverished and deficient, as indeed they are. Even so, because those relations are formed around the principle focus by which each understands himself (in this case hatred), those relationships will be more personal, stronger, and more enduring than any other relation each might have. More than anything else, this explains the Emperor’s power over his minions and their respective allegiances to him. As Vader confides in Luke, “I must obey my master.”

We might see this most clearly if we think carefully about the evolution of Darth Vader and his eventual betrayal of the Emperor. Vader starts off, in A New Hope, as a dark embodiment of everything evil. In his first cinematic act, he crushes a man’s neck while questioning him about the whereabouts of some stolen plans. From there, things only get worse: with the hindsight of the later films, we know he allows the death of his step-family, Owen and Beru Lars; interrogates and tortures his own daughter; kills his old friend and mentor, Obi-Wan; and nearly kills his son in the Death Star trench. In The Empire Strikes Back, Vader does no better—in a number of instances he simply kills those subordinates who fail him in a kind of idealized form of corporate downsizing. And so by the time we reach the last installment of the saga, Return of the Jedi, and are aware of Luke’s parentage, we’re given almost no reason to think that Luke is anything more than deluded in believing there is “still good in him.” On the contrary, the so-called struggle Luke senses in his father is buried so deeply that, up until the point where Luke lays prostrate before a murderous Emperor, we’re given no indication that Vader is anything more than a willing servant of evil. Then, and only then, does Vader act to save his son.

So why does he do it? Or, better yet—how does Vader surmount the Emperor’s hold over him?

There’s really only one possible answer: Vader overcomes the Emperor by overcoming his hate and achieving a new self-consciousness. Confronted with his son’s unshakeable belief in his goodness, Vader comes to realize the truth about himself—he isn’t a pawn of evil, but a man of inherent goodness and nobility.¹²⁹ Vader turns on the Emperor when he becomes aware of himself as something other than a hate-filled man, something other than a slave. And, that awareness comes at precisely the moment when Vader comes face-to-face with the possibility of watching die the only person who saw goodness in him, his son Luke.

Luke and Vader’s personal struggle with their own fears is at the heart of the larger story about struggle and conflict between the Rebels and the Empire. The resolution of that personal struggle represents a moment of self-discovery for both characters, a moment when each comes to understand, in virtue of their relation to one another, who they really were. And the same can be said for the larger struggles that are taking place within the saga. The Ewoks, for instance, prove who and what they are in their confrontation with the Empire. Similarly, the Naboo and the Trade Federations reveal something of themselves in their responses to the collapse of the Republic and the rise of the Sith. This, it seems, is what Hegel was trying to tell us—in the relation between masters and slaves, it is the slave, and not the master, who is in a position to reveal something about our possibilities as human beings. Fear may create and sustain relations of inequality, but the desire to know who and what we are will, in the end, likely triumph.