Stormtroopers: Bless their shrivelled, black hearts. Picture them all getting dressed-up, putting on their shiny helmets, which they spend all night polishing (no comment), sliding fresh charge-packs into their spiffy, well-oiled blasters (...), and setting out to put holes in some Rebs. They are keen as mustard; keener, probably, because I have come across some indifferent mustard in my time, whereas the boys in white are just so consistently enthusiastic. As you can see in the opening scenes of ANH, they aren't half bad at their jobs, either. Despite the fact that they are clambering awkwardly through a door one at a time in what should be a total duck shoot for the Rebels, they clear out the first corridor without significant losses, and go on to take the whole ship in what we can assume is certainly under an hour. All those months of training in firing discipline and target practise pay off marvellously in a boarding action of surgical precision and efficiency.

Cut to the Death Star: Four slightly clueless interlopers - one unarmed and wearing a bed sheet - are able to wander through the maximum security battle station, offing the same elite shock troops left, right and centre without so much as a light graze in return. What happened between the first and second act? Did all the Troopers on the Death Star get issued with opaque helmet lenses? Or did they, as one critic amusingly put it, attend the "Stevie Wonder School of Blastership"? The key can be found in who they were fighting against (or, in this case, shooting the wall beside): The heroes. The protagonists. The big cheeses (cheesii?). Ladies, gentlemen and miscellaneous, I proudly - or at least less shamefully - present to you:

The Stormtrooper Effect

You may well already be familiar with this concept, but if not then read on so as you won't be so ign'ant. Essentially, the Stormtroopers - or other generic movie baddies - are incredibly effective professional soldiers until they are faced with the terrifying prospect of a character with spoken dialogue (unless that dialogue is, "I've only got two weeks left until retirement", "When I get home from the war, I'm going to propose to my girlfriend" etc.). Anyone with a main role - as in, they appear on the poster - is absolutely golden. It's a guarantee that when the Troopers enter their sphere of influence, they won't be able to hit the broad side of a barn from point blank range with a missile launcher armed with broad-side-of-a-barn-seeking projectiles.
(I feel obliged to point out at this juncture that you can of course look all this up on Wikipedia - and also find out about the legendary 'Inverse Ninja Law' to boot - but by reading an official blog you are supporting the economy and being patriotic, so it's your choice: Stick with me or be a dirty communist).

You will be either delighted or horrified to learn that all the above was simply a primer for the main thrust of this entry. "Give us the main thrust!" I hear you plead, before asking me to get to the point. Not one to disappoint, except for that one time when it really mattered, I shall accede to your request. Once every hundred movies or so, there arises amongst the faceless multitude a chosen one, whether through fate or destiny or massive and unseen cosmic forces beyond our reckoning, or because it's in the script. The task selected for this individual is very special: to wound a main character in a painful yet non-life-threatening manner. That this happens no fewer than three times in the Saga is of some note, but what is really remarkable is that all instances occur in one film: Return of the Jedi. Why is this the case? I know not. Perhaps the scriptwriters got tipsy on strawberry daiquiris one night and thought - tee hee! - why don't we make the baddies spontaneously accurate! What a hoot. Rum cocktails'll do that to a man. Anyways, we are gathered here today to celebrate these fine specimens of henchmanliness, so with much further ado let's away and at it already.

Let us first open our DVDs at Chapter 12, the Book of Sarlacc, wherein ye shall find amateur gymnastics and monkey-lizard cruelty. But most importantly of all, there is Leia working that outfit. Yeah, mount that cannon. That's it, point it at the deck. Ooooooh, you put on a good show for daddy. Oh yes, and some guy shoots the mop haired fella. What's his name? Last of the Jedi. Blew up the Death Star. Fancies himself as a hypnotist. Obi-Jinn Something. Fire that cannon...Some guy just pops out of the woodwork and nails him in what has to be the best existing example of extremely meticulous inaccuracy. (Yeah, this guy isn't a Stormtrooper, but he is a storm trooper, if you follow. And I know you do). I wonder what the ad said, "Wanted: Disposable henchman for guard duty. Must be proficient at very precisely shooting intruders right in the hand. Ability to wear ridiculous hat an advantage. Full dental."? (What they don't tell you when they fit those bionic hands is that when shot they go off like a Roman candle. Oh, you'd better believe I slo-moed it). I suppose that some of the blame for the hand-shot must go on Obi-Jinn, as he holds his lightsaber aloft, presumably in an imitation of his poster pose (it's a trailer shot people, you've gotta have 'em). It's like he's taunting the guard, "Shoot me!" he says, "Shoot me, you beautiful man in your beautiful papier-mâché decorated helmet!" And then, with infinite love and care, he butchers him like a hog.

After all that excitement, everything goes quiet for a bit (discounting all sorts of important plot developments), and so we move forward a chapter or 24. Yes, my mathematically gifted protégés (and protégées), it is that chapter known the world over as, simply, "36". In this very chapter resides our second subject, and so we place him now upon the slide of scrutiny and set him under the great microscope of critical analysis, preferably out of the sunlight. Some call him a hero, a saviour of man. Others call him a villain, and curse the heavens at his mention. I call him, Endor trooper #6. He was always the quickest in his platoon, always the sharpest. Never were his boots unclean or his beating quotas unfilled. As the Rebels attempted to breach the bunker door, he crept closer and closer to get that perfect kill-shot, ignoring the cries of his comrades as they were hugged to death by undercover achondroplasiacs. Espying his chance (espying is like seeing, but classier), he strikes!, letting loose a bolt of burning red justice into R2, who springs open like a novelty tool rack (patent pending). So stunned by his success is #6, so enraptured by sudden thoughts of wondrous glory, that he cannot even move, but only wait to pop his squib - which is what Stormtroopers say instead of 'kick the bucket'. Before we move on to the finale, we must pause here to give credit for an 'assist', as it was one of #6's comrades who gave him an opening by distracting the heroes. He was one of the unnamed foot soldiers who joined this crack legion in the hopes of securing a better life for himself and a bright, totalitarian future for the galaxy. He was, in other words, a small man with big dreams, until Han blew them out the back of his head.

As we lie on the drifting remains of our shattered hope, the current carries us indolently across the vast ocean of this fine film until we finally rest upon the golden sands of Isla del Chapter 38. This is most fortuitous, as it's kind of where we want to be, and those sharks were looking frisky. After digging fruitlessly for hours under the "X", we remember that on the Pirates of the Caribbean DVD it said that no-one actually buries treasure under an "X", as that would be silly. Oh, and then we wake up and realise it was all a dream. The island, that is, not Pirates of the Caribbean, although Johnny Depp is dreamy...Getting back on the whole thing with the Stormtroopers, you recall when one of them shoots Leia in the arm? Of course you do, it's right before the bit where Han cops a feel (aaaaand pause), but after he unsuccessfully tries to show off his l33t skillz by hacking the bunker blast door. As with most enlisted Troopers, TK-523 just signed up to make ends meet in an unforgiving galaxy rife with high-interest loans. Maybe save a little for Christmas, or the GFFA equivalent thereof - Hanukkah, that's it. Perhaps take the wife on that Bespin air cruise that she's been on about. Get the kids that death squad play set they wanted, with real summary execution action (lamenting womenfolk figurines sold separately). Yes, he was a real tosser, but don't worry, he got what he deserved when Leia shot him through the heart. Shot him through the heart non-metaphorically.

That was it then, all 1,630 words of it - oh, 1,639 now - and so we emerge into the dazzling light, squinting and scratching ourselves inappropriately. I hope that this has been a fitting tribute to them who rose above, through and indeed beyond the bungling antics of their fellow goons, if only for a fleeting moment. Arrivederci then, until the Pulitzers. You never know, I just might win...
Yep, I bribed 'em good. There are more bent spoons on that judging board than there are in Uri Geller's cutlery drawer. Ah, the sweet tang of corruption.



Celtic 1 (Nakamura, 81") - 0 Manchester United