(Warning: this post really shows my geekiness. I make no apology for it.)
I finally figured it out. And now, I have to share it.
I went to JJ Abrams’ Star Trek reboot prepared to dislike it. I generally hate remakes, even good ones, because no matter how well done (i.e., Battlestar Galactica), their success is merely a reflection of those who did the original work. But I ultimately did enjoy the film. It was fast-paced, funny and the liberties it took with canon did not seem to be arbitrary (i.e., “Let’s make Starbuck a girl!”). But still, something bugged me about it.
It’s the “Chosen One” syndrome.
In the original Trek, Captain Kirk was notable for being Starfleet’s youngest captain, but beyond that, he was not singled out as special. He came up through the academy and served on different vessels in various capacities before finally being promoted to the captain’s chair. And there was the implication that, as wild as they were, Kirk’s adventures might not be unique; perhaps every other Starfleet captain was out there experiencing the same kind of excitement.
I don’t presume to know Roddenberry’s reason for this, but I sense it might be grounded in his own World War II military experience. In that war, everyone served; heroism was neither rare nor overly praised, and the idea of contributing to a greater good was crucial. You can see those aspects in the Star Trek he created and supervised (for example, in “Court Martial,” Kirk encounters other members of his academy graduating class).
But then along comes Star Wars, and a subsequent generation of filmmakers who have spent their lives only as filmmakers. They bring nothing new to the table, no life experience or unusual perspectives, just all the films and TV shows they grew up watching (and their king is, of course, Quentin Tarantino). And everyone of that generation grew up watching Star Wars, where first Luke Skywalker, then in the prequels Anakin, assume the status of divinely chosen avatars.
So now we have a Kirk who was born in miraculous circumstances, found in a backwater burg by wise older warrior Captain Pike who then awakens the Force (whoops! I mean, his sense of duty) and invites him on a quest. In short order this mentor is eliminated, and Kirk must rely on the help of Han Solo (dang! I mean, Mr. Spock) to defeat the supervillain of the moment. If Eric Bana’s Nero had said at the end, “No, Kirk, I am your father,” it wouldn’t have been that surprising.
And then there’s a moment that’s so contradictory to the previous incarnation of James T. Kirk that it soured the whole film for me. Kirk offers to rescue Nero’s crew, but Nero refuses; Kirk then lets them all die. This is supposed to be (at heart) the same character who told the Metrons he wouldn’t kill the Gorn captain? Who, when Maltz the Klingon protests “You said you would kill me,” replies, “I lied”? Who repeatedly, after enduring violence and humiliation, offers friendship instead of punishment when he regains the upper hand?
Roddenberry’s Kirk was a man who, at his best, was exactly who we’d want boldly going where no man has gone before. Abrams’ Kirk is a boy delighted with his new toys, and is not even remotely who I’d want representing the human race.