And when it’s time to party like it’s 1983, the hamming couldn’t be more succulent (“Power! Un-LIM-ited power!”).It has been three years since the Clone Wars began. As Chancellor Palpatine, his insidious line readings pump up the sit-down scenes with suggestive menace. Sidelined in previous prequels, Ian McDiarmid feasts upon his moment in the spotlight. His rush to hatred and all-out wickedness does slightly strain credibility, but the ease of the seduction is offset by the sly skill of the seducer. Plagued by nightmare visions of Padmé (Natalie Portman) carking it during childbirth, Ani has compelling motivation: only Sith-power, so it’s said, can bring loved ones back from the dead. Anakin’s conversion to the Dark Side is sure, but why will the ‘Chosen One’, the man supposed to bring balance to the Force, turn so violently against his mentors? Because – blame the bloody intergalatic NHS – you can’t get a decent midwife for love nor money. The scale snares the breath, the drama delivers hell, even the droid slapstick comes off. The spine-tingling thrum of the credits and the traditionally risible opening crawl fade out and we hit the ground sprinting, with a swashbuckling space rescue that winningly recaptures the matinee-serial spirit of the original trilogy, all close calls and cliffhanging. The reason for this upswing in storytelling? Simple: this time, there’s a story to tell. Galaxies ahead of The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones, it replaces the early prequels’ plod with pace, passion, and purpose. Perversely, though, for all the pain and suffering and severed limbs, Episode 3 is a superb sugar-rush of summer entertainment.
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