The Ghorman Front do not run a tight ship. Their agents are overeager. Their spies are easily identified. Their analysis of the galaxy’s political situation — they believe the Emperor has no idea what’s being done to innocent people in his name, lol, lmao — is hopelessly naive. Their Imperial intelligence source is working directly for Imperial intelligence, feeding them information on purpose to further his masters’ ends. They may be modeled after the French Resistance, right down to their berets and big coats and beautiful faux-European native language, but they’re not an outfit any serious rebellion would want to involve itself with.
That’s the diagnosis of Cassian Andor, sent to the persecuted planet of Ghorman by his handler, Luthen Rael, to determine the strength of the local resistance. What he finds is a bunch of alternately idealistic and hot-headed amateurs, led by a wealthy businessman who even now is so accustomed to comfort that he can’t bring himself around to the supremely uncomfortable idea that the most powerful person alive is evil. (That’s a hard pill for people to swallow, you may have noticed.)
Disguised as a fashion designer, Cassian understands their impatience — “It’s hard to be patient when your world is falling apart,” says Enza Rylanz (Alaïs Lawson), daughter of the wealthy Ghorman Front leader Carro Rylanz (Richard Sammel) — but he also understands working with them would be suicide. For this, Carro derides him as “not much of a revolutionary.” Cassian shrugs that this may well be the case. Ideology and idealism are always an uncomfortable mix.
Back on Coruscant, the brains of the operation is anticipating a dangerous potential seizure. Luthen Rael and his lieutentant, Kleya, have used their front as antiques dealers to place a listening device in the private gallery of Chandrilan oligarch Davo Sculdun, father of Mon Mothma’s son-in-law. Having discovered an unrelated forgery in his collection, he intends to have every piece he owns reinspected and reappraised, leading inevitably to the discovery of both the microphone and the listeners on the other end.
Luthen is at his wits’ end. In addition to however many other irons he’s got in the fire across the galaxy, he’s monitoring Cassian’s partner Bix as well, cautioning her against the drug she’s taking to keep her post-traumatic nightmares at bay. He blames Kleya for the Sculdun problem, even though he himself signed off on planting the bug there. The Rebellion is getting too big to be run out of an antiques shop by people who constantly have to pretend to be other people entirely.
Syril Karn is living the life of his dreams. He’s involved in highly classified work for the Imperial Security Bureau, pretending to chafe at the Empire’s yoke while secretly setting up its opponents for a sting. He’s working directly with his girlfriend, Dedra Meero, a relationship he has to keep a secret from everyone including his ghastly mother. In both cases, I can only imagine the thrill leading a double life gives to this man — particularly when one of those double lives involves Dedra in all black, commanding him to turn out the lights because they only have an hour together and they need to get down to business. Oooh-whee. Even though House of Cards creator Beau Willimon wrote this script, it feels like erotic fanfic where these two are concerned, and I mean that as a sincere compliment.
Strange erotic journeys aside, Syril achieves his apotheosis when Major Partagaz, Dedra’s superior, approves of his intelligence gathering and greenlights an action plan based on it. “If I say this is the greatest day of my life,” he says tremulously to Dedra afterwards, unable even to meet her gaze, “would it spoil everything?”
“It’s good to see you happy,” she says in response. Isn’t it nice to see the man you love achieve professional fulfillment by helping your secret plans for genocide? I get the feeling a lot of couples in our country’s immigration enforcement apparatus have a similar arrangement.
Saw Gerrera is a fascinating figure in Star Wars lore. What would make a man too radical to work with the Rebellion, which winds up winning thanks in large part due to the efforts of a trio of religious fanatics (Luke, Obi-Wan, and Yoda) and a separate trio of semi-reformed criminals (Han Solo, Chewbacca, and Lando Calrissian)?
This episode answers that question. It’s not that Saw is violent and willing to kill his nominal allies to maintain operational security — we’ve seen that this is also true of Luthen, Cassian, even Mon Mothma when need be. So when he executes his engineer for treason at point blank range right in front of Wilmon, who’d been training the traitor, it’s more of a shock to Wilmon than it is to us.
No, it’s not Saw’s willingness to get his hands dirty that’s the problem. It’s his enthusiasm for it, his excitement for it, his addiction to it. This last bit is at least partially literal. As Wilmon taps the highly-volatile fuel source called rhydonium for Saw’s organization, the guerrilla leader recounts his origin story. As a child, he was imprisoned and forced to work on a labor camp in a blistering jungle, naked, alongside hundreds of other men. His imprisonment only ended when the rhydo they were tapping leaked, apparently killing everyone but him. Its inviting but toxic and incendiary fumes have remained a source of stimulation and pleasure for him ever since.
“She’s my sister, rhydo,” he tells a dumbfounded Wilmon, “and she loves me. That itch, that burn — you feel how badly she wants to explode? Remember this. Remember this moment. This perfect night. You think I’m crazy? Yes, I am. Revolution is not for the sane.” As Wilmon takes off his breathing mask to take a whiff of the gas, Saw makes his metaphor plain. “We’re the rhydo, kid. We’re the fuel.” Wilmon takes a breath, screams and growls, emerges from the moment born again as one of Saw’s out-of-control killers.
“Let it in,” Saw counsels him. “Let it burn. Let it burn wild.” And that’s where we stand before this week’s chapter comes to a close: lit fuses everywhere, waiting for the explosion to come.
Sean T. Collins (@theseantcollins) writes about TV for Rolling Stone, Vulture, The New York Times, and anyplace that will have him, really. He and his family live on Long Island.
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