Coming out of Star Trek Into Unnecessary Reveals, a slow rolling realization swept over me. J.J. Abrams wasn’t unquestionably awesome. In fact, he was becoming the master of Smug, Self-Satisfaction courtesy of Contrived, Forced Mysteries. Don’t get me wrong. He can get great performances out of folks. He can cut a mean set piece. However, there are other concerns. As I sat stewing, wanting to chop him and the entirety of the Bad Plotting team in the fucking neck, I began to get concerned. You see, this is the ass clown who is the official steward of The Franchise.

I was concerned.

After much ruminations on the topic – involving Divinations courtesy of Blood Letting, Tin Foil Hats, and countless conversations with our own Eduardo Pluto – I’ve come to a conclusion. Abrams ain’t right for Star Wars. Or, at the very least he isn’t the Glory Be Messiah that I (I will take culpability for jizzing all over his initial announcement) originally ordained him to be. Here’s the deal: Abrams could knock it out of the park. Episode VII could rule. I’m allowing for that possibility. But this OV is dedicated to the delineation of my various anxieties involving Captain Lens Flare and Self Back-Patting.

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