Andor is Mostly Terrible…Until you Rewatch it!
When a Show Becomes Great, and No One is There to Watch It
Andor is something completely and perplexingly different. Despite clearly demonstrating a quality far superior to anything Star Wars has had since the OT (at the least), the way it is constructed made most viewers check out early.
Although one could identify early on the occasional excellent scene, a few perfect characters, and even some of the best dialogue on television, Andor lacked a strong anchor, clear motivations, and a flow of intersecting plot points. In short, despite possessing unmistakable quality, it failed to actually be good…until, quite out of the blue, it became great. And the way it ended changed not only the entire series but also its “sequel,” the feature film Rogue One. But there was barely anyone left to see it.
The Disney+ prequel series nobody asked for, about a protagonist nobody cared about, that was panned so unanimously for how boring it is, most viewers gave up after only a few episodes, Andor flopped like a Mon Calamari* (however difficult it is to assess viewership and monetization of streaming, no one can maintain it was a financially sound investment, with an astounding $60 million budget). But then it got good. Not to say it became flawless by any means. Out of 12 episodes, three episodes introduced an incredible story arc, a jaw-dropping feat considering how things were going up until then, but the rest were mostly still weak, with an exception here and there.
Then, after much delay, came the second and final season. Excitement wasn’t high. Most people never made it to the seventh episode of season 1, when the first signs of greatness finally grace the few martyred viewers with their presence (of which the creators have only themselves to blame [at least they were original enough not to make excuses, or blame it on the racisisms]). The rest of us were cautiously awaiting trusted reviewers who were more optimistic than we were (or just did it for work).
The reviews coming in were not encouraging either. The perception was of bizarre choices and a lack of story development. The cultural impact lasted less than a week and referred to the least interesting “controversy” in storytelling history.**
Episode six came and went with the same effect. But then, somehow, some people made it all the way to episode seven, and to everyone’s complete disbelief, Andor was declared… masterful.
Some were so curious, they restarted the tedious lug through the episodes again. Most were done with it. Seriously, who makes a show you need to get through six boring episodes for it to deliver?!
And there is definitely an argument to be made that no matter how great you stick the landing, it doesn’t make up for the preceding snoozefest. It’s not even an acceptable argument that boring as hell is at least better than slop. What is undeniable is that the culminating episodes of season 2 are epic television.
And for those of us who refused to accept the meh of The Mandalorian Season 1, not to even mention the rest of the garbage heap of Disney+ era Star Wars projects, this is what Star Wars on television has undeniably proven itself to be.
Not excusing any of the shit in Andor — of which there is plenty — where things become remarkable is upon the rewatch. Now, at the very end, nearly nine years after his introduction to the Star Wars universe, we are finally invested in the character of Cassian Andor.
Why Andor is so Hard to Get into
Inconsistent Pacing: 3-Episode Story Format
The show is built of (semi) standalone stories spanning three episodes. But they are set up in a way that the first and second episodes in the sequence always end abruptly, unceremoniously, and without a cliffhanger or even a story beat that brings poetic closure. It leaves you with nothing to look forward to.
Time Jumps
Season 1’s time jumps are minor, but in Season 2, entire years pass between B-plot arcs. It disrupts the story’s momentum — we haven’t spent enough time with the characters to stay invested. Then it happens again. And again. Each time, the show asks us to reinvest in new storylines, some of which, and some of whom, don’t make it easy.
More than anything, the time jumps kill momentum. The more the continuity slips, the harder it is to stay invested, and the faster the story starts to feel boring.
Delaying and Forestalling Payoff
The show leans heavily on slow-burn tension and atmospheric worldbuilding, particularly in its first half, but fails to maintain a rhythm that rewards an average human being’s patience. Entire episodes passed with minimal narrative and character advancement, making the plot feel stilted and stalled. Subplots took too long to intersect with the main arc. Viewers’ experience was frustratingly unimmersive.
The show failed to capitalise on episode-to-episode momentum. This was odd, given its weekly release schedule. Most episodes ended without a hook or satisfying conclusion, making rewatch value minimal.
For normies or even fans expecting, even subconsciously, Star Wars-level action and spectacle (which Rogue One did supply), this pacing created a sense of disorientation.
Only when consumed as a complete arc do those episodes fully resonate, and that trend continues throughout the show.
The issue wasn’t a lack of events, though it often felt that way, but that payoff was delayed too long, and the buildup didn’t feel worth it on first viewing.
For a series that ultimately delivers some of the franchise’s most nuanced storytelling, its inconsistent pacing made it hard to hold the attention of anyone not already inclined to trust the slow burn, especially at a tempo the audience isn’t used to.
Character Quality Inconsistency
The show features a wildly inconsistent ensemble. Some characters are compelling from start to finish (Luthen), others become interesting as their arcs unfold (Syril), and a few are so singularly strange it takes time to get a read on them (Dedra). Some, like Partagaz, are so well-written and performed that you can hear the actor savour every line like filet mignon. Then some characters start off fine but spiral into dullness (Vel), or remain mostly insufferable despite flashes of great dialogue (Mon). And a few — like Bix — are just a wet blanket for most of the show, with only rare moments of exception, likely limited by the actor’s range.
These characters’ stories intersect, sometimes in interesting and complex ways, and sometimes not so interesting at all.
It would have benefited the more important characters and relationships if some of the less important ones had, to be charitable, less screen time. Sometimes a lot less.
With big ensembles, it can be very hard to know what to focus on. If you can’t subliminally tell what is important to the plot, you can miss key pieces, and what is virtually insignificant can become foreground.
Too Many Locations
In sprawling fantasy worlds like the Galaxy Far, Far Away, it’s essential to orient the audience to various locations, especially when they aren’t visually distinct, and especially when the story keeps cutting between too many of them too quickly. Without time to let each setting register, things get confusing. Or worse, the viewer mentally checks out and misses key plot points.
Ferrix, Aldhani, Coruscant, Kenari, Narkina 5, Niamos, Chandrilla, Mina Rau, Yavin 4, Ghorman… that’s a lot to juggle. You can have a sprawling geography, but it takes precision to avoid narrative whiplash.
That challenge is compounded by the inconsistent quality of worldbuilding. You can’t have something as seamlessly immersive as Ghorman’s language — on par with Milly Alcock and Matt Smith’s High Valyrian exchanges in House of the Dragon — existing in the same universe where Coruscanti elites butcher Old Chandrilan in ceremonial scenes like they skipped rehearsal entirely. Or where the children of Kenari speak a language that’s clearly more foreign to the actors than foraging is to their characters. (Seriously, it’s hard to buy these marooned children as having survived this long, given the lack of actual survival skills and common sense exhibited.)
Too Many Factions
A political spy thriller with multiple factions demands time and investment to track. If each group is compelling and distinct enough (Game of Thrones, the good seasons), you can pull it off. Usually after a few rewatches, once your brain catches up. But rewatches only happen when you want more out of something, not when you’re trying to be bored twice.
Even when the factions are distinct — which they are in Andor — it’s still a lot to track, and it dilutes the audience’s focus. There’s real value in the show’s choice to break rebel groups and Imperial figures into layered, individualised pieces rather than treating them as monoliths. It adds complexity, but it also demands a level of attention Star Wars has never really asked for. And audiences won’t wait around forever for that kind of investment to pay off.
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That doesn’t mean you need massive space battles, rainbow lightsabers, or legacy characters shoved. Recent Star Wars has made it painfully clear that none of those things guarantee viewership either. What we need is to understand the dynamics early on. It’s not a thing that can survive a slow burn readily. We need to understand desires, conflicts, and the meaning of choices to care. If it is too convoluted or too hidden, we have no reason to care.
All these factors risk dilution.
Andor doesn’t clearly signal where the audience should focus, and it’s not consistently gripping enough to hold attention. Its staunchest defenders praise its intelligence and refusal to spoon-feed the audience. But while you don’t have to handhold viewers, if you bore them half to death, don’t expect them to suddenly care when something important finally happens. This isn’t neuroscience.
Andor tells a story in a way no one’s ever done before — because that’s not how stories are supposed to be told!
Why a Rewatch Makes It Better
At first watch, many arcs feel meandering, minor, or unnecessary. By the end, much of that can be seen as a careful setup. But only after those arcs conclude. That’s a lot to ask of viewers. However, if you deliver in the end (which Andor does, to its credit), you might win them back — one of streaming’s few perks, since shows remain available and can build hype post-airing.
No one can be blamed for not making it far or lacking the incentive to return. But the fact remains: if you make it to the epic finale and then watch the whole thing again, you risk becoming fully Andor-pilled. The show you couldn’t get through the first time suddenly feels masterful, addictive, and on par with the top prestige shows of HBO. (Something I never thought I’d say about a Disney+ Star Wars show.)
Heroism
Andor avoids big heroic climaxes and satisfying victories until the very end. The restraint of payoffs makes them land in an incredibly impactful way if you can be patient enough. (We can’t). But on a rewatch, those moments feel front-loaded, since the fear of losing hope for payoff is gone.
Cassian
When we first meet Cassian Andor, whether in Rogue One or in Andor season 1, he is an intentionally vague character (with one facial expression). Not a purposeful archetype that inherently resists depth and complexity, like most characters in the Star Wars Universe up to that point (which also describes the characters in Rogue One), but a spy, a shadow, a person who keeps his intentions and motivations as quiet as possible. A scavenger, a fencer, and a thief, he is highly suspicious of others, borrows money with no intent to pay back, and is basically ready to leave any relationship in the lurch to go on the run at any moment. He is more blunt than charming, ballsy but not charismatic. He is competent and resourceful, yet ultimately, in the story, he serves a functional purpose, but not an emotional one.
His bravery and leadership emerge much later, revealed gradually through his sharp situational and environmental awareness and his knack for strategy, especially when contrasted with the more chaotic ranks of the rebellion.
And eventually — despite the lingering sense that Diego Luna’s performance feels underwhelming — his embodiment of the character quietly settles in. The way he plays off the rest of the cast, and they with him, builds gradually until it just clicks. Suddenly, you can’t imagine, and wouldn’t want, anyone else as a lead character in a Star Wars spinoff series about the rebel spies.
In stark contrast to early impressions, which linger for quite a while, Andor ultimately delivers one of the most complete and fully realised character arcs in Star Wars.
When we meet him again in Andor Season 1, he’s not a rebel. He’s a man trying to survive, keeping a low profile and calling it freedom. He doesn’t want to get involved, let alone sacrifice. He just wants to get by, to fly under the radar. Like most people, just with a little more hustle and a bit more con. In his mind, the best outcome is to keep being ignored.
The writing actively resists letting the audience form an emotional connection with him, a risky move for a protagonist (assuming you want the audience to have one at all).
Despite the inciting incident, he resists responsibility, barring advocating for his own survival.
Cassian’s decision to actively engage is a reluctant one, forged through personal loss and the hard truth that you can’t outrun the Empire. Sooner or later, everyone you care about gets hurt unless you choose to act. Even then, the odds aren’t good. But they might be slightly better than zero.
At a certain point, Cassian’s transformation gains so much momentum that he begins risking everything — again and again — on unsanctioned missions few others believe in, with almost no support, simply because it has to be done. It reframes the choice he ultimately makes in Rogue One, to back Jyn Erso on their doomed mission to retrieve the Death Star plans from Scarif, as not just believable, but earned — arguably the most courageous and meaningful decision in Star Wars history, rivalled only by Luke throwing down his lightsaber in Return of the Jedi.
Cassian, reframed in the light of two seasons of Andor, becomes a compelling character.
Dynamics that Only Make Sense in Retrospect: Kleya and Luthen
But Andor doesn’t just fool us once, as it does with Cassian. Another character who remains overlooked — or at least enigmatic — right up to the show’s climax is Luthen’s assistant (Protégé? Partner in crime?), Kleya.
The show thrives on vagueness and compartmentalisation — fitting traits that mirror the earned paranoia and sacrifice demanded by the rebellion’s secrecy. But the downside is that, at times, deciphering the dynamics and character interactions becomes nearly impossible.
Kleya is clearly a capable and serious operative. But unlike Luthen — whom we meet in his raw, recruiting self before he dons the flamboyant antique dealer persona — we almost exclusively see Kleya in her “costume.” Even when she momentarily “breaks character,” we learn nothing personal about her. She exists either as the polite assistant or the hyper-disciplined handler.
This makes her actual dynamic with Luthen especially unclear to viewers on the first viewing. Sometimes she follows orders without question; other times, she scolds him with an assertiveness reminiscent of the recent wave of “girlboss” archetypes (particularly from the studio in question). For some viewers, this sets off an immediate Spidey Sense of insufferability. Her performance can come across as wooden and mechanical, and what should read as discipline is instead perceived as emotional coldness. The result? Disengagement.
It is only at the very end of the show that we get her and Luthen’s backstory in conjunction with getting to see her in action; reframing not only Luthen and Kleya’s relationship but transforming Kleya into one of the most compelling characters in the show (of which there is fierce competition).
The Art of Boredom: Timely Payoff
Even today, when sustained attention feels like a luxury, there’s still room for slow pace, slow burns, pauses, and silences — not for everyone, not all the time, but enough of us remain (otherwise Oppenheimer and Godzilla: Minus One wouldn’t have succeeded). The catch? You have to pay off that patience. Wait too long, and people won’t stick around. You can’t open a second season with two slow arcs back-to-back and expect viewers to endure until a sudden payoff. People have lives. And let’s be real — most don’t watch Andor for cheap laser gun fights. It’s not a lack of audience for smart, intriguing political dramas.
Parting Words
Even at its best, some flaws in Andor loom so large that it was never going to be perfect. But when it excels, it is undeniable.
Yes, Andor could — and should — have been tighter and shorter, with less fluff diluting the story. But it delivers what Rogue One couldn’t, adding a layer of worldbuilding the mythical Star Wars never achieved. Gritty, intimate, and more realistic, it shifts genres from space fantasy to political sci-fi dystopian thriller, all while leading back to the heart of Star Wars — the Skywalker saga — without trying to trash or rewrite it. It may have bored some viewers into jumping ship, but it never disrespected its audience.
*Admiral Achbar’s species
**Does a rape attempt by a corrupt officer of the (Evil) Galactic Empire have a place in a world that depicts massive child murder?! Controversial indeed. Astonishingly, this would end up being far from the stupidest take.
***A fault, I find, must always be distributed across the director and casting director as well as the actor themselves
Appendix
Andor touts the best droids in Star Wars: K-2(S0), a perfect buddy comedy sidekick, and B2(EMO), who is functionally a dog. The first genuinely amusing, adding much-needed levity, and the second adding some much-needed charm. Andor has also employed the most important strategy for successful Star Wars droids: use them sparingly (also, it can be good to let them do some murder.
They will never become iconic as R2 and 3PO, just as no character in Andor will have a cultural imprint a tenth of a percent of even Lando Calrissian, Admiral Ackbar, or OT Boba Fett. Such is the difference between a myth and the grunts who did the heavy lifting. But that is the whole point! The characters in Andor don’t need to be iconic. They don’t need to be remembered or celebrated. They are not the faces of merchandise. Their stories are not economically viable. But they are truly heroic. Something a lot messier and uglier than the more sanitised world of Star Wars wanted to remind us. Pop Culture is richer by having both.
