Ryan Williamson explains how to murder an icon in seven episodes:
Let’s start with what made Boba Fett legendary in the first place. In The Empire Strikes Back, he appears in maybe ten minutes of screen time, speaks perhaps twenty words, and yet became one of the most beloved characters in the entire saga. How? Because those ten minutes were perfect.
Fett didn’t need exposition. He didn’t need backstory. He didn’t need to explain his motivations or philosophy of leadership. He was pure, distilled competence wrapped in battered armor. When Vader warns him “no disintegrations,” we immediately understand this isn’t a man who asks polite questions. When he tracks the Millennium Falcon to Cloud City while Imperial Star Destroyers fail, we see tactical brilliance in action. When he goes toe-to-toe with Luke Skywalker and nearly wins, we witness lethal skill.
Most importantly, he was economical. Every movement deliberate. Every word weighted. “He’s no good to me dead” tells you everything about his priorities, professionalism, and pragmatic worldview in six syllables. That’s masterful character work.
The mystique was everything. Fett represented the dangerous unknown—a wild card who operated by his own rules in a galaxy dominated by the Empire and Rebellion’s grand ideologies. He was the shark in the water, glimpsed but never fully revealed.
The Book of Boba Fett took that mystique and fed it through a wood chipper. Then set the wood chipper on fire. Then tossed the whole mess into deep space with a trebuchet.
Gone was the economical dialogue, replaced by endless speeches about ruling “with respect” instead of fear. Gone was the aura of quiet menace, replaced by a surprisingly chatty crime boss who felt compelled to explain his every decision. Gone was the tactical brilliance, replaced by a leader who seemed perpetually surprised by obvious betrayals and threats.
Most damaging of all, Disney made him safe. The man who once disintegrated people without hesitation became someone who agonized over moral choices. The predator became prey, constantly reacting to threats instead of eliminating them. The professional became an amateur, learning on the job how to run a criminal organization.
This wasn’t character development—it was character assassination.
Categorical errors all around: Star Wars is what George Lucas made: nothing more, and nothing less.