MAYRAV SAAR
Register columnist
Just a few precious years ago, our posse gathered at the Big
Newport to see "The Phantom Menace." We were giddy. Darth Maul showed
up with beach balls. Obi Wan stood in line with Storm Troopers. We
didn't camp. We didn't dress up. But we were jazzed that other people
did.
Now, six years later, no one wants to see the new "Star
Wars" film with us. Steve moved to New York. Rick swore he wouldn't go
even if he were in town, which he won't be. Chris and Jean are not into
it. Brill and Eric didn't even return my call. And Lisa B declared that
George Lucas owes her restitution.
Husband is deeply saddened
by what he sees as a serious crack in his sense of self. See, Hubby has
this theory. This theory of a collective unconsciousness defined by
media. Stuff every 30-something read or visually ingested, according to
The Theory, shaped us into a national family the way wars shaped - and
are shaping - the generations around us.
But something's
happened to that family, something to make us question ourselves and
our world of commercial slogans and sitcom theme songs. That something
is George Lucas.
He makes bad films. And it's not just his
films. A man who introduces Jar-Jar Binks to the world is not a good
man. I know I'm going to sound like a flag-burner to my contemporaries,
but Garanimals killed creativity, "Silver Spoons" blew, the Snoopy
SnoCone Machine never worked right, and George Lucas has destroyed our
lives.
How else to explain this phenomenon? Our geek posse has
been together for every Big Geek Movie Event since the re-release of
"Star Wars, Episode IV." We cheered and whooped at Mann's Chinese one
night and then drove to meet friends from across the country at a
theater in Vegas the next. We were there for the opening nights of the
last two "Matrix" films. We got fantastic seats for the first showings
of "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy at the ArcLight.
This is
religion to Hubby. I walked down the aisle to the "Star Wars" theme.
The sounds of Jawas and Jabba still punctuate our speech like cleansing
mantras. But the church is in shambles. And it's George's fault.
"I couldn't be less interested," Rick said.
"Why?"
"Remember the last two movies?"
"Yeah."
"That's why."
I
browbeat Leslie into going, appealing to the USO gal she must have been
in a past life: "Do it for the greater good of the group."
Maura
and JR are going for the same reason. Same with Jeff and Heather.
Kevin's going, but I think that's only because we promised that after
the movie, we'd all get pie.
Lisa B, however, remains unmoved.
"
'Star Wars' kinda ruined the joy of the geek posse for me," she IM'd.
"I want to walk out and be like, 'HOLYCOWOHMYGOD! YOU KNOW THAT PART
WHEN THE GUY IS FLYING AND THEN THE OTHER GUY IS FLYING AND THEN THEY
TOTALLY KICK EACH OTHERS' BUTTS WITH LIGHT SABERS? I LOVED THAT
PART!!!!' "
"Yeah, but"
"So when you walk out and go, 'Oh well, at least there's pie,' that kinda sucks."
She's right, which does little to console Hubby.
This
is the last "Star Wars" film. That's it. The end of our glimmering,
shimmering, feathered-haired youth. There's no Second Chance. No "Star
Wars: Episode III 1/2: Attack of the Revenge of the Return of the Hope."
We're
waking up to adulthood, eyes stinging, the dry sand of Tatooine in our
throats. There are people camped outside Mann's Chinese Theater out of
habit. The film isn't showing there. When we started getting into
R-rated movies, we had no idea we'd have to give up our PG dreams.
I'm
trying not to lose hope. Maybe the film will totally rock. Maybe it'll
restore our faith in Hubby's theory. Or maybe, just maybe, someone else
will come along to mine our collective unconscious for another gem.
The other night, Hubby called me after a press screening of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."
"How was it?"
"Awesome," he said. "You're gonna love it."
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