It’s now after midnight. Along the East Coast of the U.S., audiences are watching the premiere of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. I’m eager to see the new film myself, of course.
I’ve experienced this particular state of mind — Star Wars Premiere Anticipation, you might call it — before. But this is the last time. Never again will I see a Star Wars film that I haven’t seen before.
I tried to describe the experience six years ago, in an essay written the day Episode I: The Phantom Menace premiered. I didn’t have a blog back then, but if I had, that essay surely would have appeared in it. Well, it’s relevant today, so I’m posting it now. Here it is.
May 19, 1999
3:01 p.m.
An Associated Press article (posted to the Web at 5:00 a.m.) describes the reactions of fans exiting a midnight showing of the new Star Wars movie: They love it. Typical comments included “Excellent!”, “Fantastic!” and “The best of the bunch!” This is remarkable in view of the generally lukewarm reception that Phantom Menace has received from film critics, who complain that it lacks character development and human relationships.
I think I know what’s going on. It dawned on me as I was discussing the upcoming premiere with Ruth, who turns 13 in a couple of weeks. “You may have been waiting for this movie for 16 years,” she said, “but I’ve been waiting my entire life for it.” She has a point. Ruth has never had the experience of going into a theater and seeing a new Star Wars movie. I’ve done that three times, so what right do I have to complain about how many years have gone by since I did it last?
In some ways, though, 16 years is a lifetime. When I walk into the theater tonight, I’ll be doing so as a 39-year-old husband and father of two. The last time I did this, I was 23, newly graduated from college, and not yet married. To say that I’m a different person now is putting it mildly. It’s not just the years, as Indiana Jones said; it’s the mileage. After all that I’ve been, done, and seen in the last decade and a half, I doubt that I have much in common with the person I was at age 23. Certainly my views and tastes have changed a great deal since then.
So, should I be worried that I’ll react the way the critics did? Will I find that the sort of movie that thrilled and captivated me in my youth come across today as a shallow, superficial collection of special effects? Instead of leaving the theater with stars in my eyes, will I do it with a scowl of disappointment?
I don’t think so. Some things defy time, and Star Wars is one of them. It’s true that I’m a decade or two older than the kids who’ve been camping in line for the last month, and they’re the ones who are raving about this film. But think about what that means! These kids were raised on Terminator 2, Jurassic Park, and Titanic. They take cutting-edge visual effects for granted, and it takes more than that to impress them. Yet they love Star Wars, a movie made over twenty years ago. They loved it even before George Lucas refurbished it and rereleased it two years ago. How many other science fiction films from the 1970s get that kind of response from today’s teens and twentysomethings? These movies are timeless.
I learned that in 1997, when I saw Star Wars: The Special Edition. As the theater lights dimmed and the words “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .” appeared on the screen, the years melted away and, for two glorious hours, I was 17 again.
That’s where the reviewers went wrong: they went into the theater as film critics, ready to analyze The Phantom Menace and measure it against the standards by which all films are judged. This is their job — but Star Wars films defy that sort of analysis. Roger Ebert understands this. “Call me a hopeless innocent,” he writes, “but I don’t go to a Star Wars movie to see human relationships, not even when they involve aliens and androids. I go to see amazing sights, real big and loud, one after another.” One cannot experience the Star Wars universe as an adult. You have to leave your maturity, your wisdom born of experience, your jaded cynicism at the door, and become a wide-eyed child again.
And I know that’s what will happen to me tonight, as those house lights dim. The middle-aged technical writer with the receding hairline will quietly fade away . . . and for 133 minutes, his inner child will come out and play.