Editorial: A Clone Too Far

Let me tell you a story about my first love.

It was June 4th, 1977. That Saturday, like most summer days in St. Louis, steamed under a blanket of oppressive humidity. Polyester leisure suits gave way to polyester tank tops, while feathered Farrah Fawcett hairstyles wilted in the unrelenting airlessness. Trans Ams shimmied on the blacktop like mirages. Not even the cruel climate could have ruined my day that Saturday. Freshly released from fourth grade, I bounced happily in the backseat of our white '73 Caprice (which I called the Mach Five) and unconcerned about the lack of luxuries like air conditioning and decent stereo sound. Even my little sister Debbie's presence, which would normally produce an effect similar to waving a red flag in front of a bull, could not diminish my enthusiasm in the slightest. We pulled into the Carol House furniture store parking lot around 1pm. I knew we only had two hours until the show started, and every other pursuit in life seemed to be a pointless distraction from the truly important quest in life - seeing this movie. I tugged and twisted on my mother's arm, begging her to hurry my father through the mattresses as quickly as possible. He stared vacantly at the wide assortment, as if his gaze might somehow alter the price. Then came the inevitable haggling session with the clueless sales clerk, which ended as it always did - with a stern and determined walkout. PERFECT! We finally arrived at Creve Coeur Cinema with little time to spare. We whisked past the long lines at the ticket window like celebrities, having already secured our seats in advance; news reports were showing round-the-block lines waiting for this new cinematic experience. After going through the concession stand, I plopped down into my seat with my large Coke and waited breathlessly. And then it happened. "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away" appeared in blue letters. A crash of trumpets. The title STAR WARS receding into a field of stars. Three paragraphs about a rebel alliance crawled into infinity. A planet with a lonely moon. And then, a little spaceship races away, while being pursued and fired upon by the most incredibly monstrous spaceship ever seen.

My mom describes my reaction this way:

"His mouth dropped open. He crawled to the edge of the seat, put the soda down, and sat there motionless the rest of the movie."

And so it was that STAR WARS entered my life and altered it forever. I was not alone that summer. By the end of 1977, everyone had STAR WARS fever. We collected and traded the bubblegum cards (the blue series will always be the best), played Meco's ridiculous disco version constantly, and acted out our own STAR WARS mini-dramas in the backyard. The following year was even better, as STAR WARS toys flooded a dehydrated market. My basement floor became a STAR WARS museum, cluttered with little plastic figures and replicas of landspeeders and the Millenium Falcon. My imagination ignited, I ravenously followed the development of the next movie in Starlog and Fantastic Films magazines. We saw THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK on opening weekend in the best theater in town, which was adorned with a gigantic poster of Darth Vader's imposing mask. We were enthralled by the second chapter, and positively stunned at Vader's revelation near the end. His FATHER? Could that be possible??

Recesses on the playground became fiery sessions of debate. Notebooks meant for notetaking instead became sketchbooks of spaceship design. We even conducted contests in which each participant had to write their version of the third chapter in the STAR WARS saga. By the time RETURN OF THE JEDI arrived, I had developed pubic hair and a slight distraction with masturbation, but my love of STAR WARS remained strong. That opening weekend saw us together in the theater to witness the final chapter, and the answers to questions that had plagued us for three long years. But something peculiar happened during that screening. Whiz-bang energy and inventiveness had seemingly disappeared, replaced by yet another Death Star and yet another rebel attack on it. Rubber puppets, used to great effect in the previous films, now looked palpably Muppet-like. Harrison Ford looked like he wanted to crawl under a bush and go to sleep. The Ewoks had zippers. Still, Darth Vader's last-minute rescue of Luke from the grip of the Emperor, accompanied by John Williams' choral power, sent chills through my spine. I left the theater that afternoon satisfied, X-wings rocketing fireworks in the sky and the sounds of "Yub Yub" chanting in my head. With that movie, my childhood ended and I went on with the process of becoming a man. Over the following years, I kept track of the little STAR WARS information that leaked out from Lucasfilm. My STAR WARS card collection gathered dust as it moved farther and farther into the recesses of my closet. My plastic figurine carrying case became a resting stop for my baseball cleats, and then later, my work shoes. Over the years, my growing circle of friends and girlfriends led me in new cinematic directions, often in movies with a much harder edge than the beloved saga of my youth. Then came the mid-nineties announcement of a prequel trilogy to the original STAR WARS films. My heart, hungry for the exuberance of the original films, leaped with joy. By this point, I was actively involved with the young kids in my church, all of whom were new-generation STAR WARS fans. I took them to the 1997 theatrical re-releases of the films, which allowed them to truly appreciate the widescreen mastery missing from their worn-out VHS copies and television viewings. The first trailer blew me away. There was the familiar Force Theme, giving way to the classic trumpet blast from so long ago. But instead of Luke, Han, and Leia, the trailer exploded with a kaleidoscope of unbridled imagination. My friends and I watched it repeatedly, asking each other in amazement: "Did George Lucas really pull this off??"

As I sat in the theater at midnight on May 23rd of 1999, I felt an anticipation similar to the adrenaline-fueled rush back in 1977. I couldn't believe I was about to rejoin the galaxy far, far away that had entranced me so many years ago. And then it began. The same blue letters. The same blast of trumpets. The same title receding into a field of stars. And then, numbness. The crawl talked of trade disputes and blockades. Everything seemed glossy and not-quite real. The Niemoidians looked like puppets and talked like lobotomized idiots. Jar Jar stepped in shit. Creatures farted. My inner child went sadly back to sleep. I left the theater quietly. I reassured myself that George Lucas was trying to make movie for today's children, much like the original trilogy had been for me. I tried to distract myself by marveling at the special effects and the effectiveness of Darth Maul. Still, I couldn't shake the undeniable feeling that Lucas went back to make these films simply to milk the trilogy for more money. I threw my Taco Bell collector's cup in the trash on the way to my car.

The following years brought two more films in the prequel trilogy. Each one teased us with galvanizing images in well-cut trailers, only to deliver torpid, uninspired dialogue and recycled situations. The films became a collection of oppressive CGI, ridiculous soap-opera melodrama, and coincidental character cameos from a constantly-shrinking galaxy far, far away. While Lucas insisted that these films were for children - and not the generation that initially supported STAR WARS - I knew in my heart that the original films were not stupefyingly dull and immature affairs. The original films had life and vision and drama at their core, powered by respectable performances and fueled by thematic cohesion. By contrast, the new films felt lifeless and silly, lacking the charm and imagination that inspired a generation so long ago. When the rushed, tie-up-loose-ends finale of REVENGE OF THE SITH arrived, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The entire story was finished. In the months leading up to the premiere of SITH, Lucas told every newspaper on earth that he was gratefully leaving STAR WARS behind to pursue art films. I gladly welcomed this news, as I had, in my adult years, learned to appreciate Lucas' pre-STAR WARS films like THX-1138. I couldn't wait to see him move on, and use his vast wealth and resources to create something new, visionary, and unique. And then came STAR WARS: The Television Show. With the release of the trailer for STAR WARS: THE CLONE WARS this month, fans have gathered anew in anticipation for this upcoming film and television show. The all-CGI production, which finally frees Lucas from the dreaded director's chair, revisits the prequel trilogy in the time period between ATTACK OF THE CLONES and REVENGE OF THE SITH. In other words, the time period of least interest to fans of the series. But not me. I've had enough. I refuse to give Lucas another dime of my money. Like a crack addict begging in the street, Lucas continues to panhandle his STAR WARS wares in a curiously obvious attempt to pad his already obscene bank account balance. Instead of flexing his creative powers, Lucas has returned to the nest of commercial viability, afraid to fly into the open skies of the unknown. I will not support this anymore. George, you can repackage the trilogy any way you want; you can release Blu-Ray versions of the movies containing lockets of Natalie Portman's pubic hair, and I still won't buy it. You can create ten television seasons of Yoda's lost years on Dagobah, and I won't watch it. You can offer an all-expenses paid shuttle trip to Coruscant and I wouldn't even give it a second glance. I don't want your movie tie-ins, George. I don't want your merchandise, your movies, or your madness anymore. Like a lover who has long overstayed their welcome, the STAR WARS universe has devolved into an object of scorn and ridicule. Gone is the magic. Gone is the inspiration. Gone is the love. Goodbye, STAR WARS. It was fun while it lasted.