I was so disappointed in the Episode I of the Star Wars prequels that I ended up watching Episode II on my belly, remarking about how sad it was that my joy for such things had come to an end. Well, if you live long enough, everything gets reversed, leading to a rousing view of Return of the Sith tonight at a packed moviehouse in Brooklyn.
The theaters at the Pavilion at Prospect Park have definitely cleaned up their act since I saw that shitty Chris Rock-Anthony Hopkins nuke disaster movie there three years ago; for one, your shoes don’t stick to the floor anymore. I do miss the local clientele screaming at the screen, however, the loss of which is one of gentrification’s perils.
There is nobody better with whom to see a “Star Wars” movie than Lindsay Bowen. I happen to know he read a few of the Star Wars novels back in the day (even though he tried to deny it) and he most likely obsessed over the miniature Millennium Falcon as much as my brother Sean did. He might have even dressed up as Boba Fett at some point in his childhood, you never know.
There are plenty of sites that discuss the movie’s strong points, failings and total lapses in continuity, but I found myself not really caring. I dig on generational brotherhoods, I suppose, enough to just enjoy being in the theater experiencing this work of pop culture along with everyone else who had tried to move their fake light sabers with their minds when young. I don’t really care that it might have been sub-par, or even that Obi-Wan Kenobi sure ages badly between Episode III and the original Star Wars. I’m there for the collective pop unconscious, dude.
I love it when the whole country gets together to watch something with each other. Television occasionally offers this kind of brotherhood, but it’s still an onanistic act – the theater is the last place where Jung’s spiritus mundi is still intact. It reminds me of the day when states were neither red nor blue.
Or maybe it’s the migraine medication I was taking. Fuck, man, I was high as a kite in there.