Star Wars: A Franchise Awakens

A child of the '70s, I was blown over like a corn stalk in an Iowa tornado by Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. It was action-adventure like no one had ever seen, the perfect blend of action, drama, romance, comedy, and cliff-hanger, with a devil-may-care attitude toward the physics and science of space travel, that appealed to adults and children alike. I remember when the credits rolled, I wanted to scream, "More!" The film set the bar very high for even its own sequel to reach, and how clever was Star Wars creator George Lucas to make it "Episode IV?" Clearly there was more to come! The end of the film laid out all the loose ends for a second film to tie up ...if it was successful....

I heard somewhere along the way that George Lucas intended the Star Wars saga to be three film trilogies and, though I hoped and dreamed they would all be made, never in the wildest of those dreams did I imagine that I would be well into my fifties before the credits rolled on the final film.

Well, that final film is in development, its future set in motion by the release of the first film of the final trilogy a mere ten days before the writing of this review.

In development since the Walt Disney Company acquired Lucasfilm and the Star Wars franchise in 2012, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015) has some big shoes to fill. Not only is it the next film in the series, not only does it pick up with the characters — not to mention the actors — we left behind after Return of the Jedi, but it is the film fans have been waiting thirty-two years to see.

Episode VII starts with the familiar, goose bump-inspiring fanfare and the scrolling text that disappears into the infinite distance over the orchestral theme you'll never forget, and one can't help but fear a return to the days of George Lucas-helmed Episodes I, II, and III and the atmosphere of stories so overloaded with information and so rushed one could be led to believe Lucas had a terminal diagnosis and simply had to get them made as quickly as possible! And let the cavalcade of fuzzy, clownish, computer-animated characters remain unmentioned.

Director J.J. Abrams and co-writers Lawrence Kasdan and Michael Arndt continue to stroke us with the pleasantly familiar, as we see names like Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa (a general, now!) float past into oblivion. But the script leans a little too heavily on the familiar, as we see so many themes reminiscent of the original trilogy that at times this film feels like a rehash. Embers of the defeated Empire, now reconstituted as the First Order, search the galaxy to capture Luke Skywalker ...again. A scene in a cantina, replete with all sorts of shady characters from throughout the universe, and a quirky band ...again. The First Order are still in the planet-destroying business with a bigger, better version of the Death Star ...again. A villain wearing a dark helmet with breathing apparatus and voice enhancement set to "sinister." A battle of minds between father and son.

Thematically, Episode VII is a repeat.

But Abrams and company fill the screen with lavish imaginings of worlds and planets and beings, with enough fresh twists on The Force, new and likable characters, family dysfunction, and a few references to the original trilogy with tongue planted firmly in cheek — to make it watchable and — even better — enjoyable.

Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens has been a hot topic of filmgoers' conversation since Disney announced it was moving forward with the final trilogy. And as the release date neared, the hype grew exponentially, prompting many to ponder if the film could live up to it. For Disney and for Abrams and company, the pressure of meeting that hype pales in comparison to meeting the standards that the Star Wars franchise long ago established for itself. After the damage to the franchise and to fans' enthusiasm for it caused by the reception of Episodes I through III, the climb back up to that standard is formidable.

Does Episode VII meet the hype?

Unfortunately, it doesn't. A generation's worth of buzz and anticipation makes that impossible.

But does it meet the standard?

Yes. Yes it does. Each film in the Star Wars original trilogy triggered a response in its fans beyond and deeper than emotional; a gut feeling. In this film, that gut feeling is there, a muscle memory of the response to the original trilogy that is lacking for Episodes I through III. Despite a reliance on the familiar, "The Force Awakens" successfully resuscitates the Star Wars brand.

Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens — Numb Butt Cheeks® rating of 7.5* — may not inspire you to see it 20-something times like the original film did for many, but you may feel like that kid again, walking out of the theater wondering what could possibly be next for that band of rebels, and wanting to scream, "More!"

("Star Wars The Force Awakens Theatrical Poster" by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Star_Wars_The_Force_Awakens_Theatrical_Poster.jpg#/media/File:Star_Wars_The_Force_Awakens_Theatrical_Poster.jpg)



*The Numb Butt-Cheeks® scale of zero to ten: a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of zero indicates such a disregard for the film that one could get up to go to the bathroom at any point without worry of missing anything exciting or important; a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of ten indicates there is no way one would get up and leave, save for a distinct tearing of bladder tissue.

Suicide Note

I didn't know you. I never will.

The closest I will come to knowing you will have been the distraught — distraught — woman who passed me several times a day all week through the entrance vestibule two floors below the Critical Care Unit to head outside for a smoke. Never was she far from tears — apparently having just shed them, barely hanging on the edge of them, or outright crying as she sped through. All. Week.

Or the parade of teenagers who came to the hospital today, wide-eyed, a little scared not knowing what to expect. And then, by ones and by twos, they stumbled out of the elevators, faces warped by sorrow, such young, fresh, pretty faces twisted in sad grimace.

A middle-aged woman stood in the the lobby, directing traffic, diverting and dividing the stream of adolescents, sending some to the elevators, some to the chairs to wait. I approached her. "Is it a teacher? A student?"

"Their friend," she said. "He was seventeen."

Was.

Until that moment I didn't know for whom your mother cried through the week. One assumes the loss of an elder, a parent or grandparent, withered by age or ravaged by some nefarious disease.

At that moment, I knew you were still alive. I had overheard it this morning; a man spoke about you in hushed tones into his mobile phone. "Yeah. It's over. They're gonna pull the plug today."

Still alive. Yet the middle-aged woman in the lobby said, "Was."

And so word had gone out that today is it: the technology amassed and arrayed around you in that room somewhere two floors above me, the hums and whirs and beeps that had prolonged your existence for much of the week, would be shut off. And the people who made up the stuff of your life, for whom you were the stuff of theirs, came to say good-bye.

A group of teens — your friends — later shuffled outside to the benches where they could talk, blow off some steam, and have a smoke. And cry.

I stepped outside and approached them. I broke a rule. "What happened to your friend?" I asked.

A young lady, perhaps more world-aware than most her age, said, "I really can't tell you that. I--"

"I can!" A young man spoke with a loud voice and a low threshold for a family's privacy. "He tried to hang himself."

"He did hang himself," said another young man, seated a couple of bodies away from the first. "That's why we're--" An aimless, formless gesture of one hand expressed everything he felt for you that his words couldn't.

I made what I hope looked like a sympathetic expression with my face, and I walked away.

Is this what you wanted? Are these the people upon whom you wished to inflict so much pain? Is their agony worth more than yours in trade? Is what any of them did to you — or didn't do for you — worth what you're putting them through, now?

Did you talk to any of them about it? Could you have talked to them? Were you not aware that so many people loved you? That many of them would have shared your burden? That one of them — just one — might have needed your help to get through?

Did you talk about it to an adult, someone who went through all of the same fear, sadness, anger, loneliness, despair, and pain as a teen, and who came out the other side understanding that you get through it! You get over it! It's not bigger than you! If it's not going to kill you on its own, it's not worth dying over.

But, clearly, you believed it was bigger than you. You made this day one that your friends will never forget. You've opened a hole in your mother that will never close.

I shed a brief tear as I bore silent witness to the heartache your final decision has wrought on everyone who loved you. My tear was for them — your friends, your teachers, your mother — because I know the pain of losing a loved one to suicide, and in that moment I knew your friends and your teachers and your mother.

But I didn't know you. I never will.



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Nostalgia: It Ain't What It Used to Be

The good old days weren't always good
And tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems.
--Billy Joel, "Keeping the Faith," An Innocent Man, 1983

We often look back and reflect on "the good old days," a time — or times — in our lives when life was better, smells were sweeter, food was tastier ...whatever. It was better. Unless a life has been nothing but total shit, we all do it; we pine for those days again.

Or do we?

Personally, I don't want to go back. I happen to like my iPhone and my computer and my Blu-Ray player and my TiVO (even though it's been on the fritz for about a year; I need to get that fixed (HAH! Good days to come!)) and cars with reverse assist cameras and selfie-sticks. What I find myself pining for is the feeling of yesterday, because that's what nostalgia really is.

Whenever I think about "the good old days," I remember that, back then, I didn't realize that then was a time I would look back on fondly and miss. Such realization makes me wonder if today is a day, or if autumn, 2015, is a period of my life I'll look back on in 15 years, sighing and smiling.

The passage of time has a way of softening the edges of our memories, shining a golden light on those we cherish, and often sugar-coating the ones we're not so fond to recall. As I think more about the days of yore, I realize that those days weren't any better than any that have passed since. Thirty five years ago our existence was still overshadowed by the Cold War and the lingering threat of nuclear annihilation, but I still got to see all of my friends every day. In the mid-1980s I enlisted in the Air Force and embarked on the adventure of a lifetime, but people bought the Yugo. I pursued a career that lasted 16 years, but its bookends were the deaths of my parents. I got married, but it ended in divorce. I'm in love with a wonderful woman, but Donald Trump.

Times are not good or bad. People fell in love and bore children while war raged. Mothers wept over their lost sons while the nation celebrated victory. Nostalgia isn't rooted in a time of our lives or in an historical era. Nostalgia is rooted in whom we surrounded ourselves with at the time and how they made us feel. And, usually, those times are associated with a period in our lives when we had fewer responsibilities and demands on our attention than we have now. It's easier to enjoy the company of friends when you don't have the insistence of a career or a young family pulling at you. The memories are sweeter when you could cuddle under a blanket with all of the kids and watch a silly movie together than when each teenager's attention is wrapped around a hand-held personal entertainment device plugged into their ears in some remote corner of the house while you sit at the kitchen table and crunch the numbers figuring out how to continue to feed them.

I believe we shouldn't pine for times that were great or special or "better." They weren't. You've lost touch with the people that made your existence then more enjoyable.

Reach out. Find those people. If lines were crossed or bridges were burned, maybe it's time for reconciliation. If it's simply that too much time has gotten between you and those people, maybe they're thinking about those "good old days," too, and a word from you out of the blue would make their day. Or their month.

But don't forget the people around you now. Take stock of them. Appreciate the good feelings you can associate with them, for they are the stuff of tomorrow's memories.



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Magic, Fleeting

I am a morning person. It's not by choice, but by fate; it seems I always have to roll out of bed at oh-dark-thirty to silence a wake-me-up-unwillingly device. Don't get me wrong, though. I do like mornings. The problem is that I also like late nights. The two, it seems, don't get along together too well.

Browsing through some old photos recently, I came across one I took of a group of young men with whom I was in training to be a Security Specialist in the U.S. Air Force. The photo dates to late winter or early spring of 1984 at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, and was taken in the morning, probably a half-hour or so after sunrise. There were many such mornings during the first 18 weeks of my brief Air Force career, but I recall a much different feeling about them then than I have now.


The photo that inspired this post.
Lackland Air Force Base • San Antonio, Texas
winter/spring, 1984 (photo: Tony Gasbarro)

Prior to my time in the Air Force, if I was awake before sunup it was because I had either stayed up all night, or I had been dragged out of my bed by my father for some unwelcome assist for which he insisted upon dragging me out of my bed, after which I most likely leaned my head against the window of his truck on the way to wherever and slept until all the normal people were awake.

When the Air Force insisted that I get out of bed while the surrounding world was still dark, I felt a more urgent need to comply. As the old Army commercials used to say, I found myself doing more before 9:00am than most people did all day. No, seriously, when was the last time you drew an M-16 rifle from an armory and climbed into the back of a two-and-a-half-ton truck and rode to a firing range, hmmm? But there I would be, in the classic, military "hurry up and wait," standing around with other young men drawn from their bunks by their sense of duty — or their fear of military courts-martial — and looking at the eastern sky.

Back then there was something magical about a sunrise; thick, black darkness, the horizon purpling and then brightening, blending to orange, clouds illuminated from below, puffy reds and pinks against rich blue. It was a sight I had rarely seen before as a diurnal sleepyhead. There was a magic in the stillness of the morning, then, that could even drown out the horseplay of those other young men around me. The air never held a sweeter aroma at any other time of the day than it held in the early hours, nor a sweeter sound than the morning birds as they busied themselves with their tasks. I remember often wishing that, somehow, the day could stay like that all the time and never grow bright and hot and difficult.

But as military training carried into regular duty, and surreal twilight carried into responsibility and routine and real life, that sense of magic wore off somewhere. I trudged along in life, returning more or less to the diurnal sleepyhead that I had been before. Circumstances later in life have brought me back to the oh-dark-thirty game, but now — somehow — it seems easier to do without threat of military courts-martial or the wrath of Dad. Do I require less sleep? Is there some subconscious reasoning, informed from many years of routine, that says, Just get up and get going! Lying here won't make it any easier? Has breakfast become that important to me?

Probably due to that same subconscious reasoning, my return to early mornings has not brought along with it the magical morning feeling. Been there - done that, I guess.

I still look to the east, still regard the dazzle of the sunrise firing up the clouds, still hear the birds singing, still notice the stillness... but no magic.

Maybe it's the fade of youth, the slow ebb of testosterone. Maybe, as morning is to the day as spring is to the year, I realize I'm in the autumn of my life.

Maybe.

Maybe I'm just tired of getting up so damned early.



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