That pretty much says it all, but I feel compelled to go on a bit—because I can’t be the only 40-something that was perfectly happy to put the Star Wars universe on the Nostalgia shelf in late 1983, for occasional future passing perusal. Can I?
There must be a sizable swath of my generation that isn’t interested in these movies (and shows and games and endless seas of merchandise), right? Maybe you’re out there, and like me, have responded to the trilogies and series and everything else by not responding at all? Or maybe—and this is perhaps more likely—you’ve been frightened to voice your dissent because it would be unpopular with friends, family, Twitter followers? I have to admit that I’ve refrained from outright honesty on the topic in the past for that very reason.
It’s not that I care much what people think, though. (That ship sailed two paragraphs ago.) No, for me the root cause of my silence on the subject has been this: that loving Star Wars is some kind of inherent obligation, and that not doing so proves that there’s something wrong with me. Not admitting that I couldn’t care less about these events shielded my psyche from some brand of self-inflicted damage, I guess. It allowed me to feel that much more normal, culturally in tune, true to my place in human time and invention. It let me look people in the eye easier.
Well, screw that.
Were it not for my Twitter usage—and the inescapable Jedi-like power of marketing—I wouldn’t even know the title of the latest Star Wars movie. I haven’t watched the last two or three. I don’t know if Adam Driver plays a young Darth Vader or who the Mandalorian is. (Wasn’t there a character in one of the Matrix movies with the latter’s name?) I’m just not interested. And all the hype then pushes me beyond that passive state into negative emotion: I will not be interested.
I thought Old-ass Yoda was awesome; I don’t need Baby Yoda. I loved the Ewoks and the battle sequences in their forests. The battle sequences on Hoth. X-wing fighters. Princess Leia. Lightsabers. R2D2. The storytelling!
The first movies—they were everything when I was a kid, yes. I loved The Empire Strikes Back most of all. But by the time the next trilogy began, I was already out. Revisiting that world felt unnecessary. Felt opportunistic. Felt like a cash grab. No, it was a cash grab. (An ingenious one, at that.)
How can I say that? I worked at a mega-retailer at that time, and I ran the toy department. After receiving pallets and pallets of movie tie-in goods, I was tasked with replacing entire aisles with Star Wars items. Late at night. Behind yellow caution tape. While dozens of Christmas-morning-faced college-aged dudes (like me) gawked at the filling pegs and shelves with awe. As the clock ticked toward midnight, the crowd grew and the fanboys used their shoulders to gain better viewing positions.
At twelve a.m., I stepped back, pulled away the tape, and the guys fell upon the aisle like lions on a kill. It was incredible. It was ridiculous. It was gross.
It went on for days, weeks. And the ritual was repeated with each toy-segment street-date.
It turned me off. My positive associations with Star Wars shriveled, my fond memories retreated to the darkest corner of the Nostalgia shelf.
Also, those three movies were pretty lame.
Jar Jar Binks was way better as an action figure than a silver-screen reality.
In the years since, I’ve paid less and less attention to the Star Wars machine, while feeling more and more certain that my apathy made me ignorant. I increasingly believed I was missing something, that something necessary was missing from me. I actually lied to people about seeing the movies, about knowing how story elements were tying together. (You likely know who you are. Apologies.)
No more. I’ve finally come to terms with not caring. At the same time, I’ve decided to climb up and reach back to that shadowed part of the shelf and dust off the original positive Star Wars associations, and to share those epic opening strokes with my son. I’m opening that wondrous initial door of imagination to him, letting him decide if it’s cool or not. (Right now, he thinks anything on the television screen is awesome, so it will be a while.)
It’s entirely possible that one day my kid, when he’s no longer a kid at all, will think that I was a strange contrarian indeed for leaving the Star Wars world after Return of the Jedi. And well before then, the majority of the three readers of this piece will agree. Well, I’m fine with that.
To each their own Yoda. It feels good to finally, publicly, readily admit it. Who’s with me?
