I can't watch Return of the Jedi anymore without weeping.
It's part of my encroaching early senility, and arguably my modelling myself on celebrity tearbaby, John Peel. I assumed the last couple of years that it was directly connected with the death of my father, that Darth Vader's redemption neatly fitted some inchoate idea of my Dad twinkling up there in the afterlife, watching over me while bonfires burn and furry little Ewoks gad about.
When I first saw Hayden Christensen's face crop up at the end, I was fucking furious. All the Jars Jars, all the clumsy dialogue, all the supermiposed creatures licking pieces of sand or bugs or whatever were as nothing compared to that crime, that re-writing of my own personal mythology.
It was on again today, a dark November evening with Xmas lights winking against the dying of the light; and it was tonight that the real power of the movie became apparent, underscored by John Williams' relentless music. I had underestimated the dark side of the force. Pain, suffering, redemption. A lot of adult feelings rummaging around in the undergrowth. Being the good guy really hurts. Scary stuff.
A few years ago a group of us mapped out which characters we would be in the Star Wars galaxy. I got Chewbacca. Moany, hairy and lank; I think that was the idea. Johnny was Luke. Ringo was Lando Calrissian. Benwise was Obi-Wan. Polish Dan had the odious distinction of being Jar Jar Binks. Gasher Denton was Admiral Ackbar. The tricky posts to fill remain Han Solo and Leia - we never really agreed on them. There is simply no-one cool enough to play a space carpenter that smuggles a bit on the side for shits and giggles. And everybody wants to be the pissing princess, eh? The principrix of the pissers.
Should I be so eager to feed my little nephew's love of the Lucas?
Your pal, Coc x
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