Star Crap

I'm not sure why I agreed to go, perhaps because eternally springing hope mingled with nostalgia, but I saw the latest installment in the Star Wars merchandising franchise Saturday night. Now, the people who saw it with me, including my typically discriminating husband, liked it. It wasn't nearly 1/8th as bad as the last two prequels. (Then again, what is? I'd rather sit through an Ed Wood film than that last debacle again.) I wasn't expecting riveting dialogue or fine acting. (Man, it takes a certain void of directorial talent to make Ewan McGregor flat.) I was relieved that none of the characters were explicitly racist or offensive. But I found the action scenes a little, well, lame. The opening sequence completely lacked the surge of adrenaline one should have during a space fight and the little droid parasites gnawing on the ship were ripped right out of The Matrix, but not nearly as cool. And, really George, how many light-saber-wielding arms need to be chopped off in one movie? It was effective and disturbing in Empire Strikes Back but now it's just ludicrous. Oh, so he tied everything together, did he? (Which is what my viewing companions were so excited about afterward.) About bloody time. Did we really need three movies for that?

More interesting, Saturday afternoon the kids next door were playing with toy light sabers. The longevity of marketing is the true act of genius here. We were probably doing the same thing 25 years ago. Only we had to make the sound affects ourselves.