Star Wars
Episode IV: A New Hope
(1977)
(SPOILERS) Or plain old Star Wars, as it used to be, long ago. What’s there left to say about this defining picture? Well, it bears emphasising that, for all the deserved flak George Lucas has received since, and especially considering the stresses and strains afflicting him during its making, it’s an astonishingly complete piece of world building.
All the more so as Lucas isn’t a flashy
visualist in the mode of many of his wunderkind peers. His shooting style is
classical, and his most notable affectations (such as screen wipes) derive from
‘30s serials. Yet through combining a sober method with technological
innovation in such an astute manner, Star
Wars Episode IV: New Hope (or plain old Star
Wars) arrived both entirely familiar and entirely fresh, an instant mass-consciousness-capturing
fantasy epic (he would take the same tack 30 years later, and stumble). While Lucas
is ably supported by leagues of designers, effects artists, costumiers, model
and monster makers, and, perhaps most significantly, actors who can say this
shit, the creative vision is entirely his. It may seem that he abdicated
responsibility by making such a pig’s ear of the prequels (such that people
look to other participants for why the Original Trilogy was so right, when what
followed was so wrong), but the wonder, joy, awe, majesty and spectacle of Star Wars is all his in conception.
I didn’t see Star Wars at the cinema during its first run. Despite owning a Luke
Sykwalker pencil case, and Star Wars
felt tip pens, and having explored the countless possibilities of Star Wars transfers that came with boxes
of Shreddies, I had to wait to see it until 1982 and its first ITV screening,
on account of the vagaries of family cinema attendance. The four intervening
years of hearing how amazing it was did not lead to disappointment, however, which
is probably its greatest testament. Star
Wars was essentially second in line to Jaws
in defining the modern blockbuster era (and in terms of merchandising, it was the defining picture), and it lived up
to the hype, and then some.
I did
see Return of the Jedi at the cinema
the following year, such that The Empire
Strikes Back was the last of the trilogy I caught, when the trio were shown
back to back at the local Gaumont one Saturday in 1984 (slightly undermined by
a school friend succumbing to an attack of hysterics when Porkins’ name came up
during A New Hope’s Death Star
assault, but I was really there to see Number Two, or Five). I’d previously had
the chance to watch a pirate copy, but I gave up on realising the snowstorm on
Hoth wasn’t supposed to be that
snowy.
It’s Lucas’ transportive world (or galaxy) shaping
that continues to make the original so impressive, and his incessant refurbishing
that has hastened to undermine it. There’s no not discussing the Special
Editions in considering the Original Trilogy, since for the best part of 20
years they’ve been the only officially available versions. For a whole
generation, Greedo only ever shot first. I’m not a purist to the extent that I
want to see the matte lines under Luke’s landspeeder, or care about the things
I can’t immediately pick out, like replacing elements of the climactic Death
Star battle with CGI; it’s when the revisions are intrusive and glaring that it
detracts from the experience. The Empire
Strikes Back escaped pretty much untarnished by Lucas’ wanton meddling
until the 2012 release, but even that now has some annoyances. Star
Wars, though…
Most of it is front-ended, maligning the
Tatooine sequences whenever Lucas decides to busy up the frame with CGI that
looks like CGI, and therefore has about as much business being there as restoring
a Grand Master with a felt-tip pen. There are CGI stormtroopers riding CGI
dewbacks. The entrance to that wretched hive of scum and villainy, Mos Eisley
space port, is now a CGI-assisted entry to a wretched hive of CGI scum and
villainy, with virtual landspeeder and occupants and various pixelated
creatures and characters.
The cantina is less sullied, despite a number of new interpositions. We should probably just be grateful that the
fantastic space age jazz hasn’t suffered the same fate as the (truly
horrendous) overdub of the once masterful Sy Snootles and the Rebo Band in Return of the Jedi. Oh, and there’s the
recent random decision to put some rocks between R2-D2 and the exit to his
hidey-hole in the Jundland Wastes (which I always heard as the Jungian Wastes, and later assumed Lucas was wearing his influences on his sleeve).
Of course, this is where Greedo now shoots
first, or, following more tinkering, shoots fractionally less first than he did
in 1997 (George needs to get a hobby, like making movies that aren’t Star Wars, since he’s changed it three
times now; it’s lucky for all irate fans that he sold Lucasfilm when he did).
Earlier, Ben Kenobi’s holler to frighten off the Sand People hits a higher
pitch; it sounds rubbish, or maybe it’s just that I’m used to it being just so
(Lucas has only adjusted this one twice).
But Han… Apparently, Lucas’ reasoning was
that “Han was going to marry Leia, and
you look back and say ‘Should he be a cold blooded killer?’” Baffling logic,
really. Apart from Greedo being poised to kill Han (it isn’t like Solo was
shooting unarmed children in the street, or Younglings; follow this through, a
cold-blooded slayer of Jedi tots shouldn’t be allowed redemption), he seems to
allow no scope for character development, that the scoundrel Leia likes will
change and mature; you know, that the illegal trafficker in who knows what will
become an honourable general type (and far less interesting with it, but there
you go).
Then comes Han meeting Jabba. This was a
scene I was thrilled by before it was
reintegrated with the movie, in “making of” footage, back when Jabba was just a
fat guy (Declan Mulholland). As it is, it’s awkward and unnecessary, what with
Han interacting with a pre-weight gain Hutt (six years and a lot of pies until Return of the Jedi), stepping on his
tail (when you need to get around logistics with that kind of “invention”, you should
question if it’s worth it all) and Lucas fan-baiting by giving us a glimpse of
Boba Fett. Mostly, as I think Lucas admitted, it only repeats what we know
already from Greedo, and if anything makes the threat less imminent and more
conciliatory; Han has breathing room, so his decision to leave Luke and the
Rebellion in their hour of need is less compelling. Mainly, though, Jabba is
intrusive CGI crap.
In contrast, I don’t mind the lift-off from
Mos Eisley, and from this point the additions are generally less distracting.
The CGI Death Star approaching somehow doesn’t quite work for me (perhaps it’s
that it’s visibly moving in the same shot as it’s target, so looks wrong, the
same way a couple of planets hanging from wires in ‘50s B-movies look wrong),
and the ring of destruction is less impressive than glittering stardust.
No, the worst offender in the second half
is another Han bit, showing Lucas has no basic grasp of what’s funny and what
isn’t (well, we know that now; Mesa Jar
Jar Binks). He spent years getting to the point where he decided to reintegrate
the “Close the blast doors” line (I was
aggrieved that it was excised in whichever official video release I had prior
to the Special Edition). Then, having no concept of less being more, he has
Han’s moment of foolish heroism, where he pursues a few stormtroopers only to
come across a dozen or so of them, turn into hundreds. George probably has
something secretly against Han being so colourful and successful a character, an
impediment to a black and white universe, hence the dampening down and lack of
spontaneity in the prequels.
Then again, this is the guy who adds a bump
sound to the fan-favourite gaffe of a stormtrooper hitting his head; he
probably had devoted staff scouring the Internet for things they love most,
just to tamper with and “improve”. I was more surprised it took so long to
finally light up Vader’s lightsaber in the long shots after he kills Obi Wan;
there’s been some really arbitrary
stuff going on.
The other redundant addition is Biggs, alias
Garrick Hagon (a few years earlier he played a hero delivering his people from imperial
tyranny through contact with a transformative source of energy in a Jon Pertwee
Doctor Who story, The Mutants). The Biggs referenced in
the grand finale fight now has some context, but it manages to leave the
situation more half-cocked, as we
don’t have the introductory scenes on Tatooine.
This messing about, without the opportunity
to see the original version (see Apocalypse
Now for a contrast) ought to be anathema to the whole idea of cinema
preservation, and it can only be a matter of time, now Lucasfilm is owned by
Disney, before the originals show up (there’s money to be made, and even Fox
will want to do a deal regarding A New
Hope to be in on that). It’s impossible to watch the Special Editions
without it sullying the experience, to a greater or lesser extent, mainly greater
with A New Hope and Return of the Jedi. And yet, older Lucas
can only beat down the essential magic of Star
Wars his younger self created so much.
Likewise, it’s difficult not to consider A New Hope without on some level
referencing what the prequels add (or take away from) to the experience. And
the Original Trilogy sequels too, come to that. The gaps in what characters say
and what we “know” can often be taken as instructive rather than glaring plot
holes (I like Guinness’ considered glance before choosing what to tell Luke
about his father/Vader, as it can be seen as hedging a deception that hadn’t yet
even occurred to Lucas, or at least hadn’t coalesced in his mind). It’s
interesting too that it has taken 20 years, long after all that tumult in Revenge of the Sith, for the Emperor to
ensure “the last remnants of the Old
Republic have been swept away”. Mostly though, there’s a feeling that there
should be at least another intervening decade to account for the aging of
characters and general rusting of the universe between Episodes III and IV.
Perversely though, the aesthetic gulf
between the CGI unreality of the prequels and the tangible, used-future of A New Hope serves to cement all the
references to a mythic past of sorcerers’ ways and ancient religions. Lucas’
dialogue is famously patchy, but what it succeeds at absolutely is conjuring a
sense of a cloudy, half-glimpsed murk of history, one no one is sure of any
more, where fact and fiction blur and the truth is hazy. Listening to Guinness’
Old Ben, the last thing it brings to mind is Revenge of the Sith.
It’s also a history the materialists (the
Empire) have resoundingly dismissed, where the infrastructure of science holds
sway and no one “believes” any more (this despite the architect behind the
scenes being the ultimate evil magician; one might draw an analogy to the
conspiratorial conceits of an occult illuminati controlling the major
corporations and political constructs of the world). Lucas’ vision of the
development of a foisted, deceptive totalitarian control structure is more
acute in the prequels, where here there is simply a hateful Empire, but he
still maps out a resonant framework, one where there is in-fighting and
disputes, where the actions of the Emperor in wiping out the Jedi have the inadvertent
consequence of making Vader a subject of mockery from his fellow Imperials (he
never could get on with anyone, that boy).
Grand
Moff Tarkin: The
Jedi are extinct. Their fire has gone out of the universe. You, my friend, are
all that is left of their religion.
The Empire is much more interesting, and
more populated, here than anywhere else in the Original Trilogy, as Lucas
understandably honed in on the Emperor and Vader as it progressed (the occasional
Michael Sheard aside). So we get the
late great Peter Cushing, obviously, as Grand Moff Tarkin, rather diffidently
established such that we can’t be quite sure of how sure he is of himself. Leia
identifies him as “holding Vader’s leash”
and notably he is entirely undaunted by the Sith Lord, instructing him to cease
strangling an Imperial officer, but she also impugns his (im)moral fibre (“I’m surprised you had the courage to take
the responsibility yourself”, of his signing the order to have her
executed).
He’s wily and shrewd, opting for psychological manipulation by
threatening the fate of Alderaan over Vader’s blunt instrument mind probe, and
he is cautious at his right hand thug’s ideas (of the tracking beacon, he
rightly comments, “I’m taking an awful
risk Vader. This had better work”). He doesn’t look nearly as confident
when Ani boasts that the day has seen the end of Kenobi and will soon see the
end of the Rebellion. So it doesn’t feel entirely consistent that he should go
down with the sinking Death Star (“Evacuate?
In our moment of triumph?”)
Darth Vader: I find your lack of faith disturbing.
Richard LeParmentier as General Motti, on
the receiving end of a Force choke, makes the biggest impression of the
remaining Imperial officers; the sequence is illustrative of something at which
A New Hope excels; concise, engaging
exposition, that invariably offers just enough to inform but never too much to
get bogged down or confuse. His pride in “the
ultimate power in the universe” is misplaced, of course, but it isn’t as if
Vader’s demonstration brings anyone on side; it merely breeds further fear and
distrust of him. There’s also salty Don Henderson (General Taggi) and Leslie
Schofield filling out the ranks.
It’s worth emphasising this element,
because as Lucas gained greater and greater resources he needed to rely less on
the essence of dramatic interaction (two people in a room would become twenty
or thirty creatures on an elaborate or green screen set) and lost sight of the
elemental forces in favour of unaffecting spectacle. It’s the path that leads
to virtual villains like General Grievous (we can but hope Snoke is more
successful).
Princess Leia: Darth Vader. Only you could be so bold.
Vader is very much nascent here; he is
literally the black-hat henchman, a feat of design and vocal styling (James Earl
Jones’ imperious work is unapproachable) embodied by a West Country Mr Universe
(David Prowse). Jones’ skill in lending Vader not only gravitas but interior
life is evident (“I sense something, a
presence I’ve not felt since…”), but there’s no great complexity or nuance
here. He’s matter-of-fact, even when confronting his old mentor, and Obi-Wan is
likewise succinct (“Only a master of
evil, Darth”, not addressing him as Anakin, since that isn’t who he was,
then, although I’m sure it later occurred to Lucas to dub the moment).
Whatever surprise Prowse may have professed
that his dulcet West Country tones didn’t end up adorning the Dark Lord of the
Sith, Vader undoubtedly needed someone with equal and opposite presence to spar
with Guinness. Whatever their reticence concerning the series, or perhaps
because of it, Guinness and Harrison Ford make the most memorable fist of
Lucas’ dialogue. With Guinness it’s simply adding weight and colour; when Obi-Wan
comments “I felt a great disturbance in
the force. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were
suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened” the potential awkwardness
of the repetitions (suddenly, terror) melt into the resonance of his delivery.
Han Solo: That wizard’s just a crazy old man.
Casting old hands like Guinness and Cushing
adds texture and depth. When Guinness says “That’s
a name I’ve not heard in a long time. A long time”, combined with John
Williams’ orchestral twinges of memory, it makes the hairs on the back of the
neck stand on end; eerie, beautiful, half-remembered (so not likely to evoke the
prequels). Likewise, it’s Guinness who must initiate us in the lore of the
Force, and the spiritual underpinnings of this universe; when he tells us the Force
surrounds us, permeates us, it binds the galaxy together, there can be no doubt
that it is so (to give due credit again, Williams is also enormously influential
in this respect).
Obi-Wan Kenobi: I don’t seem to remember ever owning a droid.
Very interesting.
Han sees Ben as the kids in the audience
do, “an old fossil”, and Luke’s
profession that he’s a great man (“Yeah,
great at getting us into trouble”) finds him imbued with the classic mentor
construct, part and parcel of Luke leaving the constriction and safety of home
to go on a great adventure. For which, the mentor must fall and the
inexperienced pupil stand on his own two feet. Lucas’ inability to let go of
his characters (he doesn’t like death, even in fiction, as you can see from the
discussions of killing off characters in The
Making of Return of the Jedi) means Ben never really dies, coming back as a
Force ghost, which in turn leads to the entirely cumbersome back-engineering of
Qui-Gon training Obi-Wan to achieve this. You don’t need to explain Obi-Wan
whispering encouragement to Luke as he closes in on the Death Star. Leave it to
the audience’s imagination; of course
Alec Guinness would be whispering in your ear at that point.
The evocative backstory of the death of
Anakin Skywalker at the hands of failed apprentice Darth Vader is replete with the
kind of deceptively simple exposition absent (bar one exception) from the
prequels. It’s no wonder Luke ends up following Ben on a “damn fool idealistic crusade” but most notable is the way Lucas singularly
fails to fulfil the promise of Kenobi’s words, that Anakin was not the navigator
on a spice freighter, rather he was the best pilot in the galaxy (a pod race
and the opening of Revenge of the Sith
certainly aren’t enough to sell this) and a cunning warrior (an impetuous one,
maybe) “And he was a good friend”;
you believe Guinness’ Obi-Wan wholeheartedly, but you never believe Hayden
Christensen and Ewan McGregor’s Anakin and Obi Wan are good friends.
The easy balance of archetypes in Star Wars might have been offset if
Lucas and De Palma had picked different leads at their casting calls. Who
knows? But the star-making turn by Harrison Ford is probably more crucial than
Mark Hamill’s or Carrie Fisher’s. Although, credit where it’s due to Fisher, a
lesser actress might not have grasped Leia’s ball-busting side the way she
does, so diluting a character who is rather side-lined as the traditional
girl/princess who needs rescuing when it comes to plot function.
Ford instinctively knows how to fill out
this world with naturalist asides and a light touch. It’s there in his first
meeting with Luke and Ben, in his bragging and bartering and in his light older
sibling mockery of Luke (from his piloting skills to provocative “What do you think, a princess and a guy like
me?”), in his acting against various costume and prosthetic arrays, from
hairy best bud Chewie to bounty-seeking fish man Greedo (the use of alien
language subtitles are another stroke of genius from Lucas) to his long shot
look when C3P0 introduces himself (“Hello,
sir”; instant gold).
What’s most appealing, of course, is the
element Lucas frets and backtracks over. Han’s the amoral opportunist, a
smuggler out for a good deal, indifferent to the rights and wrongs of the
Empire and the Rebellion. The only surprise about The Empire Strikes Back is that they manage to keep his character
vital and interesting while he moves more markedly into good guy territory; by Return of the Jedi, all hope has been
lost. As joyous a moment as it is (doesn’t everyone see the real victory at the
end as not Luke’s using the Force, but the sight of the Falcon returning,
silhouetted by a star, with Han whooping as he blasts Vader’s squad for six?),
Han’s rescue of Luke at the climax is a signal that his inimitability is on the
wane.
Han
Solo: There’s
no mystical energy field that controls my destiny. It’s all a lot of simple
tricks and nonsense.
Throughout A New Hope, though, Ford seizes the chance to be the naysayer and
individualist, butting heads be it with regard to the Force (“Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no
match for a blaster at your side”; Lucas being Lucas he probably had this
in mind when Obi-Wan discards the blaster he uses to kill Grievous in Revenge of the Sith) or who’s in charge
(“No reward is worth this” he says of
Leia ordering him about; the chemistry between Ford and Fisher is delicious; “Your worshipfulness, I take orders from one
person, me”; “It’s a wonder you’re
still alive”).
Princess Leia: If money is all that you love, then that’s
what you’ll receive.
Certainly, Han’s involved in two of my
favourite exchanges in the movie, the first being Ford’s improv when asked to
report on the disturbance Han and Luke have caused (“We’re all fine here now, thank you. How are you?”) before blasting
the communications unit (“Boring
conversation anyway”), and then his latest bout of sarcasm in response to
Leia (“What an incredible smell you’ve
discovered!”) I recall being quite disappointed that the Marvel comics
adaption included an attempt by Luke to persuade Han to rescue Leia that didn’t
end up in the finished film (“She’s
beautiful” suggests Luke; “So’s life”,
deadpans Han, before Luke adds the crucial “She’s
rich”). Like Luke (preferring the cynic to the romanticist), we are most
invested that the character who has made the biggest impression on us is
apparently buggering off at the eleventh hour (“What are you looking at? I know what I’m doing”).
Mind you, the moments where Han looks
uncomfortable about the sincerity displayed around him are probably equal parts
character and Ford. You can practically see Ford gritting his teeth when he has
to tell Luke “May the Force be with you”
and he’s clearly thinking “What is this shit?” at the medal ceremony, particularly
since the Leni Riefenstahl-esque spectacular culminates in a bit of whacky
humour as R2-D2 gets over excited and wobbles about to all-round mirth and
merriment (now that’s the Lucas of
the Jar Jar prequel trilogy).
Luke
Skywalker: Well,
if there’s a bright centre to the universe, you’re on the planet that it’s
farthest from.
It’s now something of a cliché that Han is the
more interesting of the central trio, Luke relegated to the one-dimensional,
heroically earnest cypher. In Star Wars
certainly, he hits all the expected notes; naïve, romantic, innocent, noble,
pure, damn fool idealistic. Where Hamill succeeds is with a clear progression
over the course of his six years in the role (and not just physically, thanks
to an unfortunate car accident between A
New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back).
Here, where there’s imminent danger of his prevailing sunny blonde virtue on a
Campbellian hero’s journey getting tiresome, since nuance only comes in with
the sequels, Hamill is still able to impress as an actor able to extract
subtlety and humour from a potentially bland lead.
In the opening stages there’s something of
the “It’s so unfair” that plagued Hayden Christensen’s Anakin at every turn,
and one can lapse into parroting post-A
New Hope developments back at his unknowing admissions (“Who is she? She’s beautiful”… Er, she’s
your sister). So too, there’s no way he can be expected to make some of the
dialogue bounce (“You know of the
rebellion against the Empire?”, “I’ve
never seen such devotion in a droid before”, and his modesty regarding bulls
eyeing womprats in his T16 back home; they’re very optimistic, the rebels,
giving an untested pilot a prize spot in the attack on the Death Star, but I
guess they’ll take anyone they can get). But he’s generous and respectful of his fellow cast members who get all
the better lines, be it Anthony Daniels, Guinness, Ford or Fisher. Perhaps the
best compliment you can pay Hamill is that he makes those farm boy qualities of
his character Luke’s qualities, rather than bringing his own baggage as a young
actor.
Princess Leia: You came in that thing? You’re braver than I
thought.
If Luke is a straight and narrow hero in A New Hope, Fisher ensures Leia puts a
spin on your stereotypical fairy tale princess, even if she requires de rigueur
rescuing. She isn’t intimidated by her captors, holds out against the mind
probe and lies when her beloved home world is threatened. No sooner is she
released than she starts bossing her rescuers around, trading sarcasm and insults
with Han (including may be the best put down in the movie, of almost meta
proportions; “Can someone get this big
walking carpet out of my way?”, see also “Aren’t you a little short to be a stormtrooper?”)
She’s also nonplussed by boys’ notions of
heroism and bravado, and so recognises that they were allowed to escape the
Death Star while Han and Luke are busy celebrating (following the arcade shoot ‘em
up-preceding TIE Fighter chase). Admittedly, if she’d been a bit wiser still
they’d have regrouped and ensured they weren’t being tracked before heading to Yavin,
but that would be no fun.
Fisher isn’t your classical movie-gorgeous
heroine, and it’s probably a sign of the era, despite the self-consciously
traditional qualities of the picture, that she was cast, bringing her
accompanying smarts and wit along for the ride (would Leia have been so a
decade later, or would the series have got a Kate Capshaw?). It helps immeasurably
that she and Ford (as he was then, at any rate) have the dynamic of two
naturally alpha personalities clashing. That sort of conversation doesn’t even
figure into discussing the blandness of the prequels, where Natalie Portman is
progressively shut out of any kind of independent thought as Padmé.
C3P0: We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life.
Then there are C3P0 and R2-D2, Lucas’
Kurosawa-inspired characters (the squabbling peasants from The Hidden Fortress), second class-citizens who aren’t even allowed
in bars. Retconning C3P0 as fashioned by Darth Vader is the sort of nonsense
that fails to impact on A New Hope
(particularly pointless as, given the number of like models around the place,
he’s evidently no more than a kit car) and, having endured the ignominy the character
is put through in the prequels, it’s a relief to witness how consistently enhancing
his presence and dialogue is here. No slapstick CGI japery in this one.
C3P0: No, I don’t think he likes you at all… No, I don’t like you either.
And the camp nerviness is, as we’ve been
informed many a time, all Daniels. C3P0’s dialogue is possibly the most
consistently repeatable of any character here, but it’s not just the delivery
(like Prowse it was planned he’d be voiced by another actor), it’s the movement
and gestures, the mannered interaction and constant barracking of R2-D2. I love
the moment where he bashes R2 on the head as the little droid is feigning
ignorance of Leia’s recording (“What
message? The one you’ve just been playing!”) As always with the
Lucas-verse, and franchises generally, there’s a tendency to over-indulge the
hit characters, such that later their involvement becomes the tail wagging the
dog at the expense of their appropriate place (it’s okay, it all makes sense, they
get their memories wiped!)
Star
Wars also initiated a golden age in science fiction
and fantasy design that lasted nigh on a decade before the accursed CGI slowly
began taking the edge off. While the ability to render effects was sometimes
variable (Return of the Jedi
especially), the one aspect that didn’t peter out through the trilogy was the
creature work; Jabba’s palace really does allow Lucas to go to town with a
budget that wasn’t open to him for the cantina, and unlike the prequels he
makes it count with some amazing prosthetic creatures. There’s scarcely a
design in the prequels that hits the mark the way the Original Trilogy
creations do. The same is true of the spaceships, even given the desire to go
down a different route was intentional. Almost everything that is memorable in
them is a reinforcement of existing work.
And with A New Hope, it’s telling that many iconic designs come from simple
budget-saving measures; Sand People wrapped in bandages, Jawas are hoodies with
glowing eyes (no prosthetic work required), elephants dressed as Banthas (which
Lucas didn’t like, but is absolutely perfect, provided the elephants weren’t fussed
of course). The stormtroopers (“I can’t
see a thing in this helmet”) are so iconic that both prequels and the new
trilogy have had no option but to loot them and update/backdate them.
Until looking them up I didn’t know the cantina
jazz band were called Figrin D’an and the Modal Nodes (I’m not sure I’m glad I
do now) or that they’re Biths. But it’s the combination of great tune and cool aliens
that look like they were designed to play wind instruments. Characters like the
Garindan imperial spy get a laugh, but he’s both funny looking and believably odd (the trunk and
googles). And for every Walrus Man there’s a pig-faced fellow (“You just better watch yourself”) who’s
disturbingly freaky (and Walrus Man’s bloody, severed arm still gets a U
certificate, as do the smouldering, rather reddy skeletons of Uncle Owen and
Aunt Beru).
Lucas fills the corners of his world with
interesting details but he doesn’t overstuff it. Yeah, you sometimes get extras
looking like extras from any low budget sci-fi movie, or a mind probe that’s a
ball with a big syringe stuck on the end, but for the most part the imagination
is pervasive and captivating; droids in every corner of a sandcrawler, a Falcon
where one can play holographic chess (“Let
the Wookie win”) while Luke tests his reflexes against a flying remote (and
that’s not even mentioning the lightsabers). These elements we now take for
granted arrived fully formed at once.
There’s too much going on to immediately
start wondering if Chewie (good friend of Yoda, lest we forget) ought to be
wearing underwear, or what a Death star droid is doing in the sandcrawler
(another piece of design that arrives as if it has been trundling Tatooine
forever; shot against an exterior landscape Lucas ensures this real desert, not
colour-corrected, is atmospheric and distinctive, everything lacking from the
prequels). Lucas’ long time ago has the wear and tear of age and entropy; C3P0
and R2-D2 are really grimy until the climax. The picture mixes the classical (Flash Gordon-esque wipes and opening
crawl; we should be grateful Lucas couldn’t get the rights to adapt it) with
the untried and untested (motion control work for the space ships). It’s no
wonder, with all the plates he was juggling, that he was convinced Star Wars was going to be a disaster.
The construction of the screenplay, from
action intro to the lull of establishing the hero, to the fury of rescue and
personal loss, is an exercise in designed simplicity, providing a firmly
recognisable context for this dazzlingly different environment. The only slight
failing is that, after so much ridiculously exciting, engaging and colourful action,
we retreat to a rather dull, nondescript rebel base and a regroup for the
recognisably traditional, barnstorming attack and explosive finale, one that returns
where our heroes just left for more.
It works, but perhaps because the innocence
of Luke is centre stage, perhaps because it is so familiar (the use of the Force
and effects aside), such that Lucas could use dogfight footage as a stop gap
and still get the point across, it isn’t quite as captivating as it could be
(and it leads directly into that
ceremony). Certainly, my favourite scenes have always been the ones that
suggested the excitement and strangeness of this world; the cantina, obviously,
and the garbage compactor is an absolute highlight, the cliff-hanger element
(it would be recycled Indiana Jones and
the Temple of Doom) used with
supreme confidence.
Of course, compared to what came immediately after, and certainly sat next to
the frenzied CGI of its immediate predecessor, A New Hope may seem a rather spartan, drab affair. It isn’t, but its capacity for the exotic is tempered by the
constraints of time, resources and technology that serve only to add to the
tangibility of the world Lucas was fashioning. The Empire Strikes Back is immediately more luxuriant a prospect
(and makes its home in more easily controllable hideaways and interiors, rather
than A New Hope’s open expanses), as
the look of ‘70s filmmaking fades into the glossier, and by Return of the Jedi shallower, decade
that would follow.
And what would the Star Wars saga have been had John Williams not provided the score?
It scarcely bears thinking about. No one much talks about Gilbert Taylor’s
cinematography (he also worked with Kubrick, Hitchcock and Polanski, so they
probably should), but the contributors to Lucas’ vision, from Williams, to
Ralph McQuarrie (concept design) to Paul Hirsch (editing) and Ben Burtt (sound)
are generally recognised as representing a perfect alchemy. It’s difficult to
believe Lucas’ coterie of wunderkinds were nonplussed by his preview screening
(bar the enthusiastic Spielberg) but if you don’t have finished effects and
(possibly) a score, it’s probably unsurprising it didn’t flow as it ended up
flowing and didn’t instil the sense of magic it ended up instilling.
It certainly isn’t the case that Lucas did
something easy here, and I don’t mean in terms of the stresses of a production
that caused him to swear off directing for another two decades. Creating a
fully-formed mythology just doesn’t happen like this every day, and it can get
so the creator isn’t quite sure how they did it in the first place (hence the
blunders of the prequels). How many great movie characters have been created
post-Star Wars and Indiana Jones that didn’t derive from
other sources? 40 years on and Lucas’ lightning in a bottle is still unique.