George Lucas is a Genius

How can you not love this?

No, seriously. How can you not love this?


In case you can't tell, this is the first non-hockey post here, but it's still tangentially related. And not just because of the Honda Center.*


I won't belabor any obvious points by professing my love of the Star Wars movies here. Suffice it to say that among my most prized possessions is this publicity photo of Luke Skywalker on a Tauntaun, framed alongside autographs from Luke and from the Tauntaun.



Okay, okay... the autographs aren't from Luke and the Tauntaun. They're from Mark Hammill and Phil Tippett (the stop-motion genius behind such extraordinary characters as the aforementioned tundra shelter, Return of the Jedi's Rancor, Robocop's ED-209, and many others). Or are they?

At last night's Star Wars concert, I and my three associates weren't rowdy twentysomethings at a show; we were children in awe of the light and the sound. We, along with a few thousand spiritual brethren, were whisked away by Anthony Daniels** to a specific and wholly personal place in our past. A place unique to each individual but common to everyone in that arena.

If someone ever took me to task and asked me to define "magic," this sort of experience would be a good place to start. And look - Mr. Daniels seems to agree:



That's a screengrab from his website, by the way. Credit where credit's due.

Right about now, you're proably thinking "That's all well and good, RD, but you haven't mentioned George Lucas yet."

It's because, in this discussion, he doesn't really matter. And because he's all that matters.

He's all that matters because this is his work. He created, and has continued to foster, a world so dense and layered and accessible that it has become a part of the common experience. Not just to sci-fi/fantasy fans, but to the populace at large. There aren't many people who wouldn't recognize Darth Vader, even if they couldn't quite place why he was so familiar.

Maybe it's a testament to the universality of the Joseph Campbell "Hero's Journey" sort of story. Maybe it's a deep, shared cultural affinity for good-looking kids in fast vehicles. Maybe we're not so cynical as we like to believe, and we just want to see the clear-cut Good Guy beating the clear-cut Bad Guy.

It doesn't make a lick of difference at this point.

The difference is this (from an episode of Futurama, and directly tied to that other "Star" franchise, but no less relevant because of that):

Fry: ...The world needs "Star Trek" to give people hope for the future.

Leela: But it's set 800 years in the past!

Bender: Yeah, why is this so important to you?

Fry: 'Cause it... it taught me so much. Like how you should accept people, whether they be black, white, Klingon, or even female. But most importantly, when I didn't have any friends, it made me feel like maybe I did.

Leela: Well, that is touchingly pathetic.


Sitting there, watching those images (and lasers!) and listening to the orchestra, was like being in the company of an old friend. Chewbacca is my homeboy. Obi-Wan is like an awesome uncle. I've never been to Hoth, but it's as immediate and familiar as the house I grew up in. Frankly, it's no more or less tangible then the house I grew up in; they might as well be one and the same.

When Anthony Daniels merely spoke the name Han Solo and received booming applause, I realized that I wasn't alone. And after all, isn't that why we go to events like this? To not be alone. To be part of a community that we've chosen for ourselves; one that surrounds us and penetrates us, and binds us together.

When the once and future C-3PO flashed his gold lamé vest and reminded us with a smirk that the odds of surviving an asteroid field are approximately three thousand seven hundred and twenty to one, I smiled the smile usually reserved for Christmas morning.

In those moments, George Lucas is nonexistent. So is John Williams, for that matter. This is bigger than them. Bigger than all of us, really.

This is a part of us. And in those colder moments that we all have, it's a pocket of warmth. Fleeting and infinitessimal, but as real and genuine as anything.


I chose to be a "Star Wars" fan. I'm proud to be a "Star Wars" fan.


I also chose to be a Ducks fan. And sitting in my seat, with an orchestra to my right breathing life into the soundtrack of my childhood and with a banner to my left that read "2007 Stanley Cup Champs," I was as deep in my happy place as I've been in a long time. Looking at the people seated down on the floor and realizing that in 48 hours I'd be looking in the same spot and seeing the Ducks and the Sharks, I couldn't help but consider that maybe I'm not so cynical after all. That maybe I just want to see the ragtag group of big-hearted heroes take down the big, scary machine one more time.

Until next time...
-The Raving Duck


*Every time I refer to the Honda Center, I feel a slight yet palpable sting at the missed opportunity. Whoever made the decision to not re-christen it as the Honda Pond (or something similar) made a bad call. Not only because "Honda Pond" is fun to say, but also because Ducks belong in a pond, not in a center. To all the Duck fans reading this, I implore you: Start (or keep on) referring to it as the Pond. It's good for the soul.

**Interestingly, this is the second concert I've been to in so many weeks that was led by an effeminate Briton who knows exactly who his audience is. The other concert was Alan Cumming's "I Bought a Blue Car Today," and it was much more deeply and honestly affecting than I could have expected. It was accompanied by a CD that I haven't had a chance to listen to yet, but if it contains even a fraction of the outpouring provided on stage, it's definitely worth a listen.