History in the Making, Take Two
This article is something of a change of pace; it’s an essay I wrote in 1997 to mark the re-release of the Star Wars trilogy. We’re running it here for a few reasons. The DVD version of The Phantom Menace comes out in about a week, and you’ll be hearing a lot from Kevin, Pattie and me on that subject — so we thought it might not be a bad idea to let you have a glimpse of why some of us take these movies so seriously. Plus you can decide if my writing skills have progressed or regressed since ’97. When I reread it, though, what really struck me was that the essay describes one of the many great days I had as a New Yorker . . . right now, it just feels important to share that.
Manhattan is full of impressive sights. The Empire State Building, the World Trade Center, Central Park, and dozens of others routinely attract crowds of natives and tourists alike. On one particular Friday in January, though, none of them made me happier than the marquee of the Ziegfeld Theater, which proudly announced in huge gold letters that Star Wars returned to the big screen that day. Under the marquee, a few dozen other fans had already taken up their places in the ticket-holders’ line, two hours before showtime. My ten-year-old sister and I raced down the block to join them and cement our place in line, right next to a camera crew that was setting up for a news report. The reporter stood in front of his news van holding his microphone, shaking his head and wondering out loud what would drive presumably rational people to stand in line for hours to see a movie that was almost twenty years old.
For me, it was a matter of honor. The first time I saw Star Wars was in 1982, five years after its first opening day. Since then I have seen the film dozens of times, memorized substantial portions of dialogue, driven myself deep into debt to purchase memorabilia and spin-off products, and in short devoted entirely too-large portions of my life to a fictional galaxy far, far away. But I always felt like I missed something, like I somehow wasn’t a true fan because I had never experienced that opening-day rush. So I viewed George Lucas’ decision to commemorate the film’s twentieth anniversary with a nationwide re-release as the universe’s way of saying, “Of course, we’re sorry, you should have been there the first time. Please accept our apologies.”
I also had the future to consider, in the form of my sister Alison. When she was born, Star Wars had been out of the theaters for years, and seeing Star Wars only on TV is like listening to the 1812 Overture on one speaker from a set of Walkman headphones. She had never seen the movie with a crowd, never experienced the joy of the Death Star exploding in surround sound — never seen the majesty that is Carrie Fisher’s danishes-on-the-side-of-the-head hairdo on the big screen. I would be failure as a brother and a fan if I let her miss this opportunity. So I convinced my mother to let her take the day off from school and take the train with me from Philadelphia to New York on a Friday morning in order to see the 3:45 p.m. show.
Once we were in line, Alison and I sized up the crowd. Most of them were in their twenties, or early thirties at most. A few waved toy lightsabers in the air to pass the time; others chatted with friends and walked around in random circles. Some just shivered — whether from impatience or the forty-degree air, I’m not sure. For my sister and me, it was definitely both. Alison is a case study in kinetic energy under the best of circumstances, and I was doing nothing to calm her down as I paced back and forth, hands shoved deep in my pockets, attempting to walk a mile in one-foot increments. There were a few small children in the crowd; like Alison, they were the brothers, sisters, sons and daughters of the first generation of fans, holding onto their guardians with one hand and action figures with the other. The news crews were sizing us up, looking for personalities colorful enough to make the evening news.
They didn’t have to wait long. At about two-thirty, a group of five or six moviegoers in full costume started charging up and down the line, blasters firing and lightsabers at the ready. There was a Luke Skywalker, of course, and a Ben Kenobi, dressed in their desert outfits. The lone woman of the group had her hair arranged like Princess Leia, and wore Leia’s white robes to match — and to set her apart from the other female patrons who only went as far as the hair in their imitations. Another fan had fashioned the mask of a Tusken Raider from cardboard and tin foil. They interrupted their re-enactment of the film just long enough to answer a few questions and let the reporters go home, and then resumed their exploits. I watched them, and the boys and girls clutching their Darth Vader action figures, and all of a sudden I wasn’t in New York anymore. For just a moment, I was ten years old again, running around on the asphalt of the schoolyard and pretending to be a farm boy from Tatooine. If I only had a dime for every time I saved the galaxy from the evil Empire in those days, I could afford to replace the toys I broke when I was foolish enough to toss them in a toybox (or just leave them around for my mother to trip over) rather than keep them safe on a shelf.
Back in the present, anticipation was growing, along with the crowd. By two-thirty, Pattie had joined us. “You are not going to believe the line,” she said — it now stretched around the block onto Sixth Avenue and then back down 55th Street. The report set off a series of demands from Alison to go see the crowd, but in my overprotective-brother mode, I had to try and keep her with me. And there was always the fear that as soon as she left, the line would start moving, and we would have to give up our place in line. This wasn’t an idle fear — right in front of us, a couple of fans were discussing their missing companion, who owned the credit card that had reserved the tickets, and plotting the penalty he would suffer.
“Where is Mike?”
“I can’t believe he didn’t cut class! Why does he need to take physics, anyway? If he doesn’t get here, he is dead. That’s all there is to it.”
“He gets out at about three. We’ll be OK.”
“We’d better.”
Looking for reassurance, one of them turned to me. “Is this show sold out, do you know?”
“Yeah, I think so. When I called on Wednesday, this is the last show they had available.”
“You called for your tickets on Wednesday? And you actually have tickets?”
“Right here.” I clutched them, paranoid that a strong gust of wind would rob me of my prize.
“OK, we called on Sunday. We’ll be fine.”
Soon, everyone in line was swapping stories of when and how they bought their tickets, and when had been the last time they had seen the film in the theater. When the crowd from the previous screening let out at about three o’clock, everyone realized that the time was getting close. I must have looked at my watch every thirty seconds, because the next half hour took forever to pass. Finally, the line began to move into the theater and a cheer rose from the crowd — the first of many. Mike finally arrived, but by the time he was able to pick up his tickets from the credit card teller, his friends had been forced to give up their place in line. The ticket taker assured them that they would be let in as soon as Mike had the tickets; then he gave us our stubs and we stepped into the theater.
The Ziegfeld fits hundreds of viewers, sitting in two level of chairs spaced far enough apart that the average person can actually sit comfortably. The deep maroon of the chairs and rugs gave the place a majesty that is sorely lacking at the average multiplex, and vendors rolled carts of popcorn, candy and soda up and down the aisles to spare us from the wait at the concession stand. The seats filled quickly, as the three of us tried to find a spot that would allow Alie to see the huge screen unobstructed. In front of us, two men were arranging their coats into a kind of booster seat for their companion, a boy of about five who was about to see the film for the first time.
At last, the curtain opened, prompting another cheer. Unfortunately, the theater owners were mocking us — we still had the ads and previews to ensure. The crowd that had waited patiently for hours now began to boo loudly. Finally, the Lucasfilm, Ltd. logo appeared on the screen, followed by previews for the upcoming re-releases of The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. The crowd’s cheers drowned out most of the dialogue and was almost enough to block the newly remastered sound effects. Almost. Alison turned to me and said, “I may have to cover my ears during the explosions, because they’re loud.” Had she not been grinning from ear to ear, I might have been concerned.
And then, at last, the preliminaries were over and the movie began. My eyes welled up just a little bit as the opening title crawled up the screen, reminding us all that Rebel spies had just won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire — as if we hadn’t already memorized the words. Alison grabbed my arm in excitement and occasionally announced that she felt the movie was rather neat. Pattie was struck by the camaraderie of the crowd. We ooh’ed and ahh’ed as the first Star Destroyer swept across the screen. We cheered as each character appeared — even the Dark Lord of the Sith himself, Darth Vader. And we laughed as well, at the familiar moments that had not changed with time; twenty years have not made Luke’s protests to his Uncle Owen any less whiny. It was like attending a high school reunion with a bunch of total strangers — we didn’t know each other, but we knew all the stories and we had heard all the jokes. And so we were comfortable with each other, knowing that out of everything that might have made us different, we all had this in common — even Alison, who had absorbed enough of my enthusiasm over the years to become engrossed in the movie, and the five-year-old in front of us who anxiously squirmed in his chair and asked, “Is Luke OK?” when Luke was nearly drowned by a malevolent creature hiding in a pile of sewage.
When the movie was over, I wondered if anyone else had felt the same way. Then the guy sitting next to Alie turned to me and said, “You’re daughter’s really cool, she was really into the movie!” (The credits were rolling, the house lights had yet to come up, and I’m an old-looking twenty-one, I suppose.) Then I saw the kids running into the bathroom, pretending to be Han and Luke invading the Death Star. And I walked out of the theater to see another line forming on the sidewalk for the next show, and heard a fan behind me yell, “They put the Biggs scene in! They put the Biggs scene in!” She was referring to about thirty seconds of footage that had been mentioned in novelizations but never before seen on screen. And not only did this crowd know what she was talking about, they were excited by the news. It was history in the making all over again, as crowds of people transformed a movie into an event. And this time, after twenty years, I was there. Now all I need are tickets to Empire.
About Dave Thomer
Born and raised in Philadelphia. Studied philosophy at Fordham University in the Bronx, where I made many great friends and met my wonderful wife. We moved back to Philadelphia, where I studied philosophy some more and became a teacher. Online and off, I'm looking for ways that we can be better citizens and build stronger communities.