Years later, they reminisce about a cultural Force to be reckoned with
Several Globe writers recall the first time ever they saw "Star Wars":
A long time ago, in a suburb far, far away -- all right, it was Framingham -- my friends Peter and Maria joined me in a foray to the multiplex for the local premiere of this new movie called "Star Wars." I was not particularly looking forward to it. Sci-fi left me cold. Besides, by 1977 the '70s had already been an extraordinary cinematic feast. For all the charm of "American Graffiti," it was not George Lucas to whom this moviegoer had pledged his allegiance but Martin Scorsese and Francois Truffaut. Still, I figured the presence of Alec Guinness was reason enough to see any movie, so I went. My curled lip gave way to a dropped jaw when we arrived at the cinema and saw hundreds, maybe thousands of people waiting in line, abuzz with excitement. I can't say the phrase "dawn of the blockbuster era" flashed through my mind, but it was clear that a big cultural moment had arrived. Once we got inside the theater, the only available seats were in the front row. Get that Wookiee a breath mint! I have to say it was not love at first sight between me and "Star Wars." But what struck me back then, as a college student majoring in Advanced Alienation, was that the audience seemed so . . . happy. I've since figured out that that's the simple secret of "Star Wars": It made people happy. Which, it turned out, was not against the law.
DON AUCOIN
When "Star Wars" came out, I was living with my family in Fort Collins, Colo., the cinematic equivalent of the far side of Tatooine. We'd heard about George Lucas's sci-fi spectacular, but to see it we had to make the long drive down to Denver -- immense and unknowable to me then -- and its Cooper-Cameo Theatre. Inside, it was beyond fabulous, with a curved screen, domed roof, and boomerang-era architecture that wouldn't have looked out of place in orbit. When we emerged two hours later, everything was transformed. I watched the city's lights stream by as my parents drove home, wordless. I couldn't feel the Force, but I knew what it was like to have wings.
LEIGHTON KLEIN
"Star Wars" came out when I was 14. I had never traveled to a galaxy far, far away. Actually, I had never traveled to a movie theater far, far away. Until that summer, my movie experiences had been limited to the local cinema with my parents. But my friends and I agreed that "Star Wars" demanded we see it on the "big screen" at the new movie complex next to the South Shore Plaza. So we were dropped off, and we were on our own to experience a new adventure. I thought that the adventure would be going to the movies without an adult for the first time, but then the now-familiar scrolling story line passed before my eyes, and I soon learned what adventure at the movies was all about. I can still remember the opening scene when the small rebel ship, passing above a planet, was fired upon by an unseen attacker. Then, slowly, the Empire Corellian ship began to appear on-screen. Growing bigger. And bigger. And bigger, until its gleaming whiteness seemed to fill the entire theater. I heard myself quietly gasp "wow." That's the first time a movie ever made me do that.
TIM FLYNN
What struck me about first seeing "Star Wars" was hearing it -- which, in a sense, I did first. I saw the film during its first run in New York City, dragged along by friends who wanted to go. As I recall, the film began, in the old-fashioned way, with an "overture" before the screen lit up, and John Williams's not-yet-famous "Star Wars" theme was the first thing I heard. It put me into a world I knew would be thrilling. Williams could have gone with a modern, futuristic score; instead, like the story and the look of the picture, his music was retro. This was the swashbuckling aural world of the adventure movies of my childhood, of Erroll Flynn and Stewart Granger, or of the old Flash Gordon serials, which had music by Franz Liszt ("Les Preludes"). For me, even then, not everything in "Star Wars" was on the level of the music; Williams's music papered over some cracks. Carrie Fisher was beautiful, but blank in expression and flat in voice. Williams's flute theme gave Princess Leia immortal romantic allure.
RICHARD DYER
My first encounter was too close. I should never have broken my vow to stay away from science fiction. I could have spent my $2.25 on "Annie Hall," "Smokey and the Bandit," "Oh, God!," "Kentucky Fried Movie," a second viewing of "Saturday Night Fever," or even "Slap Shot." Princess Leia's head doughnuts were fun; Mark Hamill's nose was better than in the sequels; Harrison Ford was good eye candy; James Earl Jones got practice for his
JUNE WULFF
One of the more inspired bits from the glory days of "Saturday Night Live" was Bill Murray's lounge singer providing lyrics for John Williams's "Star Wars" theme: "Star wars, star wars/
Those near-and-far wars." Well, there's near and then there's far. On Aug. 5, 1987, a friend and I went to a matinee showing of "The Empire Strikes Back" in Cracow, Poland. We'd been behind the Iron Curtain for a while, and it was America that was beginning to seem like a galaxy far, far away. So even with subtitles and a program of black-and-white Polish short subjects preceding the main attraction, seeing Luke, Han, and the rest was the next best thing to going home. In retrospect, I feel bad it wasn't dubbed. Now I'll never know what "May the Force be with you" sounds like in Polish. MARK FEENEY
In 1977, I was precisely the wrong age to see "Star Wars." I was 20, just coming out of a freshman year at college that had introduced me to the work of Fellini, Fassbinder, and Godard, and my snotty little cineaste friends and I turned our collective noses up at Lucas's massively populist vision. So the real first time I saw "Star Wars" was 25 years later -- on video, and through the eyes of my children. When the Millennium Falcon roared into hyperspace, one of my daughters turned to me and said, eyes gleaming, "This is the best movie ever!" Maybe not, kid -- but close enough.
TY BURR 