I saw The Force Awakens for the second time last night, and it was just as enjoyable as the first time. Yes, it has its issues: it’s way too reverential towards the originals, and the plot is pretty half-baked, but on the whole, it’s good fun. The cast is great, too, though I kept expecting Kylo Ren to randomly whip his dick out. (Thanks a lot, Girls.)
Anyway, I went with my dad. Star Wars has always been a bonding experience for us, as for millions of others. He saw it when it first came out back in 1977, and showed it to me when I was eight or so. I was instantly smitten, and since then, we’ve had a semi-annual outing to see the re-released Special Editions, the prequels, as well as that other geek standard, The Lord of the Rings, together. It’s been, well, our thing, and despite the introduction of Jar Jar Binks, my childhood has remained stubbornly unmolested.
A big part of the appeal of The Force Awakens obviously has a lot to do with how it fuels the flames of nostalgia. After all … if it ain’t broke, right? I won’t lie: I was happy to relive the old days too, and I suspect that at least some of the nostalgia accompanying Star Wars isn’t just for the movie itself.
See, I’m nearly 40 now. I’m a father and a husband and though my career went nowhere fast after graduation, I want for little. When Episode 8 comes out, perhaps I’ll have a clearer idea of the actual artistic worth of the new movies, but to be honest, it was something of a bonus feel like a kid again, geeking out with my dad over two hours of enjoyable, if ultimately disposable, hokum.
The best part, though, was maybe seeing my dad with a big, goofy grin on his face as the credits started. “That was fun,” he said. “When’s the next one coming out?”