When Carrie Fisher passed away, two days after Christmas 2016, I realized I had to create a whole new category of film.
Because sometimes, whether you were particularly a fan or not, a work of art can influence so many people at the same time that it actually structures public understanding. It becomes a kind of utility — like electricity, or the internet — that we all can share.
“Star Wars” was that kind of film.
Consider that almost 400,000 people in England and Wales give “Jedi” as their religion.
At first, I thought it was a joke.
But then I realized that Jedi knights are not so different from Camelot’s Knights of the Round Table — or Japan’s samurai swordsmen.
All dedicated their lives to discipline and a code of honor that was bigger than themselves.
And Star Wars tops them all, since it features light sabers — irresistible to my two young boys!
In addition, the Force has a kind of magic that you can call on when you’re in trouble, or look to for guidance. It’s certainly better than the internet, which will give you fake stories as happily as real ones, with no guidance between the two.
Add to this an adventure with the highest of stakes — an Empire! a universe! — and a love story, and you get … a classic.
You also get a princess who is a strong character in her own right.
When Luke Skywalker comes to rescue this damsel in distress, she wisecracks, “Aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper?”
This line, whether written by Carrie herself or not, is perfectly in keeping with the woman and author that she became.
“Casablanca” was a classic for my parents’ generation. I insisted my college boy sit and watch it with me, last year, before he went to Morocco.
“What’s it got to do with Morocco?” he wanted to know. “Did they film it there?”
“No… as a matter of fact, I don’t think they ever left California.”
“Why do I have to watch it then?”
“Because whenever you tell anyone you’re flying to Casablanca, they’re going to say something like ‘We’ll always have Paris,” and you won’t know why unless you see this movie.”
“Why would they talk about Paris when Casablanca is in Morocco?”
“Just watch this with me, and you’ll see.”
Soon, we were fully engaged in catching classic lines: “Play it, Sam.” “Here’s looking at you, kid.” “We’ll always have Paris.” “Round up the usual suspects!”
My favorite scene is still the perfect crystallization of official hypocrisy: Casablanca’s police chief, Captain Renault, closes down Rick’s place because: “I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here.”
Just then, the croupier hands him something: “Your winnings, sir.”
A classic for my own generation was “The Wizard of Oz,” which the college boy also condescended to watch with me.
It was great, after all the bullying that went on this election cycle, to once again see Dorothy bop the Lion on the nose when he goes after her dog Toto — stopping the Lion in his tracks and revealing him for a Coward.
Most important, to me, was the climax, where Dorothy and her crew are confronted by a ball of fire — “I am Oz, the Great and Terrible” — who denies all their heartfelt requests. That is, until Toto runs over to a curtain and pulls it aside, revealing a very fallible man at the switches.
Oz continues: “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”
But of course, that’s just what they do. “You’re a very bad man,” says Dorothy.
“No, I’m a very good man,” he replies. “I’m just a very bad wizard.”
And this, I realize, is what helps me every time someone in authority disappoints. Maybe they aren’t all bad; maybe they are good men and women who are just very bad wizards. At least, that is my hope.
I turn to my son. “So did you learn anything?”
“It explains a lot.”
“You mean, about the world?”
“No, about you. I get it now, when you say ‘We’re not in Kansas any more!’ ”
As for me, I have one final realization.
Even more than Princess Leia, Judy Garland’s Dorothy is the feistiest hero of all!
All alone, with no love interest in sight, she kills two Witches and saves nearly everyone else in the story — including the Wizard!
Now that’s a classic.
