The Second Greatest Story Ever Told
How that fictional galaxy far, far away helped me better understand the very real galaxy that I live in right here, right now—and the God who created it.
by Todd Hertz | posted 5/24/2005
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I was born in February of 1977—three months before the birth of Star Wars. I've never known a world without Jedi, protocol droids or Darth Vader. For 28 years, and now with the conclusion of the cinematic space saga, I've seen how a fictional galaxy far, far away has affected my view of the real one I'm living in right here and now.
My first life memory is of giant AT-AT walkers slowly thundering across the ice fields of Hoth—and seemingly out of the theatre screen, right at me. A toy Millennium Falcon nearly as big as I was and several 6-inch plastic Rebels were my best playmates for years longer than probably healthy. And on our way to Little League practices, my friends and I regularly reenacted dogfights versus TIE fighters in the back of my mom's station wagon.
The fascination didn't end there. Entire conversations my friends and I had using quotes from Jedi Master Yoda. In college, the only time I ever got in trouble was for loudly arguing with my roommate at 3 a.m. about whether or not the Rebels were briefed about Endor's indigenous life forms, the Ewoks (I say they weren't). And to this day, I often have actual dreams about Star Wars—of both being in and watching the films. (By the way, I've dreamt about seeing all three prequels before their actual releases and while the first two pre-release dreams were prophetically disappointing, my dream version of Revenge of the Sith was appropriately incredible.)
I know what you're thinking, so let's just get right to it: I'm a geek. I admit it. (But some important facts: No, I've never gone to the theater in costume or waited overnight in line for tickets. And yes, I have been on a date or two.) But I think these movies had such a powerful effect on me for a reason beyond my own geekiness. Instead, it points to something deeper: the power of story.
I'm the first one to recognize that George Lucas is no icon of great screenwriting. Plot? Sketchy at times. Dialogue? Sketchier. Three-dimensional characters? Eh. But what you can't deny is Lucas as storyteller. The man can tell a story. But with Star Wars he went further: He created a fully populated universe of awe, wonder, and imagination that sucked me in, not to just watch a movie but to absorb myself in its world.
Many compelling stories do this—The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia among them—but Star Wars was the vehicle that set my mind reeling because it was so accessible as a larger-than-life, super-hyped, and visually fueled film during my formative years as a boy with an over-active imagination.
Actually watching the movies was only half of the picture. The original trilogy was more than something I saw. It was a place I went. The first real impression I had of the films was how large everything was—not just the AT-ATs or the Wookiees, but also the scale of the story. The Star Wars story made my world seem much bigger and, thanks to the epic good vs. evil overtones, mean much more. It made me long for a world like that. In fact, Lucas created a story so big and far-reaching that I was invited in and allowed to create sections of it for myself. It wasn't a closed story, and it helped me sharpen my imagination. The films featured many wonderful aliens, worlds and stories, but often told us very little about individual characters, events or places. So, to fill in gaps, I'd act out or write stories about what the Clone Wars were, what Han did after the trilogy, and what Ord Mantell was like.
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