Worthy the new Star Wars film is

We walked in late.
That much I remember.
I’m not sure why we were late, but I suspect it had to do with babysitting. Our twins were only months old at the time.
The moviehouse was dark when we walked down the aisle. The strange, jungle murals on the walls of the Hines Theatre were hidden in the gloom. Over the exit sign for a curtained doorway to the left of the screen, a clock with luminous hands glowed a sickly green.
And on the screen, a shiny gold robot with what sounded like an English accent was walking through the desert with what at first appeared to be a multi-colored trashcan. The trashcan spoke in boops and beeps.
We had absolutely no idea what was going on, but within minutes we were hooked.
That, of course, was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
A billion Star Wars action figures have been produced, sold, played with, melted down with a magnifying glass and stepped on in the darkness by barefooted parents since then.
Along with the rest of the world, we watched as the tale unfolded in mythic style and learned the names and hierarchy and chose our favorites: Han over Luke, R2-D2 over C3PO, Chewbacca over the denizens of the outer space honky-tonk, and Leia over— well, since Leia was about the only female in the saga, I’d guess she was in a class by herself.
For three entertaining — though sometimes uneven and sometimes confusing — movies, Star Wars made us feel like kids.
And every kid seemed to embrace the saga as well.
Santa’s bag was soon laden with light sabers and blasters and models of the Millenium Falcon or the X-Wing fighters flown by the bad guys from the empire.
Halloween still isn’t Halloween without at least one Darth Vader. That’s how durable the franchise has been.
It was also durable enough to withstand three “pre-quels” of dubious quality that seemed more interested in boring the audience with details of intergalactic politics than entertaining us.
But now, all that has changed.
The Millenium Falcon is back. The saga is back. And it’s as engaging as ever.
On the Sunday night before Christmas, my wife and I left the Ritz Theatre after a showing of the newest adventure. Our car was parked across the street from where the Hines had been before it was destroyed by fire.
And as we walked, we babbled to one another about what we had just seen. Superlatives tumbled out. The disappointment of the previous three misadventures was forgotten.
“It was,” I said as we reached the car, “worthy. It was worthy of the original.”
And that’s saying something.