Feeling more than a little like Robert Langdon, I waited
patiently for the library doors to open.
Inside lay the Holy Grail, I’d convinced myself. The
definitive article. The original document. Biblical in scope, full of war,
sacrifice and incestuous undertones.
Finally, the doors opened and the crowd filed in. I trudged
up the stairs and found the object of my desire.
A book is a dangerous thing, someone once said. Once you
pick it up, your life may be forever changed. This weighed on my mind as I
searched the stacks. In moments I would know. I would know if my memory was
correct, if what I believed was true all these many years would be proven true.
At the same time, I knew that if my beliefs were proven correct, that would
mean that the creator had gone mad, that he no longer spoke the truth. What horrors
the world may hold when God lies.
I found the small, weathered tome, tucked in next to some
giant Ludlums, and quickly scanned the pages, searching for the relevant
passage.
Oh, what book, you ask? None other than…
STAR WARS: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker by
George Lucas, Ballantine Book Club Edition, December 1976.
This was it! This was like the Dead Sea Scrolls. A
contemporary account of the beginning of a worldwide phenomenon, not just
inspired by, but written by the creator himself. (Well, I’m pretty sure Alan
Dean Foster actually wrote it, but it bears Lucas’ name, and, one would assume,
his blessing).
The yellowing pages still felt crisp to the touch, and there
she lay, the White Whale, on page 87 (reprinted below):
“Something that might have been a
laugh came from the
creature’s translator. “They’d hardly notice. Get up, Solo.
I’ve
been looking forward to this for a long time. You’ve
embarrassed
me in front of Jabba with your pious excuses for the last
time.”
“I think you’re right.”
Light and noise filled the little corner of the cantina, and
when it had faded, all that remained of the unctuous alien
was a
smoking, slimy spot on the stone floor.
Solo brought his hand and the
smoking weapon it held
out from beneath the table, drawing bemused stares from
several
of the cantina’s patrons and clucking sounds from its more
knowledgeable ones. They had known the creature had
committed
its fatal mistake in allowing Solo the chance to get his
hands
under cover.”1
Han didn’t only shoot first. Han just plain shot.
I’d never understood why George never blamed the controversy
on the editing. It would have been simple to claim that his intent was mangled
in the editing room. His ex-wife edited the film, for Yoda’s sake! If you can’t
blame something like that on your ex-wife, what can you do?
Of course, now I know the truth. It’s all been revisionist
history. I’m sure it comes from a good place, the same place Steven Spielberg
was operating from when he changed the guns to walkie-talkies and flashlights
in E.T. And if he’d just admit that
fact, things would be settled. But he won’t, and now we know.
If you haven’t read the book, or haven’t in awhile, I
recommend it. Be ready for some stomach-churning glances between brother Luke
and sister Leia, though.
Well, that’s it for this post. Now I’m on to my next
adventure. Apparently, Mark Evanier has some startling claims about Stan Lee’s role
in the early age of Marvel Comics.
1. George Lucas, STAR WARS: From the Adventures of Luke
Skywalker (New York: Ballantine Books, 1976), 87.
