Keyboard confessional

Some day my son will read this, and I know it will hurt his feelings. And for this, I apologize. But I need to clear my conscience on the matter, if only in the virtual confession box that is this blog. And what better day than Ash Wednesday for this cleansing?

Here goes: I hate Clone Wars.

The whole thing: the first three movies, the resultant cartoon series, and, perhaps most of all, the idea behind it. This may seem harsh (in an uber-nerdy sort of way), but hear me out:

I was five years old when Star Wars came out. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the popcorn and the Naugahyde seats of my parents Buick Skylark, in which I sat, at a drive-in near the Canadian border, watching with wide-eyed wonder. We were on vacation in way upstate New York, staying at a cabin on a lake. I'm sure I caught some fish and roasted some marshmallows, but what I really remember from that week was going to the movies. I hadn't been alive all that long, but what I saw on screen that night was like nothing I'd ever seen in my life. From the terrifying Tusken Raiders to the amazing powers of Jedi knights and their light sabers, I was hooked.

I know it's cool to claim Empire as your favorite from the trilogy --- and that movie certainly has a special place in my heart (not least because I earned the right to go see it by reading the book first). But for me, and I suspect many others, Star Wars was where it began.

Viewed through the cool distance of 30-odd years [I grow old, I grow old; I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled], it's not anything like a good movie. The acting is dreadful and the jokes are beyond corny. But the story, not just what is on screen but what is hinted at, remains powerful, elemental even in its sweep of good versus evil, technology versus spirituality, and other important versus(es).

As a kid I watched that movie with all the attentiveness of a Talmudic scholar, and so when Obi-Wan (still my favorite) made a passing reference to the "clone wars," my mind conjured images of faceless warriors locked in battle across the silent infinity of space. The sheer possibilities in such a phrase. I probably didn't even know what a clone was, but what I took as a hint of blankness was enough to strike a vague terror in me not unlike Ishmael's reckoning of the whiteness of the whale.

I may not have been precise in what I imagined all those years ago, but I can tell you it did not include guys with weird braids who looked Phish roadies, aliens in croptops, and a bunch of Boba Fett/Stormtrooper knock-offs with names that sounded like children's tv hosts and adult film stars. [I'm looking at you Commander Cody and Captain Lex.]

It was bad enough when the prequel movies came out and we got treated to an intergalactic Step'n Fetchit and were told the force was basically just a cool blood condition. Not to mention the actor who played Annakin had less range and fewer facial expressions than the guy who plays Jack on "Lost." [In case you're keeping track: Dr. Shephard has three: eyebrows up with smile; eyebrows down with no smile; squinty eyes with jaw set. Seriously.]

I don't begrudge George Lucas the right to make even more money from this franchise. But I like to think we were doing fine without the back story. It reminds me of a saying (possibly apocryphal) attributed to P.T. Barnum about the spectacles he put on. He said something along the lines of "If the people like one elephant, they'll love 10!" Kind of the whole "more is more" philosophy. But if anything, in this case, more is less. Way less.

Perhaps the most frightening thing about Darth Vader was that he simply appeared, fully formed in all his metallic fury. Knowing what he was like as a kid would have made him infinitely less frightening. If only because it explained him. And who wants their villains explained?

Think about it: If the Coen brothers had flashed you back to Anton Chigurh getting taunted on the playground for looking like Luis from Sesame Street, it might have diminished his apocalyptic menace just a little bit. Some things are best left untold, unseen. Left to our imaginations, however fevered or feeble they may be.

So why am I telling you all this? (assuming you're still with me at this point in the post.) Because Samson --- my boy, my pride and joy and heir to my name, my genes (insufferably recessive and sunburn-inducing though they be), and all my well preserved Star Wars swag --- is smitten with the Clone Wars. And so, of course, is Jane. [Last week Jane walked around the house for a good two hours in a clone trooper mask, pajamas, and ruby red slippers. There are days when our house looks like a cross between Mardi Gras, the Castro, and, well, Star Wars.]

Anyway, we don't let them watch the show as it's rather violent, but Sam has some of the Clone Wars figures, and he also has a few of the little Lego sets. And he just loves them. I mean really and truly loves them.

Loves their cool uniforms, their giant guns, the fact that they all look like Stormtroopers. Basically he loves them because he is five and doesn't carry the ludicrous film-geek baggage his dad lugs Jacob Marley-style through this life.

So for now, I'll play along. I'll nod approvingly as we discuss the awesomeness of battle droids and stifle my inner Beavis when the evil Count Dooku is mentioned.

But someday there will come a reckoning.

Or better yet, by the time Sam is in his 30s, Lucas will have made three more movies (ante-prequels? supersequels?) and Samson will be dealing with the angst inspired by his son's love of whatever variations on the theme are now in use.