my name is taken

Harry Potter and the Secret of the Millennium Falcon

x-posted from punchingIN

Star Wars: Where Science Meets Imagination opened at Seattle’s Pacific Science Center yesterday. With my 8-year-old daughter starting her sleepover birthday party mid-day, I decided to rescue my 6-year-old son from an afternoon of forced mani-pedis and check out what George Lucas brought to town.

Now, I should say up front that, while I’m certainly a fan of Star Wars, I am not capable of doing what you might call a Gruberian close reading of the films. Truth be told, I’ve watched each of the first three movies at least four times. But to this day, I’ve never seen even five minutes of any of the prequels. And comments from the Star Wars faithful haven’t done much to persuade me to change that anytime soon.

Needless to say, then, I was entirely surprised to find myself audibly gasping when I came upon a display of R2-D2, C-3PO and Princess Leia’s costume from the early scene in Episode 4 when she records her message to Obi-Wan Kenobi. But gasp I did, and just stood there like the Star Wars geek I didn’t realize I was, taking it all in and pointing every facet out to my son with an enthusiasm I usually only display after my third latte.

“Remember that scene?!” I implored of him, “That’s the costume, the one she was wearing!”

Then, moments later, “And that’s the same R2-D2 from the movie!” and “That’s C-3PO, right there. Right. There!”

“Yeah,” he’d say, more frustrated each time, “I know.” He loves Star Wars, but obviously, seeing his father geek out like an 11-year-old kid was making him a bit uncomfortable.

The exhibit is of modest size, with straightforward displays of each prop, most accompanied by a video screen showing interviews with the film crew and special effects team that created the object before you.

But where it truly impresses is in its authenticity. The Land Speeder from Episode 4 sits near an actual Sand People (“Sand Person”?) costume (just as scary in real life as pre-pubescent me remembers). You’ll find Obi-Wan Kenobi’s light saber, Darth Vader’s mask from his famous unmasking, and the Imperial Destroyer that opened the entire series of movies.

Listen to me. What a geek.

My favorite, though, was seeing the model of the Millennium Falcon. You’re struck at first by its sheer size, being at least four feet across. But as you approach it, what truly mesmerizes is the positively incredible attention to detail. Every panel and hinge and vent and wire is there, even more amazing when you realize that most would spend just fractions of a second on screen, zooming past audiences in a cinematic blur.

No one would ever notice if a hose had ridges along its surface to make it look like it was sheathed in metal. But there they all are, carved and painted and patina-ed to look so real, so perfect, even now, nearly forty years later and a foot away behind protective glass.

Star Wars, of course, built some of its reputation around being one of the first science fiction movies that showed a “future” that was old and, in many cases, decrepit. Instead of a glossy and sterile utopia, things get scratched in Star Wars. They get scraped and dented. They rust. And they break. Lucas’ other world is not in fact a world of our tomorrow. It has its own history, imperfect and complex like ours, and as much on display as the fantastical blasters and starships.

This notion is starkly evident when you are standing just inches from the props Lucas’ team built. And that’s the visceral sensation that washes over you when you see the Millennium Falcon and the rest of these objects up close: someone built these things. And, suddenly, every dent and ding becomes so obviously intentional.

The protective plate on the right rear of the Falcon’s exhaust is not right. It’s askew, and folded over on itself a bit, perhaps the result of a collision — some space junk, maybe? — or the impact of a blaster. Who knows? But there it is, made imperfect by someone’s hand and painted to show wear that perhaps betrays that it happened some time ago, and is still awaiting repair.

It’s a movie prop, of course, but I found myself constantly doing this, slipping seamlessly between the reality of me observing a model from 1977 and the fantasy that I might actually be looking at a genuine artifact from a world in a faraway galaxy.

Such is the spell of any beloved story, I suppose. My wife could hardly contain her excitement at seeing Voldemort’s robes — “those are the robes!” (we like emphasizing our articles in the Smith family) — at last year’s Harry Potter exhibit. But I think such a dismissive wave of the hand does a disservice to Lucas — and Rowling, for that matter — and what he (and she) created.

Because, in both cases, what Lucas and Rowling built was not merely a series of films or books, but an entire world. And so complete and detailed is that creation that it seems less like it is concocted as much as it is simply being reported on, as if, really, it does exist and Lucas and Rowling just had the opportunity to visit and bring back an account of the wonderful stories that lie on the other side.

If storytelling is a form of escapism, our experience as an audience is too often that we’ve whisked ourselves away to a Hollywood sound stage, where, behind every New York brownstone is the plywood and cables of the back lot, where, if we’re not careful and take our eyes off the main character, we might just see that boom mic poking down from the top of the screen or the reflection of some anonymous crew member in a chrome hubcap. In a world of canned laughter and novels “ripped from the headlines,” the sheer depth and breadth and reality of Star Wars and Harry Potter grab us by the collar and pull us in, hearts, minds and all. And we go, willingly. Escapism, indeed.

No story is perfect, however, and I’m certainly not arguing that the Star Wars films or the Harry Potter books are without their lapses. But as manifestations of imagination, they are certainly among the best that we as a species have done, and for that alone are worth celebrating.

But holding too romanticized a view of our own memories is also very dangerous. Reminiscences are never accurate, and someone always knows just a bit more about the “real story” behind that one cherished recollection. It’s far too easy to be brought back to reality, snapped out of our willing daze. And for that, I apologize for this next bit of information.

The Millennium Falcon