Gorilla With A Crossbow!
How "Star Wars" explains why value is greater than price
ROUGH DRAFT of material for The Value of Nothing:
On a summer day in 1977, an eight-year old boy named Sam waited in line with his father for three hours to see a movie at a theater in San Francisco. They were part of the nationwide craze of viewers that was far, far larger than the number of theaters (and theater seats) available. And it’s not as if the price could adjust to ration the scarce number of tickets. The average price for a movie ticket in the mid-70s was two bucks and a quarter, but most theaters had two screens. Small towns were lucky to have a single screen, and the inevitable consequence of a fixed price, burgeoning demand, and limited supply was the same as it was in communist countries: lines.
The movie was Star Wars, of course. And the boy – Sam Rockwell – would go on to become a professional actor, starring in The Green Mile, Jojo Rabbit, and Argylle. “I slept on my dad’s foot in line, because I was that small, I could use his foot as a pillow. And the line was around the block — I think it was even six months after it had been playing,” remembers Rockwell. “I saw it at the Coronet, and it blew the top of my head off.”[1] Many others from that generation say much the same, including nearly everyone involved in Hollywood today. Trey Parker, co-creator of the animated TV show South Park, remarked, “I saw Star Wars at least nine or 10 times in different places … My sister was three years older, and she loved it just as much as I did. We saw it twice in two days. It was everything to me.” He was seven years old.
Nobody saw it coming. I had just turned nine and was cut off from civilization that summer, spending long, lazy days at my Grandparent’s cottage on the wooded shores of Diamond Lake in northern Michigan. The cottage was sparse, lacking an indoor toilet, television and air conditioning. My sisters and cousins gloried in the tanning and swimming and fishing and hiking because besides those four activities, there was nothing else to do. The one time they took us to some semblance of civilization was for church on Sundays and a visit to a dime store at the end of the gravel road that led to the lake. The memory is vivid because Gram said no when I asked if she would buy me a 30 cent comic book instead of a snack, but she did let me linger at the comic rack while she shopped for groceries. Gramp wandered over to nudge me and asked if I wanted to buy the Avengers issue I was trying to memorize, when I told him Gram said she wouldn’t allow it. “I didn’t say your Gram was buying. I said that I am.” Coolest Gramp move ever. I doubt anyone can count how many times I read and re-read the adventures of Iron Man and Thor on the dock that July.
By the time August and our parents arrived, we were unaware of the Star Wars phenomenon. Totally, literally blissfully, unaware. On the way back home from the lake – a six hour drive – Dad was gushing about this new movie, and doing a terrible job of selling it. “It’s got robots and aliens and space battles. You kids are going to love it!” he exclaimed. Mom agreed, and that’s what made me skeptical. These two jokers were fine parents, but they had no taste when it came to science fiction films whereas I was an aficionado thanks to hundreds of sci-fi flicks that were the staple of network television on Saturday afternoons – the time of week when black and white classic B movies from the 1950s and 60s were aired. I told my folks, no thanks, if they liked it then the movie probably wasn’t legitimate science fiction. Here’s how my Dad tried to convince me, and try to imagine, this was how the plot was probably described to the dozens of studio executives that rejected George Lucas:
“The main character is a farm boy, but he’s on another planet. Farming. Okay, it gets better. He meets these two robots and then this cool old guy who’s a … a …”
“A monk,” says Mom.
“Yes, a monk. And then they leave his planet in a spaceship. Not one of those small spaceships like Apollo or Mercury. It’s big.”
“How big?” I asked.
“It’s like a school bus.” (He’s describing the Millennium Falcon). “No don’t roll your eyes. The pilot is this really cool guy, but he doesn’t wear an astronaut suit. He’s like a cowboy, but not with a pistol. He has a laser gun. And there’s a co-pilot. I don’t know how to describe him, but he doesn’t talk, he kind of roars … He’s basically a gorilla with a crossbow.”
My dad at this point realized his failure, and the car grew quiet. Being a sarcastic kid, I said, “Let me guess. They have to rescue a princess.”
Dad’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, actually. Yeah.”