"I might be the only one to admit it. I love this movie. But the review itself is about A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY (A Star Wars fan documentary). It's semi-okay, which is half-an-oh better than I was yesterday..."
(I'm pissed. The girl was 21, maybe 22. She wouldn't stop kicking the back of my chair. Every ten seconds, that bitch came at my headrest with the sole of her shoe. People: Recognize your rudeness. Don't you f*cks see when someone is sitting in front of you? They tend to lose a great deal of $9.00 comfort when you continually knock the flat of your steel-toed boot against the square of their back. Are you a bunch of three year olds? Keep it on the floor. If they don't, I urge the rest of you to leave your seat and sit behind them, pummeling the living hell out of their plastic back cover. It's the only way they'll learn. And the least you could do.)
I remember it like some awful LSD-fused hallucination. I was at a point in my life where I realized none of my dreams were going to ever come true. All I had was a five dollar job at the Hillcrest Farms Corndog warehouse, separating deformed chicken weenies from the perfect ones coming down off the belt. A new Star Wars film opening in the next week was all that kept me from tying an electrical cord around my neck. If it hadn't been for George Lucas' vision, I'd have been consumed by a health conscious sh@t-F*ck unaware that I'd tossed myself into a chicken grinder.
I didn't wait in line like a lot of those jerks without a purpose. I was supposed to see the movie with my brother; it was an interest we shared growing up. Like every other disappointment in life, he would be in Mexico on opening weekend. I'd have to wait a week and a half to see it. That Bitch ditched me for a midnight show in Mazatlan. No worries, I still got to participate in one of the weirdest moments of my life. And trust me, I've seen a lot of messed up things.
Yes: I'm talking about the midnight run on Toys R Us as Kenner's Hasbro introduced their new line of Episode One action figures. It was sheer craziness. My brother J. David Orange picked me up at eight o'clock. We arrived at our bastion of plastic Hell around eight-thirty-five. I was living in Oregon at the time, so the line wasn't as long as it turned out to be in some places. We were second, right next to the door. A family of fatties stood in front of us with their shopping cart poised. The rest started to come in droves. Even the minimalist fans showed up for a peek. It was like some bizarre army, everyone twitching in anticipation. This was going to be a riot.
The hours grew increasingly more intense. No other feeling can describe the moment that TRU manager came to unlock the sliding glass door. I wasn't prepared. Luckily, my brother was. He's a large fellow, his muscle coming in handy at the right moment. His obtrusive, rude frame shoved past the mongoloids with the cart. I didn't make it, my torso squashed against the wall by at least fifty different people in one massive glob. I yelled out, "Get me Darth Maul!"
J. Dave hit the display like a man obsessed. In less than three seconds, he had two of every figure in his basket. He then flailed back as this throbbing mob hit the display. Pushed into the store and torn, I was trampled with bruises. The flock stopped there. My brother had laid out his plan of attack one day earlier, but couldn't make it past the frenzy to see it through. He squeezed his arm into a sea of fighting limbs, pointing in the direction of the back stockroom, "B., there's more in ba?"
He was swallowed before he could finish his sentence. One other guy heard J.'s last breath. We eyed each other, getting a head start on the rest of these rabble-rousers. Consider: This is all taking place in a matter of seconds. I raced that kid to the Action Figure Isle, where the best of the best hung off hooks like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. It was a moment that called for decisiveness. I reached for C3PO. The guy next to me grabbed a giant plastic fish. That's when we heard it: It sounded like a herd of rhinos in porn-orgy heat.
I turned left, then right. Before I could make the most miniscule of judgments, I was literally (no lie) swept to the top of a riptide wave that saw my eye into one of those metal prongs. I rode the crowd like a punk rock surfer, everything blurring in a mist of tears and sweat. I then fell to the linoleum with a thud, cracking my jaw. Feet crunched into my spine, weakening my motive. Gathering all the power within my inner soul, I pulled myself into the discount toy isle on the opposite side of this greedy horde.
One of the store clerks helped me to my feet, blood gushing from my cheekbone. I looked at the C3PO in my hand, its package no longer in mint condition. The corner torn. A few things started to come over the shelf, but they were unwanted items, like that bald dude that flew Queen Amidala's ship. My brother found me crouched down on the floor. He came with a bucket containing every toy we both wanted, and he generously bought all of them out of his own pocket. That's the kind of guy my brother is. We didn't leave right away. Instead, we stuck around to the very end watching to see how this mob-mentality would play itself out. We saw dozens injured, toys torn in two, people setting up shop throughout the store selling items they hadn't yet paid for, for an even higher price. In two perfect words: It was F*CKED UP.
I came into Tariq Jalil's new documentary hoping to relive some of these moments on the big screen. A Galaxy Far, Far Away is about the current crop of fanatical Star Wars junkies, and their way of life as lived out in a line that lasted 48 days. The movie hinges its thin plot on this premise, waiting on the sidewalks near the theater until that faithful night in May when the Phantom Menace opened across the country. It does touch on the Toys R Us fiasco, but judging from the tameness of events as played here, this store must have been in a town smaller than Salem. I was disappointed. It served my memory, but not as well as I'd hoped. I wanted to see the cumulative beast of human beings trampling one another. Alas, I was denied. Inner cutting the scene with the food lines of Kosovo is a nice touch, but the whole ship sails on a sea of amateurishness.
The scariest thing, five minutes in, is that I actually knew some of these people being interviewed. I don't mean that I identifed with them, or recognized someone I know in a certain personality. I mean, I've met and talked with a number of the individuals who show up in this thing. I'm sure you have too. Anyone who's been to Geoffrey's Comics in Glendale, California will recognize the owner. He gives a delusional monologue while sitting with his family on the couch; all of them dressed in Superman costumes. At once, he used to scare me with his inane blather and giant codpiece. After this scarring, I'll probably never step foot in his store again. Eccentric is a low-level definition of the guy. Then there's my former Patton hook-up, Mike the Comic Dude. He always seemed a bit odd, but after seeing his true characterization on the subject at hand, I think I'll be keeping my distance until the effects of this documentary wear off.
In a similar vein, Trekkies is a far superior film. It followed a core group of fans throughout its course running time; building a dynamic that is sorely missed here. Instead of pursuing any one individual, Galaxy looks at a large handful of fools, all of them a bit off-center. Some of the hardcore fans continue to pop up, but only for minutes at a time. We're never really given anyone to connect with or follow through the material as it is happening to them. The film doesn't want to take time to set up any real meaning, instead rushing us through at a rapid rate.
I wanted to know more about DJ Boba Fett and his break-dancing Stormtroopers. I would have also liked to see more of the Portland band Twin Sister. The Orange is a little miffed at paying $9.00 for something that couldn't eek itself past 59 minutes. There has to be a wealth of material out there; though I've heard Tariq forgot to turn on his mic during some of the interviews (including segments with Bill Murray and Samuel L. Jackson that are garishly absent). He did manage to sneak onto the celebrity golf tournament and nab a few sound-bites from Meatloaf, though. One of the film's funniest moments comes from Joe Pesci, eager to get away from the camera. It all seems a little intrusive to me. Fun, but intrusive.
Don't get me wrong, there are some great bits to discover here. I especially liked the Man Show's trek down the front of the Phantom Menace line as they are booed out of a funny skit. Watching this at home would be fine. Sitting in a theater is where it gets irksome. The only comfort zone: A majority of the audience was made up of those shown on screen. These are people who know how to laugh at themselves; they don't take their series so seriously. That's the difference between Trekkies (or Trekkers) and the Star Woids. Trekkies are pretentious ass-f*cks who have to over explain the punch line of a three year old joke that wasn't funny to begin with. They're the type of people who dress in their uniforms to street picket the opening of the next Star Wars film or terrorize a Lucas convention. Star Woids are too unmotivated to return the favor. They don't give a f*ck about some retard in pointed ears.
Trekkies blasted the documentary about themselves, concerned that it was poking too much fun. Star Woids seem to be embracing this film, even though it's a less than meager effort. Jalil fails in talent when it comes to both writing and delivering narration. A sad fact, I don't feel his heart was all the way into the project. He doesn't appear as a true fan.
As the movie is wrapped around a six-week wait in line, it hints at reasons for wanting to do so, but never fully explores them. These lifeless jokers have nothing better to do than sit on the sidewalk? I can't imagine that. I hate the wait in the bank, and grow mad while waiting for Goliath at Six Flags. I chose not to sit outside my theater for 48 days. Maybe that's why I wasn't disappointed in the Phantom Menace. I guess there's an art to waiting in line that I don't have a talent for. It doesn't seem like such a special experience to me. I really wanted to like this film. I'll probably enjoy it at a casual pace when it arrives on DVD. My wish is that the director would return to the material and flesh it out in greater lengths. This is something worthwhile that just needs some retooling.
I'm annoyed.
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ByB. Alan Orange ( Warning: Agent Orange's review's are rated R ) "I might be the only one to admit it. I love this movie. But the review itself is about A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY (a Star Wars fan documentary). It's semi-okay, which is half-an-oh better than I was yesterday..."
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