Episode One: Star Wars, Movie Violence, and my Dad

Image with words "Final Trailer" and image from 'The Rise of Skywalker

My dad and mom owned a small blue sailboat. The boat anchored in Madison, Wisconsin, about thirty yards off the coast of Lake Mendota.  Most of the time, while the boat was on the water, the sailboat trailer sat in our garage, collecting dust. But one summer day in 1977, a neighbor from around the block named Greg used four rollers of the boat trailer to tell me about Star Wars.  Everyone was talking about Star Wars. Greg had seen the movie. I had not.  Greg leaned over the trailer. “In Star Wars,” he explained, grabbing a roller, fastened along a metal track of the trailer, opposite three other rollers that attached as a set along a parallel track, “One spaceship can take on and defeat three ships.” Greg mimicked the sound of explosions, moved to the three rollers opposite the first, spun them, and swiveled them nose down so they pointed to the concrete floor of the garage. 

In hindsight, I’m not sure one spaceship destroying three is significant.  All adventure and action movies feature a protagonist facing what appear to be impossible odds.  The heroes typically turn out okay.  But in 1977, if I didn’t already want to see Star Wars, my friend Greg and my parents’ sailboat trailer convinced me that I must.   

My parents didn’t need convincing.  They loved the movies.  Soon enough, they took my brothers and me to see Star Wars.  From the scrolling prologue to the final battle within the trenches of the Death Star, the movie was everything Greg led me to believe, and more.  Like so many other children, I collected a few Star Wars Action Figures, paying for them with allowance money or opening them as gifts on birthdays and Christmas.  But whether it was Star Wars Merchandise or television programming that fed off the blockbuster, I had little patience for anything but the actual Star Wars movie.  Anything that wasn’t the movie, but that made me think of the movie, was a disappointment. 

Photo from 1977 of the Madison City Council. Fred Arnold is lower right

As I grew up, my parents continued to take me to the cinema, including the two sequels that completed the first Star Wars Trilogy.  While The Empire Strikes Back is often thought of as the best of all the Star Wars Episodes, the second movie left me confused and depressed. Soon after watching it, I confided in my parents, telling them how sad I felt about the deep freeze of Han Solo and Luke’s butchered hand.  Three years later, The Return of the Jedi restored order.  Darth Vader shed the Dark Side.  The rebels destroyed the new Death Star, and the galaxy celebrated.  Again, I shared my feelings with my parents, this time telling them how much I enjoyed the movie.  My father didn’t share my excitement. He tempered my joy, reminding me of the thousands of people who died.  I didn’t ask for clarification.  I didn’t know if he referred to the Ewoks killed on Endor and the rebel ships blown up in the final battle.  I don’t think he did.  I think he meant everyone, including those on the Death Star when it exploded.  If he did, I could have challenged him, arguing that if the Death Star weren’t eliminated, the weapon would have annihilated planets, killings millions.  But I didn’t.  No matter what his intent may have been, my father’s words that day led me to believe that no matter who dies, death is death.  Death is final.  Death is something to be mourned, not celebrated.  My father’s words have shaped the way I look at all movies and television.  

As an adult, when I moved away from my parents’ home, I continued to seek my father’s opinion of movies.  I usually called home once every week or two.  Sometimes my Dad wasn’t home, and I only talked to my Mom.  Any time the call included a conversation with my father, we typically shared thoughts about the latest movies we had watched. Beyond the violence, my father’s perspective dipped into details of film I rarely heard about in movie reviews and trailers. Talking about Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, my dad didn’t tell me about the naval battles or the plot.  He talked about the moments when the Russell Crowe and Paul Bettany characters played music together.  I rented Big Night over Netflix, for no other reason than to see the main characters cook an omelet in the final scene, a scene my Dad and my Mom relished.   

But my Dad’s thoughts about The Return of the Jedi are what stay with me stronger than any others.  I think about what he said any time I come across the movie on cable television. I watch the final battle scene, wondering if any Storm Troopers are spared in the wake of the battle, wondering if any members of the Empire escape from the Death Star, wondering if any of the Galactic Empire ships fly away still intact.   

Now that I am older, more so than the final battle scene, I am interested in the opening sequence with Jabba the Hutt, that ends at the Pit of Carkoon.  I track down the chapter on YouTube and watch closely, wondering if any of Jabba’s minions could have jumped off the barge before it exploded, then made it out of the desert alive.  I ask myself why Luke destroyed the ship after all the foes above deck had already been killed. He and his crew could have escaped without killing the musicians and the others below deck.  When I watch Luke pull the trigger on the cannon, sending a blast into the hull, sealing the fate of the survivors, I believe the original title of the film, “Revenge of the Jedi,” would have been a more appropriate name for the movie.  I search the internet for reviews and commentary that cover Luke’s decision to destroy the ship. I find nothing that speaks to the destruction of the barge.  I do find a statement that says the Jedi follow the Light Side of the Force, which is “built around the alignment of tranquility, compassion, selflessness, and unconditional love for all living creatures, (https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Light_side_of_the_Force).” Unless the decision was to spare the survivors death under the desert sun, there was nothing compassionate about pulling the trigger of the canon.  Another site that answers questions about the Dark and Light Side explains that to channel the Force, “a Jedi will silence/bury/control his emotions, (https://www.quora.com/What-are-the-differences-between-The-Light-and-Dark-Side-of-the-Force).” To me, it makes more sense to view the scene through the context of Luke ‘burying his emotions.” Nonetheless, after Luke secured his light saber, he no longer needed the powers of The Force.  His enemies didn’t have a chance.

My father’s words hover in my memory when I witness violence on the screen. I don’t believe his intent was to make me think about movies in such a way, but I can’t help but think about how violence is inflicted upon thugs and antagonists.  When I watch movies, I don’t dwell on the number of people who die in a movie. I dwell on the number of antagonists who survive.  In Mission Impossible II, when Ethan Hunt, alone a motorcycle, is pursued by a score of henchmen in cars, I wonder, “How many of those henchmen will make it alive through this car chase?” I had little interest to see the latest Indiana Jones Movie, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, beyond to learn if any of the Russian soldiers who mix it up with Harrison Ford’s character would live.  I watch James Bond movies with an eye toward the climactic engagements between Bond and the villain’s army. I know Bond will prevail.  The villain will die. I don’t know if any of the villain’s mercenaries will survive. 

The death count isn’t necessarily about Ethan Hunt, Indiana Jones, Luke Skywalker, or James Bond.  The death count points to the people behind the script and behind the camera.  I wonder if the extent of the violence and the outcome of the violence reflects the writer’s and producer’s views on capital punishment, redemption, and forgiveness.  The filmmakers manipulate the actions of the heroes, who leave piles of bodies in their wake.  Sometimes, the script leaves room for the survival of a few foes. 

In the James Bond Film, Tomorrow Never Dies, several members of the crew on the Stealth Ship appear to escape before the boat sinks.  In Wonder Woman, a few German Soldiers emerge from the wreckage at the end of the movie.  I dwell on the decisions that are made behind the camera, wondering about what, if anything, the film makers intend to say in the space between the death of all the antagonists and the survival of a few.

At work, I staff a monthly Peer Support and Art Group.  The second Tuesday of every month, people gather around a few tables.  We talk about what is on our minds. We eat pizza, and then we doodle with crayons, colored pencils, markers or paint.  In December, we had a group that was larger than typical. For most of the people at the tables, it was their first time in the group.  We went around the room, introducing ourselves. We were all asked to say our names and say one thing about ourselves. When it came to one young man who sat across the room from me, he didn’t speak.  Instead, he typed text onto his Smart Phone and then raised the phone over his head.  A member of his group read the text aloud.  The typed words included his name and this message, “I like reformed villains.”  His words resonated deeply with me.  Just like I may have misinterpreted the words of my father years ago, the words “reformed villain” probably don’t mean the same thing to that young man as they do to me.  But his words resonated.  He reminded me how I long for film and television villains, and more so the accomplices of villains, to survive the vindictive wrath of the protagonist and find peace and reconciliation in the future. I believe that too often popular culture doesn’t give villains the time to reform, or the protagonist the space to care.

When I told others about the introduction, some asked me to name a reformed villain.  Darth Vadar comes to mind.  His reformation allows him to die on the acceptable side of the Force. All the other people on the new Death Star weren’t given a chance to convert.  They were vaporized. 

In Tombstone, two of the ‘Cowboys’ have a change of heart after the rest of their gang terrorize the wives of the Earp brothers.  As part of their reformation, they join up with Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday to slaughter the remaining ‘Cowboys.’ In The Black Swan, Tyrone Power’s character gives up his life as a pirate.  The powers that be forgive his past transgressions under the condition that he hunt down other pirates.  In these examples, reformed antagonists atone through killing other antagonists.

Ebenezer Scrooge from Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol has an entire plot line dedicated to his reformation. If ghosts visited more villains, there would be more transformations. 

One the most recent Bond movies, Spectre, shows mercy to Blofeld, Bond’s arch enemy.  Who knows what path Blofeld takes in the future, but he is given a chance to follow a path.  A chance not offered to many who cross 007.

Oak Carving (Forged in Wood) with name "Arnold" inscribed and a tree at the lower right

My father died on March 3, 2018.  Sometimes I feel guilty because often when I think of him, I don’t imagine conversations about how much he is missed and how much he is loved.  Instead the conversations are about sports. I want to call him after the Cubs lose three games in a row by one run and fall out of the play-off race.  I want to talk to him about the University of Wisconsin Football team, and confess my disappointment that this year, like so many others, the Badgers didn’t beat Ohio State.  

And, I imagine talking about movies.   I want to tell him that I still haven’t seen the latest Star Wars Installment, The Rise of Skywalker. I want to see it.  But the conversation my father and I had decades ago reaches out from the recesses of my memory.  Nearly 40 years after The Return of the Jedi, I still dwell on the decision Luke made to destroy Jabba the Hutt’s barge. From what I read, I imagine the plot of The Rise of Skywalker will play out similar to The Return of the Jedi. I am scared that if I see the new movie, decades from now I will sit around, wondering why so many lives were lost.  

The vegetarian special

       Years ago, while biking home, I stopped at a Burger King.  The marquee outside the fast-food restaurant advertised $1 Whoopers.  At the cash register, I bought three and stuffed them into my backpack.  Turning toward the exit, I came face to face with two close friends.  One of them was vegan, and a vigilant animal-rights activist. The other was a vegetarian.  In the previous few years, when eating food with the vegan, I had never eaten meat.  Several times, under her influence and that of others, I had tried to become vegetarian.  At least once, I managed to go a few months without eating meat. But when holidays like Thanksgiving came around, I'd eat some turkey then tumble hard off the no meat wagon. I never told my friends about my attempts to become vegetarian.  I never told them that I ate meat.  But around them, especially the vegan, I tried to act like a vegetarian. 
           "What are you doing here?" I asked, defensively holding my backpack. We were at least two miles away from either of our homes.  I knew they hadn't stopped for the Whoopers.
           "To use the bathroom," the vegan said.  Neither of them asked me why I was there.  We talked for a few minutes, then I left for home, wondering if they knew what was in my backpack.     
          Sometime later, I confessed to the vegan that I was embarrassed to see her at the Burger King.
          "Why?" the vegan asked.
          "Because I had Whoopers in my bag.  I thought you believed I was a vegetarian."
          "I know you eat meat," the vegan laughed. "I never thought you were vegetarian."  I was relieved, but also perplexed that my efforts to act like a vegetarian didn't convince. 
          I don't often listen to the radio program "This American Life," but a few years later, I heard what has always been my favorite "This American Life" segment. The theme of the episode had something to do with pretending to be who you are not. One segment was about a young man going off to college.  One night while hanging out with about a dozen other students in a dorm room, he spontaneously created this persona for himself.  When offered a slice of pizza with meat on it, he declined, explaining that his parents were vegetarian and that he had never in his life tasted meat.  He spent his first semester convincing his skeptical peers that he had never tasted a Big Mac. In the segment, the college freshman shared stories about he and his father buying Arby's Roast Beef Sandwiches in bulk, then storing them in his freezer: and stories about the time he panicked when his mother and father came to visit over Parents Weekend.  To avoid the chance of any of his new college friends witnessing his mother or father eat meat, he took his parents to a vegetarian restaurant.
         I loved the story. The college freshman was ridiculous and he reminded me of myself.  His efforts to create a new persona reflected my own failed attempts to life a certain lifestyle and to convince others I lived that life style.  
        Nearly 20 years have passed since the day I bumped into my two friends at the Burger King.   For the last 12 years or so, instead of trying to become a vegetarian, I've put myself on a five days off, two days on cycle. Monday through Friday I don't eat meat. Saturday and Sunday, I do.   I can't call myself a vegetarian, but I kind of like the routine because no one else I know follows it, and because the routine works for me. 
       I listen to radio even less now than I did when I first heard the "This American Life" story.  But just last weekend, Chicago Public Radio replayed the segment about the pretend vegetarian at college.  I heard the story while driving home from the grocery store.  At first, I wasn't positive it was the same story.  After parking the car, I kept listening to the segment.  Then the story came to the part of the young man hoarding Arby's Roast Beef Sandwiches.  I smirked with delight, knowing it was the same story.  The title of the story replayed last weekend was, "The Sun Never Sets on the Moosewood Restaurant," under the theme, "Hoaxing Yourself." 
      A lot has changed since I ran into my friends at the Burger King so long ago.  I can't remember if I've been to a Burger King since then, (why would I go? The best I've seen them offer on a marque is two Whoopers for $5).  But hearing the story for a second time helped remind me that I'm not much different from who I was so long ago.  We don't see each other nearly as often now, my two friends and I.  But when I do see the vegan, I still won't eat meat around her, even if it's a Saturday.