Star Wars

 

In February 1977 I was 15 years old, a little more than half way through grade ten, and a fan of Science Fiction.  I read Science and Science Fiction books voraciously.  I had a subscription to Analog Science Fiction|Science Fact magazine.  A year earlier I had been excited to read Frank Herbert’s Children of Dune, the third volume in the now never ending Dune series, serialized in Analog.  I must have first read Dune when I was 11 or 12.

In those days Science Fiction, with the rare exceptions like Star Trek, on television, and Kubrick’s 2001 in cinema, was almost purely a literary phenomenon.  And Science Fiction fans were readers above all else.  We — well, they — I never got to a convention — they went to Science Fiction conventions to meet their favourite authors and editors, to get books autographed by superstars with horn-rimmed glasses or massive side-burns or, in the case of Asimov, both.

Those superstar writers and editors had started their careers as fans, and generations of Science Fiction writers have followed that path to a career as an author.  I remember a number of authors from my Analog subscription and wonder what ever became of those lucky souls whose first publications I read in those pages.  I wonder if youngsters like Orson Scott Card or George R. R. Martin ever went on to do anything else.  And the cover art!  I wonder what ever happened to artists like Rick Sternbach and Mike Hinge, whose covers consistently blew me away for vastly different reasons.

In February 1977 I read the book reviews in Analog.  The reviews were Lester del Rey’s usual feature, “The Reference Library”, at the end of the issue, just before “Brass Tacks”, the letters to the editor.  The first book reviewed was Frederik Pohl’s Gateway, the beginning of what would be a series of novels by Pohl.  The second book is something called Walkers on the Sky by David J. Lake.  And the third book . . .

Well, the third book is a little thing the hero of which is, as del Rey writes in reference to the previously reviewed book, “oddly, named Luke Skywalker.”

Here is the first encounter I and a great many Science Fiction Fans had with this thing called Star Wars:

del Rey Star Wars 1 001  This book called Star Wars was credited to a new author named George Lucas.  It was, as most know today, ghost written by Alan Dean Foster, now well known as a Science Fiction writer.  Foster’s career had received an early boost with the commission to “novelize” the animated Star Trek as the Star Trek: Log series of paperbacks.

But, back to Star Wars and del Rey’s review and as a Science Fiction fan my experience of the years since 1977.

In May 1977 I saw Time magazine’s “Film of the Year” article about Star Wars and thought “this could be interesting”.  Soon after it opened in Edmonton — at the Odeon on Jasper Avenue, I think — I went to see the film with my mother.

I liked it.  It was fun.  The dialogue and science were equally crappy. It was not a thought provoking stumper like 2001 nor a discussion novel made SF TV like Star Trek. The best thing about it was something pointed out in the Time article: the world of Star Wars was battered, grubby, and lived in. Otherwise, it was a crappy space opera and I enjoyed it.

And I was fifteen.

I felt it was the precursor of something.  Star Wars seemed parallel to the cheesy, often badly written pulp fiction Asimov celebrated in his anthology Before the Golden Age.  I figured that we’d have some cheesy pulpy Science Fiction films for a bit, but surely a Golden Age of intelligent Science Fiction cinema was on the horizon.

In the fall of 1977 I moved to del Rey Star Wars 2 001Grade 11, still fifteen until December.  My new English class was taught by Mr. Mallet, one of the finest teachers I ever had.  Part way through the year he completed his Masters thesis (Symbolism of some sort in Hawthorne).  At some point that year he was advisor on a “special project” I did for credit.  I wrote my first novel — Science Fiction, of course, and, of course, unpublished.

I don’t know how he arranged it, but Mr. Mallet designed the entire Grade 11 English program around Star Wars.  Except Macbeth. Macbeth was done separately.  But Mr. Mallett made a point of reading the Porter scene, which had been excised from our texts, aloud to the class.  Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead with the alcoholic impotence!

So, the class had a field trip to the Odeon to see the film and then the readings were assigned: Dune, for the desert planet, The Wizard of Oz, for the Tin Man, The Hobbit for the quest and the wizard . . .

Two students raised their hands.  “Read ’em already” Jenny and I said.  Jenny’s an Egyptologist in New Zealand now.  We were friends then.

Mr. Mallet replied: “Lord of the Rings.”

“Read it.”

“Twice”

“Right.”  Mr. Mallet paused a moment.  “You two will spend class time in the Library researching and writing essays on subjects I assign.”

As the rest of the class belly-ached about unweaving Lucas’ rainbow and “only two weeks to write 250 words?! Impossible!” Jenny and I skipped off to the library with Mr. Mallet’s wonderful gift of time to read and write with unheardof freedom combined with sympathetic direction.

My best friend Dan was a huge fan of Star Wars although he had never been a particular fan of Science Fiction.  He liked cars and girls. And cinema.  While still in High School he was working at an Edmonton television station, coming up with some innovative set and prop ideas.  Today he works in the film industry in Vancouver as a property master.

Dan had a Darth Vader action figure and a classic sports car.  I had a storm trooper action figure and a battered Ford Custom when I could get permission from my father to use it.  We hung our action figures from our rear-view mirrors.  My heart was never really in it.  Dan’s heart seemed to be in every thing but perhaps was really in nothing much other than career in those days.

We lost touch.

In 1977 Science Fiction fandom was about reading.  In 2015 it is about cinema, television, and gaming — and Star Wars is the colossus that bestrides every convention, every consciousness.  Yes, there are still readers of Science Fiction, but the money — and the fans — are in the films and their tie-ins — the action figures Dan and I hung in our cars, the novelizations, and occasionally in the novels that script the visual presentations.  Do fans read the novels that seeded the blockbusters?  From what I’ve seen of the recent cinematic versions of Tolkien, the novels are only skimmed by the film makers.  As a friend said to me once of Lynch’s film of Dune, “It’s as though he filmed the first page of each chapter and the last page of the book.”

I can’t help but look at fans today, idolizing the actors and ignoring the imagination behind the actors, indeed, ignoring their own imaginations and their own potential.  I can’t help feeling something has been lost in a Golden Age still-borne.

Are young people still inspired by the Dragons of Pern? Do they need a movie or TV show to take them to Earthsea?  Will they ever puzzle over Bombadil now that fandom is about blockbuster films rather than words on a page?

I look around at the society we have created, the internet, the International Space Station, the Artificial Intelligence in every toaster and coffee maker.  I look at our Brave New World of reproductive technology and multiplicity of gender. I look around and I read myself into Heinlein, Clark and Asimov, Le Guin, Tiptree and Russ.  The world around me is the world I read before Star Wars.  It is also a world like and unlike 2001.  But it is not a world at all like contemporary blockbuster Science Fiction films.

Before Star Wars, Science Fiction fandom was about imagination and its freedom.  After Star Wars fandom has become about imagination structured, about cannon, and, above all, about consumption.

About a decade ago, my old friend Dan’s partner sent me a note before his fortieth birthday, asking for a thought, a wish, a memory.  I don’t remember what I wrote.

We drift from our childhood friends and childhood things.  I’ve not heard from Jenny or Dan or Mr. Mallet in forever.  I no longer have my copy of Foster’s Star Wars. But then, I’m reading Dune again right now.  And I still have my original paperback copy.  I hope there’s a young person somewhere out there reading Dune – in paperback – for the first time.

Del Rey, in the penultimate paragraph of his review of Star Wars, the book, writes:

“Maybe the book is all right for some of the juvenile audience, but it certainly isn’t for sophisticated readers.”

Not long after Star Wars my subscription to Analog lapsed.  Reading is no longer analog for most – it is digital.  I’ve lost touch with much of contemporary Science Fiction.  Gibson and Stephenson are pretty much just names.  I’ve read The Hunger Games but seen none of the films.  I expect the special effects are spectacular.

I think I might try to reconnect with Jenny and Dan.  We are no longer the juvenile audience of the original Star Wars. We now live in the grown up Science Fiction I read as a kid.

 

And these days I should still be able to make the Edmonton/Vancouver/Auckland Run in less than twelve parsecs.

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A Shout Out to the Planetary Society

It’s been about half a year now since I started throwing my thoughts out from Behind the Hedge (someday I may explain the blog title) and apart from a few hints and passing references, something fundamental has been missing:  Science.

When I was just tiny, a few years before watching Neil Armstrong smudge his way down that shadowy ladder with the really big step at the bottom, I poured over my father’s National Geographic Magazines, enthralled by two things:  the explorations of the sea, mostly by Jacques Cousteau, and the planned exploration of space, mostly by NASA.  When I moved out on my own, one of the first things I did, remembering the excitement of my childhood, was to get my own subscription to National Geographic Magazine.  Sometime later, my father handed over all his back issues stretching back to the mid-1950s.  Now I have almost sixty years of the things and I remain subscribed, although the sense of adventure has faded quite a bit.  Over and over I say to each month’s issue “You climbed a whole mountain!  Wow!  Did you know there’s a bunch of old men over there who WALKED ON THE MOON before you were born?!  And they got there in what amounts to little more than a  Volkswagen Kombi with a bunch of big bombs strapped to the back of it!!”

Shortly after the moon landing, I took Charles Coombs’ Project Apollo out of the school library and then made my father order me my own copy from some bookstore in downtown Sudbury, Ontario.  I still have that book.  I spent my days making.  I made sharks out of plasticene and (strangly square) Saturn V rockets — complete with lunar module concealed in the top of the third stage — out of Lego.  And I craftily built the lunar module upside down so that it could dock with the command module.

Guess how I was turned onto the poetry of Yeats when I was in junior high school.

An epigram to a chapter in Intelligent Life in the Universe by Carl Sagan and I. S. Shklovskii was a bit from Yeats’ “Song of the Wandering Aengus”:

Though I am old with wandering
through hollow lands and hilly lands
I’ll find out where she has gone
and kiss her lips and take her hands
and walk among long dappled grass
and pluck till time and times are done
the silver apples of the moon
the golden apples of the sun

And wither the threads from that poem through my life?

I reverently lifted one line for one of my few published (very obscurely published) bits of verse:

. . . on broken roads which lead nowhere
I search for unknown goals
through hollow lands and hilly lands
sun burning on my back . . .

I suspect that Yeats, together with a well timed visit to the banks of the River Wye, lead me to Wordsworth who was so obviously a pleasant uncle (but not a “funny uncle”, despite Ken Russell’s Clouds of Glory which quite probably led me to Tom Stoppard, charmingly guided by Felicity Kendall) to the child who was the father of the man I am.

And what about art?  I suspect that a strange meeting in my adolescent mind between Jacob Bronowski’s Ascent of Man, Kenneth Clark’s Civilisation, and David Hardy’s The Challenge of the Stars put me on that road.

As a barely-past-tween, when I privately decided that painting was to be one of my lives, my first purchase was a big tube of Mars Black, because all I was going to paint was David Hardyesque space scenes.  Now I buy huge jars of titanium white and very, very rarely buy a small tube of some very traditional earth pigment, and hardly ever use black.  On the surface, my painting owes more to pre-modern traditions than to the Space Age  But, when I honestly consider things, scientific exploration — which I consider art- and literary-criticism to be — is the only thing that makes me passionate. High School acquaintances told me later in life that they thought I’d follow a science path.  Nope.  Anglo-Saxon poetry for me.

Where did that come from?

A long, long time ago I held a copy of  The Lord of the Rings in my hands in a Public Library in Windsor, Ontario and said to myself “This looks like a cheap rip-off of the Narnia stories.”  In hindsight, I was an idiot at that moment, but, fortunately, my mother reintroduced Tolkien to me for a third time — I had, without making the connection, spent a moment with “Smith of Wooton Major” in some elementary school classroom.  Tolkien made me learn Old English and learning Old English vastly improved my understanding of language and poetry.  After five years, two degrees, and a couple of publications, I left formal academia behind, again to the surprise of professors and colleagues.

Now, decades later, I subscribe to five publications:  The Old English Newsletter, which arrives at odd intervals; Canada’s History (formerly the Beaver) which comes bimonthly as near as I can figure; the comfortable old National Geographic; Scientific American; and the increasingly infrequent Planetary Report, which is a part of the real point of this post.  Except for the Old English Newsletter, I read every issue of these magazines from cover to cover.  In fact, I first subscribed to Scientific American after reading Anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss’ mention that he, too, read that magazine from cover to cover every month.  To me, all five magazines are about understanding the world and my place in it.

But, the Planetary Report is a voice from and to my childhood.  If you haven’t heard of this wonderful little publication, it is the newsletter of the Planetary Society, a think tank/lobbying organization/fanclub/cult/bunch of really varied and smart people founded by one of the smartest, Carl Sagan and two friends three decades ago with the sole and noble purpose of teaching people that space exploration is beautiful, inspiring, artistic, fascinating, gobsmackingly neat and absurdly inexpensive considering the wonders, both practical and human, it returns and, even more, considering the insane obsenities we spend obscene amounts of our labour and humanity on.

Early supporters were Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Ray Bradbury.  Bradbury, before his death intervened, was scheduled to be a part of a little Planetary Society get-together in a few days.  The Planetary Society is perhaps the ultimate geek club — “I’m making space exploration happen!!!”, but for over three decades this bunch of ordinary and extraordinary people has quietly, soberly, and doggedly pushed governments to push the boundaries of knowledge and pushed the boundaries of knowledge themselves during times when governments have been remarkably loathe to learn much of anything.

Today the Planetary Society’s CEO is Bill Nye (yeah, that Science Guy) and has a remarkable  board of directors, including Niel deGrasse Tyson, Director of the Hayden Planetarium and the coolest astrophysicist ever (“that black guy from PBS” as one friend of mine describes him.  Sometimes Canadians can be a little too blunt.)

Some of the Advisory Council of the Society are artists, writers, Star Trek actors and, yes, one of them is an old man who has WALKED ON THE MOON!! After travelling there in what amounts to a Volkswagen Kombi with a bunch of bombs strapped to the back!!

The latest issue of the Planetary Report closes with a poem and a beautiful piece of art of the sort my thirteen year old self dreamed of painting.  Inside there are stories about urban Dark Skies efforts, about the Mars Science Laboratory which should land on Mars in a few days (it’s about the size of a Volkswagen Kombi, but the technology has advanced a bit), about near-Earth asteroids and extra-Solar planets.  And there are projects for kids.

Projects for kids.  One of the finest things the Planetary Society has done over the years, finer than sending digital copies of classic Science Fiction literature and art to Mars, finer than launching member-financed space missions, finer even than sending my name (and those of thousands of other Society members) to Saturn — about the finest, noblest thing the Society has done is to encourage young people to dream, to learn, and to achieve.  The Planetary Society provides grants to young scientists, to amateur scientists around the world.  The Society has provided brilliantly creative teenagers the opportunity to conduct real scientific investigation with robots on mars — hands on!

Although U.S. based, the Planetary Society is Planetary, with members around the world and making efforts to work with space agencies of all countries.  The societies grants are available to any nationality, its student outreach is global.

And, once a year they have this thing they call “Planetfest” in Pasadena and at science centres all over the planet.   A whole huge crowd of dreamers, scientists, poets, artists, writers get together to look up at the sky and say

“Wow.  Just Wow.”

And

“Thank you, Carl.”

This year Planetfest happens in just a few days, August 4th and 5th, timed to watch the landing of The Mars Science Laboratory.

I’ve never attended as I am, perhaps ironically in the context of the Planetary Society, a bit of a homebody, but if there were ever a crowd I’d have a laugh being a part of, it would be this one.  I’m not recruiting for the Society.  I’m not suggesting that anyone who might read this should run out and buy a membership (although that would be fine, if the fit is right).  What I am interested in doing is letting people know that the Planetary Society exists, what it’s for,  and what sort of person ends up as a member.

I am a working artist, a lover of theatre, a reader of poetry, and absolutely the most inspiring thing I can imagine is exactly what the Planetary Society was created to do and exactly what Art, Theatre and Poetry are for: to help us all to understand where we are in this inconceivably huge existence.

It’s a perfect fit.

Update, September 4, 2012:  A few days ago I was having a silly conversation about googling one’s self and I came across this brief blog post by Charlie Loyd in which Carl Sagan and I are associated through a fairly obscure aspect of Old English poetry.  It seems I have come full circle, in a sense: inspired to poetry  by Carl Sagan as a child and then associated with him through poetry much later in life.  It is a funny old Cosmos, isn’t it?