George Lucas and Me
By: M. H. Rubin
Tags: Synchronicity, Star Wars, Movies, Lucasfilm, Magic

George Lucas and Me

“The Wizard of Oz”, Dir. Victor Fleming © 1939 Warner Home Video. All rights reserved.

In the history of cinema, there are a few moments that were life altering for the audience in ways it’s hard for us to imagine today. One was in 1939, in The Wizard of Oz — when the start of the movie was “normal” in black and white… and then she crashes in Oz, and walks into a world that’s in color! It would have been transformative.

Another was in 1977, in the opening scene of Star Wars: a little space ship is running away from a terrifying monster of an imperial destroyer, and the theater speakers are emitting ultra low frequency sounds, the kind that are created during earthquakes, that rattle your bones and make the hairs stand up on your neck. I was already primed after reading about the upcoming movie in Time magazine earlier in the summer. But from the moment the film began, I was a fan.

Rebel cruiser running from the Imperial Star Destroyer, from the opening of “Star Wars, Ep 4”. Dir. George Lucas. © 1977 Lucasfilm Ltd.

It’s also hard to imagine today in a world of binging TV shows on Netflix, but waiting three years to see the next episode… the anticipation was palpable. The only way you could mollify the longing was to keep watching the first episode again and again. Which everyone did. And then Empire released in 1980, and Jedi in 1983. Shuffle these with Lucasfilm producing Raiders of the Lost Ark in 1981, and Indy 2 in 1984… the run of magic was unprecedented.

When I arrived to Lucasfilm in 1985, I did my best to hide that I was a fan-boy. I was there to join Lucas’ exploration into new computer technologies that could possibly make that 3-year movie-making hell go faster and smoother. (Spoiler alert: It can. And did.)

The company had mixed attitudes about fans — of course fans were the essence of the company business, and there was a “Star Wars Fan Club” that was an important section of the organization, which also gave employees posters and buttons; but behaving like a fan was bad — no autographs or photos with the various VIPs who’d frequently be there working. After Empire, as the company grew, Lucas was increasingly uncomfortable among his ranks; he would pop in and out as was necessary, but more and more the faces he ran into were unfamiliar.

He also had just gone through a difficult divorce, which ended in 1983 — giving his wife most of their cash and giving him all the assets of the company and films. This, combined with the merchandising revenues drying up after the release of Jedi—the end of the first (and plausibly only) trilogy—contributed to the decision to better monetize the various divisions of the company.

The Droid Works, my division, was one of those attempts at monetization. I shared a corner office with Dorothy, a pretty Hawaiian marketing admin who had been with the company since the early days, and seemed to be pretty good friends with Lucas. On her desk she had a framed picture of her kids, but next to it stood a photo of Lucas and his young daughter Amanda, and it had a sweet note from him written across it. She loved this picture, and she spoke of Lucas often. I was her captive, but willing, audience.