Much like Haley Mills in the Parent Trap, I always thought everything would be perfect if my parents got back together. Life would even out, and for the young Miss Bliss, they did. For so many they don’t, and that’s what has me fearful and hopeful all at the same time.
Don’t worry, readers. I’m not going to wax philosophical about divorce. I’m talking about a different kind of parental pairing, specifically the recent acquisition of Lucasfilm by Disney.
I made the parental analogy in the beginning because that’s what these companies feel like to me. I grew up with them. Return of the Jedi is the first movie I vividly remember seeing in the theater.
For the record, I hid behind my teddy bear the entire time Jabba the Hut was on screen.
And the pantheon of princesses that currently lords over the Magic Kingdom were the friends who kept me company on every sick day as a child. I fell asleep to the strains of Cinderella’s ball more times than I can count.
So when I read the news that Disney had bought out the male figurehead of my childhood entertainment last week, I had a brief euphoric moment of “Mommy and Daddy are getting together at last!!”
My glee was short lived though. It was all anyone could talk about online, even as the city I call home fought off sea swells and a nor’easter. For reals, Mother Nature? A hurricane and a winter storm so fierce the meteorologists named it Athena in one week? You’re kind of evil. But anyways, back to Mickey and Yoda.
It felt good at first. These two entertainment giants who I have loved my whole life, regardless of less than classy moves in terms of gender, race or historic representation, were coming together and immediately the rumors began.
“Star Wars VII is on it’s way.”
“It’s totally going to happen, you guys! Let’s hope it’s better than Phantom Menace.”
And I thought, much like any kid who has seen significant others come and go in their parents’ lives, “Oh it’s new. It won’t happen fast.” But it did. It went from a rumor with the buy to news in various places this week that a writer had already been chosen. They were starting to work on a script. It was happening.
I want it. The kid in me who played with gigantic AT-ATs with her brothers and waited in line for Phantom Menace, really wants to see this long-promised but basically given up on seventh film. But the adult in me, the one pontificates on the horror that is the digitally edited versions of the original trilogy, specifically the insertion of a young Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi, and complains about the sidesteps from canon that were taken with the second trilogy, fears what will happen.
It’s like both sides of my fangirl self are biting their nails and looking worried. Nothing will actually make me feel better about it until lights dim in a theater in a few years, the yellow words start scrolling up the screen (AND THERE BETTER BE YELLOW WORDS SCROLLING THROUGH SPACE), and I dig into a bucket of popcorn.
I just hope I get my own Disney happily ever after in the end.
Image by Amy Mebberson and used with her permission