Samuel L. Jackson
I trashed the boobless theater release of this film, but, unlike the old man in the classic children's story The Old Man Who Didn't Believe in Second Chances, I believe in second chances. And if anyone deserves a second chance, it's George Lucas.
That's one reason why this DVD review of Star Wars: Attack of the Clones is a special one for me; the DVD viewing is always the true experience for these films. And I'm not ashamed to admit, I am a huge, huge Star Wars fan.
In fact, one might even say that I'm a bit obsessed. For instance, I've seen the first and third films six times apiece, and I even own a copy of Phantom Menace. I've virtually memorized every syllable of each movie; get me drunk and soon enough I'll start breathing Darth Vader-style and saying, "the circle of the force has become one, Solo. Oby-One has taught you a lot!" Often when my wife says "I love you" I'll do my best Han Solo voice and say, "of course you do! Everyone loves me!"
The second film in the saga, The Empire's Revenge, or something like that, I haven't had the privilege to see all the way through yet.
It kind of creeps people out that I'm so deeply into the films, but what can I say? It's Star Wars! To prove how momentous those movies were, just compare other movies to Star Wars (such as the Matrix and Lord of the Rings trilogies). See that? They're not as good!
These modern classics Mr. Lucas brought us deserve every ounce of the fanaticism the fans bring to the table! That's why I was so disappointed to find the Attack of the Clones DVD to be such a flaming pile of crusted shit.
When we brought the disc home from the video store, I wasted no time in setting the mood with my almost ritual-like preparations. As Carrie (my wife) finished making the popcorn, I slid in the DVD and muted the television. Turning on my computer, I brought up my mp3 of The Humpty Dance by Digital Underground, and set it for infinite play. Carrie entered the room as I simultaneously pressed "Play" on both the DVD player and my Winamp to start off what was sure to be a grand viewing.
"Oh, no," sighed Carrie. "We're not doing this again, John."
"What?" I innocently replied, adjusting the volume on my computer speakers.
"That," she barked. "We're not doing that again. Every time we get a chance to spend some time together with a good movie you turn on that stupidass song and giggle every time the main character appears to be singing along with it. I want to actually watch the movie this time."
"But, honey," I retorted, "you will be watching it. You just won't be hearing what they're saying. Would you like me to turn on the closed caption thingy so you can see the script?" I patched my PC audio cables into my stereo speakers for some extra punch.
"Turn the music off right now. I'm not spending the next two-and-a-half hours listening to you giggle over the grating background of Humpty Hump's voice."
"In three seconds, if that music isn't off and that TV turned up to an audible level, you will never touch these boobs again. Ever."
A tense silence filled the air, just as when Darth Vader faced down Obee-Won in Episode IV and told him that he should gather 'round, because he was the new fool in town and that his sounds were laid down by the underground.
"You cut me, woman," I growled. "You cut me deep... Fine. You can have your precious sound. But make no mistake... I'll be touchin' me some boobie tonight."
Readjusting the TV's volume and turning off the computer, I sat down with my wife. As the screen went dark, I sat back in anxious anticipation.
Sometimes the stories after the stories are even stranger.
For as much as people love them, the 'Star Wars' movies have gotten rather awkward from time to time.
Bawitdaba, pass the green beans.
Going for that 16th minute.