And so the Rolling Stones, once the stirring loins of rock and roll, now a hairy melanoma on its haggard face, announce yet another world tour. It's hard to tell which is the louder response--the collective groan from rock critics and hipsters, or the swishing of the kadjillions of dollars shucked over by Boomers who can easily afford the $10-a-song premium to hear "Satisfaction" churned out once more. There's always weak hope that one of these days Mick will cough up some dignity and let the beast die--this is, after all, a band that rocked hard for eight years and then sucked hard for 30.
But why should he quit? You got an oil well, you mine that puppy. I'll 'fess, I once went to a Stones show and was highly entertained, but it was more like watching an operatic music video than a rock concert. Afterward, I felt a little cheap--and a good amount poorer. Prostitutes just run a business; the shame, if it falls, falls on their willing johns. More than just my own shame, I was inwardly shocked at my father's willingness to re-proclaim those geriatrics as the World's Greatest Rock And Roll Band. Didn't he care that they were exploiting his fondest memories of youth, turning something once fierce into farce?
Well, I shrugged, it's his memories being sponsored by Sprint, not mine. I chalked it up to the utter failure of the Woodstock generation to retain its integrity. Now, my g-g-generation never had any integrity; Woodstock 3 doesn't stand as our Altamont, because "Break Shit" was always closer to our motto than "Peace and Love." But I wasn't prepared to have my own memories raped, not yet.
So I can't help feeling a deep shame at being entertained by Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones. I walked out relieved that it was nowhere near as bad as some shrill critics said. (Salon's Stephanie Zacharek claims that she almost literally ran from the theater). But at what price comes this entertainment?
I realized shortly afterward that I had enjoyed Attack of the Clones only because the traumatic shock of the cumbersome Episode I had so numbed all connection to the original trilogy. These movies are Star Wars only in name, not in spirit. With the promise of a wondrous reawakening to childhood fantasy already broken, Episode II plays like a clumsy but devoted piece of fan fiction--made without the original spark of mythical cinematic inspiration, by fanboys and for fanboys. And as a fanboy--rather than a regular, wide-eyed boy--it's fun. Kinda.
Yeah, we'll bite, but damn George Lucas and his cursed baited hook. There's no law against making mediocre movies, but if there were any justice in this world then he would be hunted down, encased in carbonite and hung on display in Planet Hollywood for all eternity. Direct comparisons are almost too painful to make. Think of The Empire Strikes Back (Star Wars' Exile on Main Street). A prickly and charged romance blossoms between Han Solo and Princess Leia, amid interplanetary chases and asteroid fields; on the other hand, Attack of the Clones' lovebirds eye each other like dorks at a middle school dance, set against the beatific backdrop of a genital herpes commercial. It's like putting on Voodoo Lounge after listening to Sticky Fingers. Gone is the raw mythic power, the thrilling and dangerous promise of youth.
Jagger and Lucas have made themselves into tragic modern myths. The first, a raunchy and gaunt Narcissus who stared at the pond of celebrity and froze into grotesquerie; the latter, an ambitious dreamer who made his fantasy come to life, only to be compelled by his ego to soil the masterpiece after the fact. The only problem with these tragedies is that they still get rich, and we come out feeling like the victims!
Is it selfish to cling so stubbornly to our memories, to feel outrage as the dark iconic power of Darth Vader's head is swiftly replaced by the grinning fool face of Jar Jar Binks? Perhaps it is just foolish to expect better. The two biggest blockbusters of the last six months, Spiderman and Lord of the Rings, gained near-unanimous--and well-deserved--praise, just for not dropping the ball. They couldn't have given us any more because they already belong to us in a form purer than any elaborate stage design. All they could do was pay a loving and dutiful tribute, and we can be thankful for that much.
So the line between reverence and hackdom is thin and wavering, and pop culture cannibalism has no capacity to distinguish between the two--we knew that already. But with Scooby Doo squatting to drop a turd this summer, and rumors of Goonies 2, Ferris Bueller 2, and Indiana Jones 4 being tossed around, it looks like things are getting desperate. By now I'm almost glad that half of the Beatles have passed; at least we're safe from the terror that a reunion tour led by Paul could wreak. This is sensitive stuff being trampled on in hi-tech multiplexes and stadiums! As we get older, slack, and dulled, we shouldn't have to see our cherished fantasies suffer the same fate. But we will, shameful johns that we are. We'll keep going back.
Greg Bloom is a Trinity senior and senior editor of Recess.
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