George, dude. Haven’t you been reading? An entire movie was made about your scandalous and quite possibly pathological compulsion to update fucking ruin your already-published works. There’s a post about it right below this one.
For those of you out of the loop, you’re lucky. I can’t unlearn it, so I might as well drag as many of you down with me as possible. George Lucas, in planning to re-re-re-re-rerelease the Star Wars Sextilogy on blu-ray disc, has carefully selected some of the worst overused tools from his prequel palette (namely, ‘unnecessary CGI’ and ‘Hayden Christiansen screaming NOOOOOOO!‘) and applied them carelessly to key elements of the original trilogy.
First and most egregiously, Vader will now scream his evidently-trademark NOOOOOOOO as he throws the emperor down the Death Star’s, um, energy shaft… thing… at the end of Return of the Jedi. You mean to tell me that this is closer to your ‘original vision’ that you didn’t have the technology to capture in 1983? Oh, wait, is that the sound of THAT EXCUSE NOT WORKING ANYMORE? YEAH, I THOUGHT IT WAS.
Second and also most egregiously, the wonderfully puppeted Frank Oz version of Yoda is to be replaced by the soulless digital version. Just fuck yourself, right now.
Thirdly, and only slightly less egregiously, I have some good news for all of you who were unnerved by the eternal unblinking stare of the ewoks: CGI eyelids for everybody!
What’s that? You never noticed that the ewoks don’t blink? I never did either, actually… I was just agreeing with you all in order to fit in. Come to think of it, I bet the only thing I’ll notice during subsequent watchings is how freaking creepy ewoks are gonna look as they blink their giant digital eyelids. Thanks for the nightmare fodder, Mr. Lucas.
I don’t have any better way to bring this post to a close than to just sigh heavily and reminisce about how Star Trek: The Motion Picture still preserves that unabashed seventies-ness, that honest representation of how we in our own past viewed a future from our plastic-covered couch cushions: one that was full of leotards and void of superficial enhancements. I’ll pour an especially large drink in honor of Roddenberry, who — were he still alive — would never dress his baby up in whore makeup like some sadistic pageant mother. Let the damn things grow up on their own, George.