Bobby: My moral beacon

Robert Kennedy believed he had a mission to combat poverty. In an exclusive extract from his book on

In his youth and well into his thirties, Robert Kennedy was known as moralistic. He saw the world in black and white, in a perpetual conflict between good and evil. At first, corruption, greed and dishonesty were the evils that impelled him to act, but in the years after his brother's death in 1963 he was moved to anger and action mostly by injustice, by wasted lives and opportunity denied, by human suffering. Kennedy, who had mastered the politics of attack, now practised the politics of moral uplift and exhortation. The street fighter had become a street preacher, the political pragmatist a prophet.

This was not a wholesale reinvention. The strain of moralism was consistent from his youth to the end of his life. In fact, people wrote of how from an early age this "moralistic" young man was always interested in the excluded and disempowered. Those who knew him before say that this "streak of caring" was always there. According to one friend he never lost that strain of moral commitment. Both as the political pragmatist of the 1950s and 1960s and as the compassionate idealist vying to change the world in the mid- to late 1960s, he believed in the eventual triumph of good over evil and prized services to others over personal gain. Both arose from his upbringing and early influences. They were not created but were brought to the forefront by the suffering he experienced after his brother's assassination that had given him, in the words of a close friend, "a tenderness so rawly exposed, so vulnerable to painful abrasion that it could only be shielded by angry compassion to human misery or manifest itself in love and loyalty towards those close to him".

In To Seek a Newer World he was honest enough to describe the two temptations that in the pursuit of his cause he had to show the courage to resist: what he called the danger of timidity and the lure of comfort. On the surface, this idea is reminiscent of JFK's study, Profiles in Courage, but in fact the meaning is not the same. The essential attributes of courage turn out for Robert to be quite different: moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential quality for those who seek to change a world that yields only grudgingly and often reluctantly to change.

I believe that in this generation those with the courage to enter the moral conflict will find themselves with companions in every corner of the world. For the fortunate among us, the danger is comfort, the temptation to follow the safe and familiar paths of personal ambition and financial success so grandly spread before those who enjoy the privilege of education. But this is not the road history has marked for us, and all of us will ultimately be judged and as the years pass we will surely judge ourselves on the effort we have made to building a new world society and the extent to which our ideals and goals have shaped that effort.

But what marked out the Robert Kennedy of the mid-1960s for so many who worked with him - and this perhaps most clearly revealed Robert's deep moral and political convictions - was his passion for children, their fate and their fortune. His interest in practical and bold new policies to alleviate child poverty had started to develop when he was attorney general from 1961 onwards. He had become interested in the link between poverty and race and self-worth and crime, and he invited a group of juvenile offenders to his office. "If I had grown up in these circumstances," he concluded, "this could have happened to me." He met gang members in Harlem. He sponsored legislation aimed at preventing youth crime, travelled to Appalachia and sent President Johnson a memo on racial violence in urban centres.

Wherever Kennedy travelled he was drawn to children: he listened to them, held them, talked to them, got down to their level; these were not staged Kennedy appearances. A friend, columnist Mary McGrory, wrote that she often brought children from the local orphanage for parties at the Kennedy home: "It was total immersion on both sides. Kennedy needed children as much as they needed him." He said that, aged three or four, slum children's faces had "a certain vitality and beauty" that their well-off middle-class contemporaries did not have, but he speculated that at the age of eight to 12 the faces of these children changed as they sensed the oppressiveness of the world. When he met children in Brazil he begged them to stay on at school but left dejected, saddened because he saw not only the desperate need for proper investment in education, which now had to be fought for, but that they had uttered, at a deeper level, "a cry for love". He wanted, as he commented himself, to bind up their wounds.

He "always saw poverty through the lens of children and young people", said his adviser Peter Edelman. "So much of what he did was based on instinct. He was quite different from his cerebral brother in his mode of thought and action." And in later years Robert Kennedy clung to a scrap of paper left on his brother's desk at the end of the last cabinet meeting they attended together in 1963: an agenda scribbled over repeatedly with the word "poverty". For Robert, this became his brother's last will and testament - almost a summons to a lifetime of action.

Focus on poverty

So when Robert Kennedy returned from the depths that followed his brother's death, he toured the country to see for himself the condition of America, to focus on the poverty that was often forgotten or unseen, and then to speak out on what changes needed to be made. One of his first visits was to meet impoverished black children in the Mississippi Delta in 1967, where he was shocked by what he saw. He was, he said, "appalled" by the open sores, the stench, the vermin, the lack of nutrition. He was visibly shaken when he rubbed a child's stomach "and found it distended by starvation". And he spoke out. What angered him was that this was the America of the 1960s, the richest nation on earth, yet here were "children with swollen bellies and running sores on their arms and legs that appeared not to be healing". He reported he had seen "rat bites on the faces of young children even in the wealthiest city in the world, New York". It profoundly affected his thinking. After one visit to the Mississippi, Edelman recalled:

His children say he came home to dinner that night deeply shaken and that he a man of few words so much of the time could not stop talking about what he had seen that day . . . it was one thing to say we needed more jobs or improvements in public education or a better welfare policy. It was something quite different to say we had near starvation in our rich country.

With this first-hand knowledge of the slums he talked openly of the "obscenity" of poverty. The word "unacceptable" became a favoured injunction that for him demonstrated moral outrage. As Kennedy said in Kansas in March 1968: "I have seen these other Americans . . . I have seen children starving, their bodies crippled from hunger." Theodore Roosevelt's daughter, Alice Roosevelt Longworth, said that with the outrage he showed, Robert could "have been a revolutionary priest".

But Robert Kennedy did not only expose; he organised and proposed changes in welfare policy that went beyond the offer of food stamps. He had to convince a disbelieving secretary of agriculture that in mid-1960s America there were still children dying of hunger. Robert Coles, a renowned child psychiatrist, recalled Senate hearings where Kennedy organised the medical evidence, working out how it could best be presented to overcome the doubts and even the cynicism of some colleagues. It eventually led to a select committee on hunger and malnutrition [. . .]

But what was new was not simply a more energetic and urgent focus on child poverty: it was to argue that the child poverty, inner-city, racial and slum problems that scarred 1960s America could only be solved through a new philosophy of government. Kennedy's originality was that he was the first from the left not only to express major doubts about big bureaucratic approaches, but the first also to call for a reassertion of personal and social responsibility, an end to welfare dependency, the empowerment of the poor and partnerships for renewal that brought private as well as public sectors into urban regeneration. His starting point for empowerment was that work, not benefits, offered the way out of poverty, and he was the first from the left to put a renewed emphasis on personal responsibility as the key to civic renewal. "I'm not for a guaranteed income, I'm for guaranteed jobs," he would say.

His was a muscular Democratic philosophy that founded his ideas of economic and social progress around a new self-reliance from the powerless and a new engagement from the powerful. He had come to the view that too much welfare left the poor dependent. He had seen an alternative to the old welfare in bottom-up community action during the short-lived War on Poverty, with communities strengthened by being rebuilt by the people who lived in them. And he was first to point out the sheer waste of unemployment and welfare costs to pay for it. New York, he said, spent more on welfare than on education. Putting his faith in the dignity of work and the potential of education, he asked Adam Walinsky to shape a programme founded on these principles for urban reconstruction in all major cities of the US. But his new philosophy of empowerment was also rooted in his embrace of the goals, the ideas and even the language of the civil rights movement. This embrace had come gradually - and perhaps reluctantly. In the early 1960s - and on the central issue of black rights - Martin Luther King had said of Kennedy that the moral passion was missing, and Robert Kennedy admitted later that he and his brother John were particularly reserved about King during that period of time.

Pathology of the ghetto

What Robert Kennedy saw in the ghettoes - the very scale of child poverty - converted him. He now talked of "the pathology of the ghetto"; and prefiguring a debate about the loss of community among the bigness of cities as "a besetting sin of the 20th century"; he lamented the decline of civic pride and "the destruction of thousands of invisible strands of common experience and respect which tie men to their fellows". "The whole history of the human race had been the history of community," he said, "and it was now disappearing." He spoke eloquently of the moral imperative of civil rights and of "the violence that affects the poor, that poisons the relations between men because their skin is different", and urged a radical programme of political, economic and social rights starting with votes and jobs. He concluded that "the violent youth of the ghetto is not simply protesting his condition but making a destructive and self-defeating attempt to assert his worth and dignity as a human being" [. . .]

The John F Kennedy who left an indelible impression on the consciousness of the world was also in private a man of irony and self-irony, with a cerebral detachment, "an idealist without illusions". The Robert F Kennedy of 1968 was different, an idealist who saw what others regarded as illusions - the empowerment of the poor, the liberation of the dispossessed - as the only practical outcome for an America true to itself.

If JFK was a man who believed that greatness was defined by great deeds, RFK became a leader who exemplified the greatness of seeing and feeling the hurts and hopes of others. When David Frost asked the 1968 presidential candidates how they wanted their obituaries to read, Robert Kennedy simply replied: "Something about the fact that I made some contribution to my country or those who are less well-off. Camus wrote about the fact that this is a world in which children suffer" - he paused - "I'd like to feel that I'd done something to lessen that suffering."

Both Kennedys left a legacy of poetry as well as power. But in Robert, tempered by the tragedy of his brother's loss, there was vulnerability as well as steel. His appeal beyond leadership was an empathy that did not proclaim itself but was self-evident. To him, the work of change - to redress injustice, to bind up the wounds of violence and indifference, to heal the brokenness of the world - was above all a moral command.

Courage over caution

There could be no advance to a new world in 1968 without addressing the question of Vietnam. So was Kennedy's advocacy of a negotiated peace settlement a conversion born of cal c ul at ion - as contemporaries alleged - to wrest the presid ential nom ination from Lyndon Johnson, or was it a brave act of self-sacrifice?

The facts are on Kennedy's side. First, opposing the war in Vietnam was not, even in 1968, a way to win many votes. It was only after the Tet Offensive, in January and February 1968, that a (slight) majority of the American public sentiment went against the war; previously most Americans supported it, and a good number actually thought the US should commit more troops. Nineteen sixty-seven was known as "the year of the hawk". Thus every time that Kennedy spoke out against the war, as he did forcefully in early 1966 and early 1967, he lost ground in the polls. Part of this was due to perceptions that he was pursuing a vendetta against Johnson. But mostly it reflected the fact that stoking anti-war sentiment was not yet a viable, mainstream political strategy [. . .]

Kennedy was caught between his deeply felt moral and strategic qualms about the war and his shrewd understanding of the political game, which suggested acquiescence as the safest approach. It was "an ordeal", said Arthur Schlesinger of discussions in 1967 and 1968. He had never seen RFK so torn, so obviously divided, about anything. But in the end, Kennedy's moral courage prevailed over his political caution. By the start of 1968, after repeatedly rebuffing those who had urged him to lead the movement to "dump Johnson" and end the war, Kennedy decided that he could simply not live with himself if he abdicated leadership. He took the greatest risk of his political career - the greatest leap into uncertainty - and, as he slid inexorably towards challenging Johnson, he finally spoke his mind about the war.

Kennedy started to allege that Johnson had departed from his brother's policy of self-determination for the Vietnamese and that he had switched from one point of view to another. Johnson, he now believed, had Americanised the war. Once the US had waged war, he claimed, because the South Vietnamese had wanted the war. Now from that standpoint, Kennedy challenged the whole basis of the war, questioning the morality of intervention and the accuracy of the domino theory. He broke from the established view that if Vietnam fell so would the whole of Asia.

But when Kennedy finally broke publicly with Johnson and announced his bid for the presidency in March 1968, he had a mountain to climb. He knew that part of his political challenge was to energise newly enfranchised black voters and to win back the young, anti-war Democrats who had abandoned him for Senator Eugene McCarthy - an earlier, passionate and more consistent opponent of Vietnam. But, unlike McCarthy's, Kennedy's was no protest campaign; he intended to win [. . .]

A late arrival to the contest, Robert Kennedy did not achieve as much as he had hoped for in Indiana, where he won the primary with overwhelming black support but failed to win over the white middle and working classes. Then in California he won and became the commander of the anti-war cause. "On to New York," he said, the last great primary, and moments later was assassinated. He had privately wanted to offer Eugene McCarthy a deal, that in return for his standing down he would be Kennedy's secretary of state. A family friend, the journalist Joseph Alsop, warned him, "You must really give more weight to the support of what people call the establishment than I think you do."

We will, of course, never know whether Robert Kennedy's strategy would have prevailed. But the brilliance of Ken nedy's courage was not so much in what he achieved in 1968, but what he foreshadowed for the generation to come.

Gordon Brown's "Courage: eight portraits" will be published in June by Bloomsbury (£16.99)

This article first appeared in the 30 April 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Pakistan: The Taliban takeover

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Starting Star Wars: How George Lucas came to create a galaxy

On the 40th anniversary of the release of the original Star Wars, George Lucas biographer James Cooray Smith shares the unlikely story of how the first film got made.

While making THX 1138 in 1970, writer/director George Lucas told composer Lalo Schifrin that he wanted to make a Flash Gordon picture, an updating of the 40s sci-fi serials that he’d enjoyed as a child. It would, however, be those serials not as they were, but how he remembered them as having been. When the rights to these proved unavailable, he began to work on original idea, hoping to create something similar, but which he would own himself.

In January 1973, after completing his 50s nostalgia picture American Graffiti but before its release, Lucas began his outline for this space adventure. The first line of this near-incomprehensible document was The Story of Mace Windu. Mace Windu, a revered Jedi-Bendu of Opuchi who was related to Usby CJ Thape, Padewaan learner to the famed Jedi.’

"Jedi" was a word Lucas had coined to describe a clan of warrior mystics who were essential to his story. A man whose fascination for Japanese cinema had become a general interest in Japanese cultural history, he’d named them after the branch of Japanese drama that drew moral and instructive lessons from stories set in the past – Jidai geki.

This version is set in the thirty-third century and features a teenage Princess, droids, an Evil Empire and a grizzled Jedi warrior, General Skywalker, whose plot role resembles Luke’s from the finished film, although his character is Obi-Wan Kenobi’s. It climaxes with a space dogfight and ends with a medal ceremony. Among the planets named are Alderaan (here the Imperial capital) and Yavin, at this point the Wookiee homeworld. Some characters from this draft (Valorum, Mace Windu) would eventually find a home in The Phantom Menace more than twenty years later.

By May Lucas had a 132 page script, The Adventure of Anikin Starkiller. Skywalker had acquired the forename Luke but was no longer the protagonist. This was Anikin (sic) Starkiller, one of the sons of General Skywalker’s old comrade, the partially mechanical renegade Kane Starkiller. Anikin had to protect a Princess, aided by two robots R2-D2 and C-3PO.

Lucas had worked backwards from Flash Gordon, looking to uncover the source of his appeal, hoping to transfer it to his own story. Once he’d worked his way through the comic strips of Gordon’s creator Alex Raymond, he tackled Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jules Verne and Edwin Arnold’s Gulliver on Mars. Conversations with his New Hollywood peers about the archetypes thrown up by his reading – and which he increasingly saw everywhere – brought him into contact with Joseph Campbell’s then newly published Myths to Live By (1972) an anthology of lectures and essays from a man who devoted his career to identifying the basic archetypal characters and situations which he felt underpinned all human mythologies.

"The book began to focus what I had already been doing intuitively" Lucas later said, an idea which seemed to him to itself reinforce Campbell’s contention that such archetypes and situations dwelled in a collective unconsciousness. Lucas expanded his reading to epics of all kinds, and began planning a visual style that would combine the vistas of Japanese master director Akira Kurosawa with the kind of static-camera realism which he’d used on American Graffiti.

Lucas wanted over-exposed colours and lots of shadows, but shot in a way that made them seem unremarkable. Seeing the Apollo missions return from the moon "littered with weightless candy bar wrappers and old Tang jars, no more exotic than the family station wagon" had illustrated to him the problem with every fantasy movie ever made. Their worlds never looked like people lived in them. His film would depict a "used future". Describing the aesthetic he’d sought to American Cinematographer he explained: "I wanted the seeming contradiction of…fantasy combined with the feel of a documentary."  To Lucas Star Wars wasn’t science fiction, it was "documentary fantasy".

There was only one studio executive Lucas thought had any hope of understanding what he was trying to do, Fox’s Alan Ladd Jr, son of the late actor. Like Lucas and his contemporaries in New Hollywood, Ladd was a man driven by a love of cinema. Lucas could communicate with him through a shared vocabulary, describe a planned scene as being like something from The Searchers (John Ford, 1956) or Fahrenheit 451 (Francois Truffaut, 1966) and be understood. Ten days after his presentation to Ladd, they signed a development deal. Fox agreed to pay Lucas $15,000 to develop a script, plus $50,000 to write the movie and another $100,000 to direct it, should it actually be made. American Graffiti associate producer Gary Kurtz was named as Producer for Star Wars, and received $50,000.

The script development money gave Lucas enough to live on whilst he continued work on the screenplay. As he did so it changed again; a ‘Kiber Crystal’ was written in and then written out. Skywalker became Deak Starkiller’s overweight younger brother before becoming the farm boy familiar from the finished film. Characters swapped names and roles. A new character named Darth Vader – sometimes a rogue Jedi, sometimes a member of the rival ‘Knights of Sith’ – had his role expanded. Some drafts killed him during the explosion of the Death Star, others allowed him to survive; across subsequent drafts his role grew. Some previously major characters disappeared altogether, pushed into a "backstory", Lucas choosing to develop the practically realisable aspects of his story.

This is an important clarification to the idea that Star Wars was "always" a part of a larger saga, one later incarnated in its sequels and prequels. That’s true, but not in an absolutely literal way. Star Wars itself isn’t an excerpted chunk of a vast plotline, the rest of which was then made over the next few decades. It’s a distillation of as much of a vast, abstract, unfinished epic as could be pitched as a fairly cheap film to be shot using the technology of the mid 1970s. And even then much of the equipment used to make the film would be literally invented by Lucas and his crew during production.

In August 1973 Graffiti was released and became a box office sensation, not only did the profits make Lucas rich (he became, at 29, a millionaire literally overnight) its success meant that Lucas was able to renegotiate the terms of his Fox deal. Rather than making demands in the traditional arenas of salary and percentages Lucas wanted control of the music, sequel and merchandising rights to his creations. Fox conceded him 60 per cent of the merchandising, aware of its potential value to them, but eventually agreed that Lucas’s share would rise by 20 per cent a year for two years after the film’s release. Few films made money from spin-off products for a whole 24 months, and Star Wars would surely be no different. Lucas got the sequel rights as well, albeit with the proviso that any sequel had to be in production within two years of the film’s release or all rights would revert to Fox.

Most important amongst Lucas’ demands was that, if it went ahead, he wanted the film to be made by his own company, not by Fox. That way he could control the budget and ensure all charges and costs made to the production were legitimately spent on the film. The experience of watching Mackenna’s Gold being made while a student on placement a decade earlier had taught him just how much money a studio could waste, and on a film like Star Wars – which was both ambitious and would inevitably be under-budgeted – it was crucial that this did not happen. Control of the music rights also had a sound reason behind it. Universal were making a fortune out of an American Graffiti soundtrack that was simply a repackaging of old hits featured in the movie. Of the profits of this Lucas saw nothing despite having selected the tracks featured and fought long and hard for their inclusion in his film.

In March 1975, Ladd took Lucas’ draft to the Fox board. They passed it and budgeted the film at $8.5m. Characters bounced in and out of that script right up to the preparation of the shooting draft, dated 15 January 1976. This was tailored to be as close to the film’s proposed budget as possible, and contain as many of the ideas, characters and situations Lucas had spent the past few years developing as he considered feasible.

This draft is the first version of the script in which Kenobi dies fighting Vader. Previously he had been injured, but escaped with Luke’s party. Alec Guinness, who had already been cast, was initially unhappy with this change, but was persuaded by Lucas that a heroic death followed by appearances as a spectral voice would prove more memorable to audiences than his spending the last third of the film sitting on Yavin whilst the X-Wings went into battle.

Filming began on location in Tozeur, Tunisia on 22 March 1976. Before shooting Lucas sat his crew down and made them watch four films which he felt between them defined what he was after in Star Wars. Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 (1969), Douglas Trumbull’s 1975 Silent Running, Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time In the West and Fellini’s Satyricon (Both 1969). The Leone picture was full of the sun-blasted vistas Lucas wanted to evoke for Tatooine, and the Fellini film, with its aspects of travelogue and attempts to portray an entire society in a fly-on-the-wall manner gave an idea of the "documentary fantasy" approach the director was so keen on. All four films shared one vital element: they’re windows onto lived-in worlds remarkable to audiences but regarded as ordinary by the film’s characters.

The first scenes shot for Star Wars were those of Luke buying Artoo and Threepio from the Jawas outside his foster parents’ home. Producer Kurtz had allowed 11 days for the shoot, after that a borrowed army C130 Hercules was scheduled to pick up the cast and crew.

A few days into shooting, creature make-up man Stuart Freeborn was taken ill and had to be flown back to Britain where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. Other crew members contracted dysentery. On 26 March Tunisia experienced its first winter rainstorm for half a century, damaging equipment and exterior sets delaying filming of key scenes.

Lucas wanted the stormtroopers to ride ‘dewbacks’, dinosaur-like domesticated beasts that allowed the troops to move across the desert. One dewback was built, out of foam rubber stretched over a wire frame. It could only be used in the background and no one was ever seen riding one. The other live animal Lucas wanted to portray was a Bantha, a huge horned, shaggy beast reminiscent of a prehistoric mammoth. It was to be the mode of transport for the Tusken Raiders, faintly Bedouin, vaguely mechanically-enhanced humanoids who attacked Luke in the Jundland wastes. In the end, creating the beasts proved impossible, and while they were referred to in dialogue in scenes that were shot (‘bantha tracks…’) none of their sequences were lensed.

As hard as the shoot was on Lucas, he at least had an idea of what he was trying to do and how it would all fit together. The actors, suffering stomach troubles, sunburn and long days, were less clear. Anthony Daniels trapped inside an almost immovable fibreglass body suit suffered the worst. Twenty five years later he would give credit for helping him to get through the Tunisia filming to Alec Guinness. "He was incredibly kind to me…I firmly believe that I wouldn’t have completed that arduous task of shooting without him."

Once the Tunisian shoot was over, the cast moved to EMI Elstree Studios in Borehamwood, outside of London. Star Wars was being made in the UK because it wasn’t possible to shoot the film in Hollywood at that time, not that Lucas – with his lifelong disdain of LA itself – wanted to anyway. Star Wars required nine stages simultaneously, something that no Hollywood studio complex could guarantee at anything like sufficient notice. In March 1975 producer Kurtz had flown to Italy to look at studio space, but found nothing suitable. He then caught a plane to London, where Lucas joined him.

Together they scouted UK film studios. Pinewood was a possibility, but management insisted Lucasfilm hire their technicians, a condition which became a deal-breaker. Neither Shepperton nor Twickenham had enough sound stages (although the giant Stage H at Shepperton  - bigger than any stage at Elstree – would ultimately house one scene of the film) which left only EMI Elstree. Then losing £1 million a year, Elstree was being kept open more or less on the insistence of Harold Wilson’s government, whose allies in the Trades Union movement considered the closing of the facility unconscionable. Elstree had no staff, and anyone who wished to rent it had to supply their own technicians and much of their own equipment. Off-putting to many, it sealed the deal for Lucas and Kurtz, who wanted to move their own people in. They hired the facility for seventeen weeks starting at the beginning of March 1976.

To design and build the sets needed to turn to Elstree into a realisation of Lucas’s screenplay they hired John Barry, a British designer who had worked under Ken Adam on Barry Lyndon (Stanley Kubrick, 1975) a film Lucas admired enough to hire its costumier John Rollo as well.

Elstree’s two largest stages were given over to Mos Eisley Spaceport and the interior of the Death Star. Both the Mos Eisley hangar bay and the one inside the Death Star which replaced it on the same stage were constructed around the full size Millennium Falcon set created by John Barry’s protege Norman Reynolds. Built by Naval engineers at Pembroke Dock, Wales it was 65 feet in diameter, 16 feet high and 80 feet long. It weighed 23 tonnes.

The absence of Stuart Freeborn, still recovering from Tunisia, meant that most of the aliens seen in the Mos Eisley cantina sequence were completed by assistants and lacked any articulation at all. Unhappy with the scenes as shot, Lucas resolved to do to re-shoots back in the USA.

The last scenes to be shot were for the opening battle, as Vader and his stormtroopers boarded the blockade runner. With little time Lucas used six cameras, manning one himself (Kurtz manned another) and shot the sequence in two takes. The six cameras produced so many different perspectives on the action that even the duplicated events that are in the film are unnoticeable. The finished sequence, chaotic though the creation of it was, is amongst the best put together moments in the movie, a superb evocation of Lucas’ documentary fantasy approach, and the cameras dart in and out of the action like reporters shooting newsreel footage. Virtually the first live action seen in the picture, its style later went a long way towards convincing audiences that what they were seeing was somehow real.

Principal photography completed on 16 July 1976, although some re-shoots and pick up shots for the Tatooine sequences were undertaken in Yuma, Arizona in early 1977. Amongst those scenes shot were those featuring the Banthas. Lucas borrowed a trained elephant from Marine World, and had it dressed to resemble a more hirsute, fearsome pachyderm. Mark Hamill was unavailable to participate. He’d crashed his car of the Antelope Freeway in LA shortly before and was undergoing painful facial reconstructive surgery. Although Hamill should have been involved in the re-shoot, in scenes of Luke’s landspeeder moving across the desert, Lucas had no choice but to film them without him; he took a double to the shoot, dressed him in Luke’s costume and put Threepio in the foreground. Also re-shot, over two days in La Brea, California, were portions of the cantina sequence. New cutaways and background shots were filmed to be inserted into the Elstree footage in order to eliminate as of the unsatisfactory masks as possible.

While supervising editing of the film Lucas experienced chest pains, and was rushed to hospital where he was treated for a suspected heart attack. He was later diagnosed with hypertension and exhaustion, both exacerbated by his diabetes.

Fox were by now trying to book Star Wars into cinemas, and had picked a release date in May, long before the 4th July public holiday, long regarded as the opening weekend of summer. Fox wanted $10m in advance bookings for Star Wars, desperate to recoup an investment that internal studio sources had now decided was foolish. They secured less than $2m, and achieved that only by implying to theatres that they wouldn’t be offered Charles Jarrot’s much-anticipated The Other Side of Midnight if they didn’t sign up for Star Wars too. Before its release several exhibitors complained at this "block booking" and filed suits; Fox was later fined $25,000 for the practice, punished for forcing cinemas to agree to show something which was, by the time they paid the fine, the most financially successful movie ever made.

In early 1977 Lucas screened Star Wars for a group of friends, it was nearly finished – although the opening crawl was longer and many of the special effects shots were absent, represented instead by sequences from World War II films and real combat footage shot by the USAF. Among those present were Brian De Palma, Alan Ladd Jnr, Steven Spielberg and Jay Cocks. Martin Scorsese had been invited but troubles editing his own New York, New York meant he didn’t turn up.

De Palma hated Star Wars, and spent the post-screening dinner rubbishing it to anyone who would listen. Others present were unsurprised, De Palma had behaved in the same way during the group screening of Scorsese’s’ Taxi Driver; laughing loudly through Cybill Shepherd’s conversations with Robert de Niro, and at one point shouting "Shit!" halfway through a tense scene. Only Spielberg seemed impressed, and told Lucas that he thought Star Wars would take $100m. Lucas pointed out that nothing took $100m, and countered that Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind would do better at the box office. The two directors wrote what they considered realistic estimations of what each other’s film would make in its first six months of release on the inside of matchbooks, which they then traded. By the time Lucas got round to opening Spielberg’s matchbook and saw the figure $33m in his friend’s scrawling hand Star Wars had already made ten times that.

Odd as it seems now, when every blockbuster is prefaced by months of breathless, unrelenting media "enthusiasm", Star Wars wasn’t released on a wave of hype or accompanied by an extensive marketing campaign. It was released (on 25 May 1977) to thirty-two screens, after a barely publicised premiere at Mann’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. It made $2.8m in its opening week, but didn’t receive a nationwide release for two months. Despite almost unprecedented success in preview screenings, Fox were still unsure of what to do with Lucas’ bizarre children’s film. Indeed it, only got a Hollywood opening at all because William Friedkin’s Sorcerer – which had been intended for this slot at Mann’s – wasn’t finished.

So negative had advance feeling about Star Wars been that Lucas left the country; he was still in LA on opening day, finishing the sound edit (he was unhappy with the copy playing downtown, and unknowingly embarking on a lifetime of revising his movie) but the next day he and his wife (and Star Wars film editor) Marcia flew to Hawaii, where they were joined by friends, including Spielberg and Amy Irving. It was an attempt to escape what Lucas felt would be the inevitable terrible reviews and wrath of the studio. Even when Ladd called him to share his excitement over the movie’s colossal opening weekend, Lucas was unmoved; all movies labelled science fiction did well in their first few days due to the business attracted by the neglected fanbase for such things. It was only when the film continued to do outstanding business and was expanded to more and more theatres that Lucas considered returning early from his holiday, and began to realise that the film he’d just delivered had changed his life.

As "Star Wars" expanded into more cinemas, and people began to queue round the block to see it, shares in Fox climbed from well under $10.00 to $11.50 each; over the next three months the value rose to $24.62, nearly trebling in price, such was the film’s value to the embattled studio. It was a magnificent vindication for Alan Ladd Jr, who had more than once had to intervene to stop colleagues closing down the film’s production completely. He had never lost faith in Lucas and his bizarre idea, but he was virtually the only person employed by Fox itself who hadn’t.

Just a few weeks before, as the end of the financial year approached, Fox had tried, and failed, to sell its investment in Star Wars to a German merchant bank as an emergency pre-tax write off.

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