In suburbia: aerial view of Sunbury, Surrey, which straddles London's commuter belt. Photo: Rex Features
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Bryan Appleyard: in defence of the British suburbs

Bashing the ’burbs has been a common currency of artists and the intelligentsia, the right and the left, for over 150 years. But they are now undergoing a quiet renaissance.

The ’hood is cool – listen to Wu-Tang Clan, Boyz n Da Hood, JAY Z and just about every other black rapper. The ’burb is uncool – see Arcade Fire, Blur, Nirvana, even the Beatles, and probably a hundred other white rockers. To be young and/or hip almost always means you hate the suburbs and love the neighbourhoods.

’Burb loathing is not just a matter of age and race; it’s also politics. When seeking the most damning possible phrase to describe Margaret Thatcher, Jonathan Miller alighted on “odious suburban gentility”. The implication was that the lives of suburban dwellers were constricted, small, secretive and spiritually shrivelled. “The future,” J G Ballard wrote, “is just going to be a vast conforming suburb of the soul.”

Confronted by suburban “Metroland” development in the 1930s – mostly semi-detached houses, often with dubious glued-on antique detailing – Graham Greene spoke of “something worse than the meanness of poverty, the meanness of spirit”. And the cartoonist Osbert Lancaster waved aside the style he called “bypass variegated”.

In Coming Up for Air in 1939, George Orwell was revolted by the same “long, long rows of little semi-detached houses . . . The stucco front, the creosoted gate, the privet hedge, the green front door. The Laurels, the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, Mon Abri, Mon Repos, Belle Vue.” From the right, the poet Hilaire Belloc went even further – “Miserable sheds of painted tin/Gaunt villas, planted round with stunted trees/And, God! The dreadful things that dwell within.”

The British suburb, it was clear, had become an equal opportunity victim, available for kicking by the right and the left, the up and the down. Such sentiments have been a common currency of artists and the intelligentsia for 150 years. John Ruskin was appalled by the first signs of spec-built urban sprawl – the rather modest Victorian houses we later came to love. Suburbs, by drawing attention away from city centres, were thought to undermine civic pride.

In the mid-20th century this theme in particular was taken up by progressive urbanists. The movement of people from the inner city to suburban estates was seen as the destruction of communal values by a cold individualism. In 1955 in an article entitled “Outrage”, Ian Nairn, the architectural critic, wrote of “the creeping mildew that already circumscribes all of our towns. This death by slow decay is called subtopia . . . the world of universal low-density mess.” Nairn favoured the civic grandeur of city-centre developments such as the Bull Ring in Birmingham.

Mention of the Bull Ring, however, alerts the contemporary imagination to the problem with all of this. Civic pride and communal values are no longer associated with the destruction of old city centres and their replacement by all too rapidly spalling concrete blocks. In the cities now we sometimes look in vain for the unplanned, riot­ous warmth of the ’hood. The ’burbs, meanwhile, have been undergoing a quiet renaissance.

In his book Suburban Century (2003), the historian Mark Clapson aimed “to rescue suburbia from the enormous condescension of the rich, young, and trendy”. He wrote of the variety, rather than the uniformity, of the suburbs and defended them against both the feminist charge that they favoured men because they isolated their wives at home and the view that they were alienated places – in fact, suburbanites are enthusiastic joiners. In The Thirties (2010) Juliet Gardiner, another historian, even defends Metroland as a liberation for the lower middle classes: the housing boom between 1919 and 1939 produced four million new homes, of which three million were for private sale rather than council rent.

This form of defence of suburbs is not entirely new; it is rooted in some of the more nuanced Victorian reactions to urbanisation. In Garden Cities of To-morrow, first published in 1898, Ebenezer Howard created a bridge between the urban and the rural, softening the noise and crowds of the former with the greenery of the latter. Howard’s catchphrase has, in fact, just been given a new lease of life – Policy Network has advocated building garden cities to alleviate Britain’s perpetual housing cycle of bubble and bust, and the government has taken up the idea.

But the suburb itself found salvation in one place – Chiswick. There, just north of Turnham Green Station, in 1875, a developer named Jonathan Carr bought 24 acres of land on which he established Bedford Park. John Betjeman described this in 1960 as “the most significant suburb built in the last century, probably the most significant in the western world”. It had also been endorsed by the German architect Hermann Muthesius, who has come to be known as one of the great prophets of modernism.

“There was at the time,” Muthesius wrote in 1904, “virtually no development that could compare in artistic charm with Bedford Park, least of all had the small house found anything like so satisfactory an artistic and economic solution as here. And herein lies the immense importance of Bedford Park in the history of the English house. It signifies neither more nor less than the starting point of the smaller modern house, which immediately spread from there over the whole country.”

With its “Queen Anne” styling and picturesque “dendritic” – root-like – planning, Bedford Park influenced and continues to influence suburban design. Todd Kuchta, an American historian of the British empire, has argued that our suburbia replaced empire, using imperially exotic and nostalgic imagery. Maybe that is true of Bedford Park, a little paradise of British aspiration at home as well as abroad.

But, most importantly, it was a rural-urban compromise, deliberately designed to offset the stress and dirt of the city with the calm green of the country. Indeed, Carr advertised his housing development with the claim that this was “the healthiest place in the world (annual death rate under six per thousand)”.

Bedford Park was built among green fields, although it has since been enfolded by London. This raises the question of whether it is now, technically, a ’hood rather than a ’burb. It seems to matter because of a stylistic and cultural prejudice imported from America. Most British suburbs have been organic outgrowths of cities, spreading slowly and awkwardly out into the limited tracts of available land, held back by planning restrictions, nimbyism and the sheer expense of acquiring land in such a small and densely populated country. American suburbs have none of these restrictions. Land is in effect limitless and cheap.

In the US, suburbs were genuinely built outwards into wilderness. They were settler communities, and the buildings were almost certainly the first on the sites. The cities spread outwards into nothingness. Americans were more or less forced to live there by cheap cars, cheap fuel and assorted financial incentives. The American dream of the 1950s was of a big house, a huge yard, a garage and a slick car in the drive. The ’burbs were good and, for a time, untroubled by social prejudice – the British could never give a car the name “Suburban” but that is what Chevrolet called one of its giant SUVs. The typical city became a clump of downtown towers surrounded by vast concentric rings of urban development.

There were dissenting voices, of course. Malvina Reynolds’s song “Little Boxes”, immortalised by Pete Seeger, trashed the endless, empty uniformity of suburban homes: “Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,/Little boxes on the hillside,/Little boxes all the same.” The Beats and the folkies who colonised New York in the 1950s and 1960s were all on the run from the anonymous hell of the suburbs.

But it was the very extremity of these US developments that was to start a new anti-suburb movement. They had gone too far. “No other country,” writes Leigh Gallagher with evident distaste in The End of the Suburbs: Where the American Dream Is Moving, “has such an enormous percentage of its middle class living at such low densities across such massive amounts of land.”

The ’burbs, it became clear, were not green. They ate up land; they increased commuting distances – between 1969 and 2009 the average mileage of a household in the US jumped 60 per cent. That, combined with the higher fuel costs of houses rather than flats, made the ’burbs especially bad for the planet. Also, the argument ran, suburbanites tend not to mingle; in this way, they lose the face-to-face contact that makes urbanites so cool and creative. And as the Harvard economist Edward Glaeser argued in his book Triumph of the City, if you want to save the planet, then you should move at once from the ’burb to the ’hood and stop destroying ever more wilderness with your bungalows, gardens and golf courses.

At the end of this litany of complaints, the financial crash of 2007 was a particular catastrophe for the American suburbs. Sub-prime lending had sold suburban houses to people who could not afford to repay and who simply abandoned their homes, leaving vast tracts of empty properties across the nation. Now much of suburbia has become an embarrassment.

In 2010, Gallagher says, suburban growth stopped, prices started falling and numbers in the cities started rising. The Millennials – those born between 1977 and 1995 – seem to hate the ’burbs and, according to a 2011 US study, 77 per cent say they want to live in urban areas. As a result, there is forecast to be a surplus of 40 million “large lot” homes in the US by 2020.

The further counter-intuitive argument for the ’hoods and against the ’burbs is that they are more natural. As the sociologist and architectural critic Lewis Mumford observed, neighbourhoods tend to form organically around human societies and their needs. There is no “theoretical preoccupation or political direction”; they grow like forests or meadows, acquiring newsagents, dry-cleaners, chemists, Indian restaurants and so on.

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You want to be sure, if you’re moving back to the city, that the place you choose is, indeed, a ’hood. You don’t want to go back to dwell in urban anonymity, you want to belong there, you want a proper ’hood. Dumbo – it stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass – is a chic little part of Brooklyn and it is where the suburban developers Toll Brothers decided to build an apartment block (prices up to $2m) using cracked concrete and carefully preserved graffiti. It was a follow-up to the “graffiti fence” that the architects Herzog & de Meuron had put up at 40 Bond Street – a Manhattan block with prices up to $27m. The fence consisted of cast aluminium made to look like graffiti. That’s the cool thing about the city – it looks lived-in, a bit wrecked, a bit dangerous.

This, of course, is inauthenticity, bad faith, rap style without the oppression. But it’s a lot more fun than London’s mindless destruction of neighbourhoods with dark, armoured buildings for the very rich, such as One Hyde Park in Knightsbridge.

There is also a reverse process going on for those still stuck in the ’burbs or having to move back there because of expanding families. Suddenly suburbs are being urbanised. This creates a new category of settlement that the New York Times called “hipsturbia”. “Here,” wrote Alex Williams, “beside the grey-suited salarymen and four-door minivans, it is no longer unusual to see a heritage-
clad novelist type with ironic mutton chops sipping shade-grown coffee at the patisserie . . .” Hipsturbia has happened in Britain, too, with bearded hipsters infesting coffee houses in every suburban centre.

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Fashion, for the moment, seems to be supporting the environmentalist view that cities are greener than the countryside, as well as the prophetic vision of a future of densely populated hi-tech cities around which the wilderness is allowed to return.

Well, maybe in America. It is a mistake to conflate US and British conceptions of suburbs. We simply don’t have real wilderness on which to build and neither is our conception of home so closely associated with size – American ’burbies competed with the size of their home and their cars. Our suburbs are usually marked by a variety of styles and sizes, usually because they have been built over longer periods. The difference between a neighbourhood and a suburb is also much more ambiguous because the gradations between city centre and outlying areas are not so rigid. So, moving out in south-west London, Fulham is neither city centre nor suburb, Putney feels like an almost suburb and Wimbledon is 100 per cent suburban. But the lines are never quite clear and I don’t doubt that the Millennials in each of these places yearn for the authenticity of the true city-centre ’hood.

Furthermore, our suburbs are not places condemned for ever to be the same rigid developments lost in the vast open spaces. Britain’s suburbs were never imposed upon the wilderness. Many were once towns in their own right – think of Epsom, or Chiswick. They were simply annexed by the cities nearby that were expanding, not into nothingness, but into land that already had a human history.

There is also, in spite of the distaste of the intelligentsia for the ’burbs, a distinct suburban intellectual and artistic tradition. Hampstead dwellers might not think of themselves as suburban but, in shape and form, the place is much more a ’burb than a ’hood. Its name became, in the 1950s and 1960s, a label for a distinctive left-wing, dissident view of the world.

But Hampstead was nothing compared to Bedford Park for the simple reason that the latter was born and flourished at a time of unprecedented (and never-to-be-repeated)greatness in British cultural life. From 1914, we ceded our global status to the Americans and the world would no longer feel it had to read English literature and learn of our ways. But, just before that moment, we were the cultural centre of the world, spawning and importing genius. Henry James, W B Yeats, Ezra Pound, Joseph Conrad, Ford Madox Ford, Edward Thomas, Stephen Crane, D H Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, H G Wells, Edward Elgar, Camille Pissarro, George Bernard Shaw, G K Chesterton and many, many more passed through or settled here. A fair number of them passed through Bedford Park. It even had its own pet revolutionary and murderer in “Stepniak” – Sergey Mikhailovich Kravchinsky – who had killed the chief of Russia’s secret police in St Petersburg in 1878.

As with Hampstead, its intellectual pretensions were often comical. Chesterton gently made the point at the opening of his 1908 novel The Man Who Was Thursday, set in Saffron Park, a lightly disguised version of Bedford Park. As he wrote, “It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable.”

After 1918 Bedford Park went into decline and, by the start of the Second World War, it was known as a profoundly impoverished place. Postwar, this all began to change and its buildings are now fiercely protected by statute and local passion – new homeowners are given a handsome green logbook with the complete history of their house in order to make them feel suitably pious and proud. The area should, in my view, be a Unesco World Heritage Site. Its design is beautiful and globally unique and it is associated with genius. What more could they ask?

The point about the place was that it was built as both a ’burb and a ’hood and that is what it still is. It unites what we have come to think of as opposites and, in doing so, Bedford Park created a distinctly British solution to the problems of the city. It is now a pricey place – not least because the City people it was originally built to serve have actually moved in. But it retains that feeling that Chesterton detected, of being a well-meaning little paradise, a kindly and fantastical backdrop for the living of the urban life.

Bryan Appleyard’s novel “Bedford Park” is newly published by Phoenix (£8.99)

This article first appeared in the 04 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, 100 days to save Great Britain

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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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