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The mutating terror threat: what do the Charlie Hebdo attacks mean for Britain?

Jihadis increasingly favour less sophisticated attacks on western soil. The danger to Britain is real and significant.

Blasphemy in the UK. Photo: Adrian Dennis/AFP/Getty Images

Among the more than 2,000 European jihadis fighting in Syria and Iraq, approval of the Paris terror attacks was universal and emphatic. “The people in the west learned an important lesson,” tweeted a Dutch fighter, Abu Saeed AlHalabi. “Your government can’t protect you when al-Qaeda puts you on their hit-list.”

A British militant with the nom de guerre Hudheyfa Al Britani warned that Muslims should not express sympathy with any of the 17 people murdered at the satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo, Montrouge or the Parisian kosher supermarket. “Any Muslim who attends the JeSuisCharlie solidarity march in Paris is a murtad [apostate],” he wrote on Twitter. A second Dutch jihadi, Abou Shaheed, urged people to follow the example of Saïd and Chérif Kouachi, the brothers who attacked the French magazine, and to “terrorise the enemies of Allah”. Shaheed also called for strikes against the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten (which, like Charlie Hebdo, published cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad) and against the anti-Muslim Dutch politician Geert Wilders.

The three European fighters quoted above are all members of Islamic State (IS), yet the attack against Charlie Hebdo has been linked to al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (Aqap). There is a necessary backstory here. The two terror groups have been engaged in a fratricidal war ever since IS declared its independence from Ayman al-Zawahiri, the head of al-Qaeda (of which Aqap is a regional division). Leaders of both organisations have frequently condemned each other while their members have fought it out on the ground.

IS has made no official statement about the attack on Charlie Hebdo. But the views of two more of its British fighters offer insight into the thinking of the group’s foot soldiers. Abu Qaqa, originally from Manches­ter, tweeted that what mattered was not who murdered the Char_lie Hebdo cartoonists, only that they had been killed.

Talking to me on Kik, a chat application for smartphones, Omar Hussain, 27, a former Morrisons security guard from High Wycombe, said: “I’m not fussed whether it’s done under the banner of Aqap or Isis. As long as the kafir [infidel] has been killed, that’s what counts. Killing a kafir who insults the Prophet is a praiseworthy deed.”

In this context the importance of avenging perceived insults against the Prophet Muhammad transcends even the most bitter institutional rivalries. That much seems clear from the twin attacks in Paris. When the Kouachi brothers fled to the outskirts of the French capital on 9 January, Amedy Coulibaly stormed a supermarket and killed four Jewish people.

It remains unclear how co-ordinated the two events were, but at the least Coulibaly was acting in support of the Kouachis. While the brothers told staff at Charlie Hebdo that they were acting on behalf of Aqap, Coulibaly separately declared his allegiance to IS in a video statement. Rather than this being a joint attack between the two groups, it is worth noting that Coulibaly was a long-standing friend of both the Kouachi brothers, underscoring the importance in terrorist activity of social bonds over self-identified institutional links.

Coulibaly’s common-law wife, Hayat Boumeddiene, is believed to have travelled in early January to Syria, where foreign fighters often punish those deemed to be insulting Muhammad or dishonouring Islam in other ways. “Today we lashed a guy for cursing God, 80 lashes but if he do [sic] it again a bullet!” as Shaheed, the Dutch militant in Syria, wrote on Twitter shortly before the Kouachis and Coulibaly were killed by French police.

In 2014, a British jihadi who calls himself Mujahid Sayyad, who previously attended Queen Mary, University of London, uploaded a video to Facebook that appeared to show several members of his group torturing a member of the Free Syrian Army. The man is bound in a car tyre and turned over to expose the soles of his feet, which are then beaten with a pole. He protests his innocence throughout but is kicked in the head and hit with the baton so hard that it eventually breaks.

Sayyad explained that the man “swore at Allah”, so “there was no stopping us”. He claims their leader had ordered them to teach the man “a lesson”.

For Hussain, the fighter from High Wycombe, it is not just blasphemers who need to be targeted. Settling scores is equally important. He told me he would urge “all Muslims in the west to follow suit” following the Paris attacks and that it is obligatory “to kill the British soldiers returning from Iraq or Afghanistan”.

This chimes with his previous public statements. Last October, Hussain featured in an IS propaganda video calling on British Muslims to “rise up” and “cause terror in the hearts of infidel communities”.

These are precisely the sentiments that worry Andrew Parker, director general of the Security Service (MI5). In a speech to the Royal United Services Institute in London on 8 January, Parker outlined the tangible and significant threat that Islamist terrorists continue to pose.

Syria is the global crucible of jihad today, the arena from which international attacks are both directed and inspired. The crisis there has almost certainly extended the terrorist threat to our shores for a generation – if not two. That might seem alarmist, but consider the scale. Since October 2013, “There have been more than 20 terrorist plots either directed or provoked by extremist groups in Syria,” Parker says. That is more than one a month over the past 15 months. Prosecutors have secured on average three convictions a month for terrorism-related offences in the UK since 2010. Three terrorist plots have been disrupted in the past few months alone.

And while the terrorist threat is intensifying once again, it is also mutating. Jihadi groups are now favouring less sophisticated attacks than before: these are harder to detect and require fewer participants. The most significant strikes on western soil in recent months – in Canada, France and Australia – have all involved gunmen operating either alone or in small groups.

It is almost impossible to stop such attacks. They do not require much preparation and demand little reconnaissance. Guns are also unnecessary; so the relative difficulty of acquiring them in Britain, compared to some other western countries, is no guarantee of security.

As the brutal murder in 2013 of Drummer Lee Rigby in Woolwich, south-east London, demonstrated, everyday items – knives, a meat cleaver – can be used as instruments of war. Nor was this the first time such an attack was carried out on British soil. Three years earlier, in May 2010, Roshonara Choudhry, a university dropout from New­ham, east London, attempted to kill her local member of parliament, Stephen Timms.

Choudhry stabbed Timms because of his support for the Iraq war. He was fortunate to survive but the symbolic repercussions of the attack reverberated: here was a British MP being targeted because of the way he had voted in the Commons.

This is the mercurial threat with which MI5 and its partners must now contend. There is no shortage of ungoverned spaces abroad where young British men might receive the training they need to orchestrate a successful attack here. Syria and Iraq naturally seem like the most likely origins of such a threat, but one must also consider Yemen, Somalia, Nigeria and parts of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border.

What can we learn from the Paris attacks? To start with, we need to analyse the nature and origin of the jihadis’ beliefs. Much has been written of the supposedly “offensive” and “provocative” nature of the Charlie Hebdo cartoons. “Don’t lampoon the Prophet of Islam,” its detractors seem to suggest, “and you won’t be harmed.” This echoes the argument that led to western disengagement from the Middle East and to our relegation to the position of spectators who can only observe impotently while the region implodes at the hands of robed rogues. “Don’t interfere in the Middle East and the jihadis will leave us alone,” went the conventional wisdom as IS began to overrun large parts of Iraq and Syria. Subsequent events have disproved this.

It is true that Saïd and Chérif Kouachi may have taken offence at the cartoons of Muhammad published by Charlie Hebdo but that is not what inspired their attack. The best indication of what actually motivated them comes from their own words during their murder spree: “We have avenged the Prophet Muhammad.”

That process of vengeance explains what the Kouachi brothers were attempting to do. They were seeking not to register a protest, nor to vent their anger at pictures they believed to be offensive, but to impose on the Parisian cartoonists their understanding of the Islamic punishment for blasphemy. Viewed this way, it was an act in pursuit of utopia – of the “idyllic” Islamist society to which the Kouachis aspired – where blasphemers are punished with death.

The attacks in Paris perfectly capture the Islamist impulse to push against the normative values of European society. We have been here before. More than a decade ago Theo van Gogh was killed in the streets of Amsterdam for producing a film that questioned the status of women in Islam. In 2010, Kurt Westergaard, a cartoonist with Jyllands-Posten who drew the most contested of the Muhammad caricatures, narrowly escaped murder after an axe-wielding intruder burst into his house. Months after that attack failed, the Swedish cartoonist Lars Vilks was assaulted at Uppsala University as he tried to show scenes from a feature film showing Muhammad at a gay bar.

Such reactionary attitudes are not limited to the European mainland but also run deep in many parts of British Muslim life. Almost exactly a year before the Paris attacks, Maajid Nawaz, a prospective parliamentary candidate for the Liberal Democrats and counter-extremism campaigner, tweeted the most innocuous of cartoons depicting Muhammad. The image, from a popular cartoon strip known as Jesus and Mo, featured a stick-figure Jesus saying “Hey” to Muhammad, who replies: “How ya doin?”

By tweeting the image, Nawaz was saying that he did not find it offensive and that “God is greater than to be threatened by it”. God may well have risen above it but his self-appointed British vicegerents certainly did not. Mohammed Shafiq, who leads the Ramadhan Foundation in Manchester, initiated a torrent of abuse against Nawaz. “Tweeting the J&M [Jesus and Mo] cartoons is abysmal,” he declared. “Just appalling.”

An intense campaign of intimidation followed. Petitions and emails directed at the Liberal Democrats urged them to drop Nawaz as a PPC. Shafiq also threatened to “notify all Muslim organisations in the UK of his [Nawaz’s] despicable behaviour and also notify Islamic countries”. Nawaz lost count of the subsequent death threats, although Shafiq has always insisted that he never intended to incite any physical harm against him.

The reference to “notifying” Islamic countries in the context of that episode is particularly important to consider here, not least because both Nawaz and the creator of the Jesus and Mo cartoon strip live in Britain. What concern should it be of any foreign power what free citizens do in their own country?

Blasphemy has long been the concern of foreign despots seeking to project legitimacy. This was memorably highlighted in 1989 when the Iranians issued their fatwa against Salman Rushdie for writing The Satanic Verses, but it was not an isolated incident of religious establishments seeking to silence creative expression.

Laws against blasphemy exist across large parts of the Muslim world, often with draconian punishments for offenders. A report published by the International Humanist and Ethical Union in 2013 found that apostates or blasphemers can receive the death penalty in 13 countries, all of them Muslim: Afghanistan, Iran, Malaysia, the Maldives, Mauritania, Nigeria, Pakistan, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, Sudan, the United Arab Emirates and Yemen.

Even while the Paris manhunt was still under way, Saudi Arabia began punishing a liberal blogger, Raif Badawi, with a sentence of 1,000 lashes and ten years’ imprisonment plus a fine of £175,000, supposedly for insulting Islam. Badawi’s wife, Ensaf Haidar, told the Guardian, “The Saudi government is behaving like Daesh [a pejorative Arabic acronym for Islamic State].”

This is where the distinction between our allies – such as the Saudis – and our opponents such as IS breaks down. Both operate a policy of strict liability towards any perceived insult against Islam or the Prophet. They are not the only ones.

For 16 years the Organisation of the Islamic Conference, now the Organisation of Islamic Co-operation (OIC), has repeatedly attempted to pass resolutions at the United Nations prohibiting the “defamation” of religion. It is hard to see how this amounts to anything more than an international anti-blasphemy law.

In Pakistan in 2011, when the then governor of Punjab, Salman Taseer, dared to suggest reform of the blasphemy laws, he was assassinated by his bodyguard Mumtaz Qadri. Perhaps most depressing is the realisation that it was Qadri, not Taseer, who was hailed as a national hero after the incident. “The killer of my father,” Aatish Taseer recalled in an article for the Telegraph, “was showered with rose petals.”

Some British Muslim communities are deeply invested in such cases. At the time of his murder, Taseer had been campaigning on behalf of a Christian woman, Aasia Bibi, who had been accused of blasphemy. The case was very polarising in Pakistan and when the complainant suggested he might not pursue charges against Bibi, it was a British organisation, the Khatm-e-Nubuw­wat Academy (the phrase means “finality of the Prophet”), which convinced him otherwise. Pakistan’s Express Tribune reported that some Khatm-e-Nubuwwat members flew to Pakistan to ensure that Bibi would be “chased through hell” and they helped pay for the prosecution lawyers.

That kind of attitude has persisted for decades. When the original fatwa on Rushdie’s life was issued, almost all the leading British Muslim organisations of the time endorsed the sentiment. Iqbal Sacranie, who later became the leader of the Muslim Council of Britain and was knighted in 2005, said: “Death, perhaps, is a bit too easy for him . . .” In more recent interviews Sacranie has said he has since recanted that view. There is no reason to doubt him but the damage is already done.

In both cases previously mentioned, in Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, religious groups or leaders played a role but the source of persecution was the state. Indeed, it is principally Muslim states that heat the febrile international climate surrounding Islamic attitudes towards apostasy. This is why they have tried to introduce legislation to censure and stifle all forms of debate regarding Islam. Even though those attempts have failed, at home they routinely crush satirists, reformers, dissenters­ and apostates.

So, it comes as little surprise that satirical depictions of the Prophet Muhammad have repeatedly occasioned global convulsions of splenetic fury. In such an atmosphere, who from within the Muslim world could legitimately tell terrorists not to kill the cartoonists of Charlie Hebdo?

Shiraz Maher is a senior fellow at the International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation at King’s College London

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a senior research fellow at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 16 January 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Jihadis Among Us

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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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