Bangarang!

Vader is actually perfect as a villain for this show. He has a huge bad daddy complex, becomes less menacing as time goes on, can easily perform a one thousand yard stare, totally believes in things that don’t make any sense (hello, the Force!), and is, under the mask, actually a really annoying guy. He’s like Ben, but with breathing problems, a lightsaber and a much higher midichlorian count.

I’m sure once Lucas sees this he’s gonna put out a Revenge of the Sith Special Edition where Anakin brings Obi-Wan to see the Emperor in a shack on Degobah, only the Emperor is INVISIBLE!!! Mace Windu will still be a complete bitch, though. That won’t change.

(Btdub, isn’t “I Find Your Lack Of Faith Disturbing” the absolute BEST title for a post about Lost? Damn I’m creative! Holla atcha boy!)

Bangarang!

She’s the lead in a critically acclaimed new film coming out this week that’s generating her some serious Best Actress Oscar buzz, she starred in the fourth highest grossing movie of the year, she’s recently been named the new spokesperson for vaunted perfume company Chanel and she’s successfully swatted away the incessant tabloid reports that she’s anorexic, so why does she keep flashing the Lemonface? What could be bothering her so much?

Being as I am 1) a fan of the Bend It Like Beckham star, 2) always support survivors of the Orlando Bloom Blandness Plague, and 3) am still trying to show my appreciation for her making Pride and Prejudice so surprisingly watchable, I decided to do a little digging to determine what’s dragging our pouty darling down (man, that literation came out of nowhere!). So I clicked open the Firefox, went down the Google rabbit hole and gazed into the magical glowing ball of fictional magicalness and this is what I came up with:

Things That Are Giving Keira Knightley A Lemonface…

- She’s deep into her research on a Victoria Beckham biopic. The hunky soccer husband and scary alien boobs arrive shortly.

- Shook hands with Tommy Lee at an industry party last week. Two words: Herpes Scare.

- Can not get that damn Feist song out of her head! She’s planning to sue Apple for damages.

- Still stung by the poor reception to Domino. Don’t people realize that the incoherent narrative, pretentious color timing and excessive editing were a metaphor for the broken existence that all humans share in their lonely walk towards disillusionment? It was a poignant metaphor, people! Also, she gave that one guy a pretty awesome lap dance while Mickey Rourke watched. So there was that.

- Just once could people not come up to her and say they loved her in Star Wars? Just once! Or even go up to Natalie Portman and tell her she was great in Pride and Prejudice?

- All she’s saying is that if she doesn’t get to play grown up Ginny in the Deathly Hallows movie, bitches are gonna pay!

- Seriously, whatever happened to Mazzy Star?

- Her TiVo cut off the last two minutes of Grey’s Anatomy. What happened to Seth Green?!

- Just this very second realized how bland Orlando Bloom really was. Is now rethinking every decision she’s made over the last five years.

- The plight in Darfur (uh oh, it just real. Quick Jay, make fun of something. Pink is a tranny. Phew. Close one!)

- She made the face so much as a kid that it stuck that way. Mom was right (please don’t tell her, or she’ll force me to stop cracking my knuckles)!

- Afraid of bees flying into her mouth. Consequently, currently HATES Jerry Seinfeld.

- She’s bummed that Ben Affleck doesn’t make more movies. He was just SO good in Phantoms, yo!

- Still trying to figure out the plot of Pirates of the Carribean: At World’s End. That shit was confusing! Keira became a Chinese ship captain and then Tia Dalma became a giant and was in love with Bill Nighty and what was with Orlando having to become Davy Jones with the who and the what now and the heart when why where how then the ship had to turn upside down to come back to the land of the living but what was up with the thousand Jack Sparrow’s and the crabs that walked the Black Pearl back to the beach and why again was Orlando even trying to save Jack when he totally macked down on Keira not to mention double-crossed him like eleventy billion times over the trilogy and good lord does anyone really WANT to see a Sweeney Todd movie? Remember when the whole thing was just a cute Johnny Depp performance? Yeah, me neither.

- All kidding aside, she’s just really, really hungry. Sucking on air is pretty much her daily breakfast.

- Would it kill a brother to say they liked King Arthur? The movie has its merits. Keira did spend half the movie painted blue and rocking a leather string bikini, after all. And it did have Clive Owen in it (albeit not telling Julia Roberts to fuck off and die, so it loses points in that regard).

- She’s just doing whatever she can to avoid being put on The Jay’s list of The Biggest Mouths In Hollywood.

- Taking over for the retired Derek Zoolander to create a sequel to Magnum. But I shouldn’t even be talking about it, it’s nowhere near ready!

- Actually sucking on a lemon. Apparently it’s good for the gums. Who knew?

But really? It’s probably this:

- But I want an Oompa Loompa NOW, Daddy!

Cheer up Keira, it’s all gonna be OK. You don’t have to make any more Orlando Bloom movies. The Jay promises.

Bangarang!

The date had been embedded in my mind for months: July 4, 1990. On a Wednesday in the middle of an unusually hot summer, Die Hard 2: Die Harder would be released to the public. The first film, Die Hard, had quickly become a family favorite amongst me and my two brothers. We had seen the film countless times, reciting racy lines of dialogue and reenacting brutal violence at an age when we should have been playing baseball, not terrorist and hero cop. When the release date of the film was set, our house went into a collective frenzy. There was no doubt in our minds what we were going to do the night of July 4th. Forget barbeques or baseball games, if it did not entail Bruce Willis fighting terrorists, we were not interested.

The days leading up to the opening night were agonizingly slow. The commercials advertising the film only served to increase my frustration of not having seen the film. The day finally arrived, filled with joy and the feeling of vindication. My patience would finally be rewarded. Little did I know, trouble was brewing. My mother was called into a late evening meeting, we would not make the 7:30 p.m. showing. Ordinarily this would not be a problem since most films have multiple showings on any given night. Die Hard 2, however, was a longer film than most. My local cinema, the only one playing the film, was airing only two screenings, one at 7:30 and the other at 10:45 p.m. My mom arrived home at 8:30, and we commiserated on our misfortune. Being only nine years old, my strict bedtime of 9:30 p.m. would not be wavered, even by the rogue charms of Mr. Willis. I was well aware that the film would be playing in theaters for the duration of the summer and beyond, but my desire to experience the film “right now” was too overwhelming. Clever use of a guilt-trip sullied my mother’s defenses and soon we were off waiting in line for the late show.

It was my first experience seeing a movie that late; my eyes were wide with excitement and energy. The line extended around the back of the theater but no one felt inconvenienced; they all shared my deep rooted love for this film franchise. They let us in at 10:15, and I could barely contain myself. A nine-year old ball of energy, up way past his bedtime, waiting to see Bruce Willis save the world. The lights went down, and I was hooked.

Even at such a young age, I could feel the power of the opening night. At no other time is the energy as high, the audience as passionate, or the experience as genuine. My need to see movies on opening night became an obsession I have been feeding since that fateful Independence Day. My movie-going life was changed, and film’s place in my social life was forever altered. I blame it all on Bruce Willis.

The years passed, and the opening night experiences grew in number. Braveheart, summer of 1995. Watching the movie we all knew what was happening. The first night of the film’s release and we could all sense it. We were watching a Best Picture in the making, and no one else knew. Then, Apollo 13, just a few weeks later. The air-conditioning in the theater turned up so high, I felt as if I was the one trapped in space.

November 1, 1996. Throngs of pre-pubescent and newly adolescent teenagers pack an unsuspecting local movie theater, awaiting the release of the highly anticipated re-imagining of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I was fifteen, anxious, and surrounded by braces and Clearasil as far as the eye could see. The theater had underestimated the film’s appeal, and chose to screen the film in a theater two sizes too small. Teens were turned back at the door, openly crying at the thought of a Leonardo-less Friday night. As the 7:30 p.m. mark moved ever closer, the theater began to hum with the excitement. Six hundred adolescents giddy at the prospect of watching two hours of spastic, tragic Shakespeare. When Leonardo’s face first appeared on-screen relationships ended. Girls openly wept and their dates hid in their seats. This was not a film screening, it was hormonal torture.

On another end of the spectrum was the Friday late show of Michael Mann’s sprawling L.A. crime thriller, Heat. On an atypically scorching December evening, I decided to turn my opening night obsession into a sociological experiment. The Oxy pad crowd of Romeo and Juliet had taught me that certain sects of people would only attend certain movies at specific times. To this end, I decided to forego the usual mid-evening show, and instead see the final show of the night.

Returning to the conversations heard in my Die Hard line roots, I anticipated a crowd of film-loyalists; pretentious movie-lovers spouting home-made philosophies on the merits of Pulp Fiction as a new filmic-religion. What I got, however, was a collection of individuals so contrary to anything I had expected that all my theories immediately went out the window. Entering the densely packed theater, I first noticed a preponderance of leather. Everyone seemed to be wearing it in some form, be it the jacket, shirt or pants variety. They all seemed to be unusually large and bedecked with lengthy beards. It was then that I realized what type of audience I walked into. This was no crowd of kids. I had come to the late night trucker show, with access granted to only those who owned and operated a vehicle that could double for the malicious big-rig in Steven Spielberg’s Duel. The crowd reaction was unnatural: no catty comments thrown Pacino’s way, no standing ovations or audible gasps. The only sound you heard was the rustling of leather. I was a child amongst grizzled grown-ups. Two hours of crime drama could not go fast enough.

I began to examine the crowds that joined me in my opening night excursions, finding just as much joy and pain from who I watched, then what I watched. The unusually high number of people seated legs-crossed, near the back of the theater, for Boogie Nights. The crowd full of blown hankies and teary sobs for Carl Franklin’s One True Thing. And most famously, the crowd of somber adults, turned stone silent by the effect of Steven Spielberg’s masterpiece, Schindler’s List.

Some of my most profound movie-going experiences, both good and bad, have come from attending the opening night oeuvre of the bearded master himself, Mr. Steven Spielberg. One of the more disheartening times came when I attempted to see Saving Private Ryan with my family, but instead received a lesson on bad parenting.

Standing in line, I listened to the conversations of strangers. No one spoke of the buzz on the ultra-violent opening scenes, or the jarring, too-realistic war footage. There was however, a fair amount of conversation devoted to the agony that was Armageddon, released onto an unforgiving public just weeks before. Sitting in the biggest theater my town’s mega-plex had to offer, I could sense that the crowd of 850 strong was ill-prepared for what they were about to witness.

Surrounded by such a large audience, one does not often take the time to look at the people sitting near you. Normally, I check to make sure there isn’t anyone gabbing incessantly into a cell phone, or loudly unwrapping the four course meal they had hidden under their over-sized coat. For some reason, this time I did not take notice of my neighbors. Preoccupied with keeping my own company entertained, I paid no mind to anyone else in the theater. It wasn’t until mid-way through the Omaha Beach charge, when I heard the unassuming voice of a child, sitting directly behind me. “Where’d that man’s arm go, Daddy?” Like the silences Tom Hanks’ character experiences in the film, everything around me began to dim. The volume of life turned itself down, only one sound penetrating the silence: the innocent musings of a child who had no place in that theater.

He persisted to ask horrifyingly innocuous questions to his disinterested parent. Unable to concentrate on the film, I was appalled that the father felt he could bring his young son to a war film, and then have the gall to ignore his child’s curiosities about the brutality of war. Don’t get me wrong, I have paid good money to squirm through countless bad movies. I sat through Batman and Robin. Twice. I even attended a packed opening night showing of Two Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything Julie Newmar. Though never was I more uncomfortable in a movie theater then when I was made to see the cruelties of war, through the eyes of a child.

An inappropriate crowd can ruin your enjoyment of an opening night film screening; this is true. A child present when they should not be, people abusing the “please be quiet” rule, people booing and clapping at the wrong times. However, in all my years of movie-going, I have experienced one film event that rose above my distaste for loud, obnoxious crowds. An event so joyous that I welcomed the onslaught of boos, claps, excessive talking and young, loquacious children. On vacation in New York, walking down 51st Street, my younger brother noticed a poster of the movie Jaws tapped onto the wall of Radio City Music Hall. An odd sight indeed, we went to investigate. Under the poster, we found a group of people sitting and joking about the film. Now it’s not out of the ordinary to see people on the street talking about any number of things, but I knew this was different. I can spot a movie line from a mile away. And I knew even before my mother asked the man in the ticket booth. Jaws would be screened at Radio City Music Hall that night, in front of hundreds, and I would be there to enjoy it.

We rushed back to our hotel to drop off our bags and tourist garb, then sprinted back to Radio City. The time was 3:30 in the afternoon and the screening was at the magic time of 7:30p.m. This would be a true test of line endurance, but I was up to the challenge. I quickly found that East Coast movie lines are particularly chatty, as I came to befriend several of my fellow line companions. We passed the time by quizzing each other on the film and regaling each other with stories from other film lines. Sitting near the front of the line, we had several people tentatively approach us, inquiring about the nature of our crowd. Upon hearing that we were waiting to see Jaws their eyes lit up and their faces beamed with the glow of nostalgia. Needless to say, soon the crowd was enormous, extending nearly three and a half city blocks. People from all walks of life exuberantly clutched their tickets stubs as if it were the essence of life itself. For some, including myself, it was.

Three long hours passed, and without ceremony, we were let in. Being my first time in the Hall, I marveled at its grandeur. This was the ultimate movie house; high ceilings, wide seats and a set of acoustics that would turn John William’s haunting score into a sonic explosion. Seats filled in seconds. One thousand film lovers, having braved the sweltering August sun, cooled off in the air conditioned palace that is Radio City. And there was still an hour to go.

Naturally, the crowd grew restless. Tens of hundreds of impatient movie-goers churning in their seats like fish caught in a net. Ushers were powerless to stop the commotion of weary patrons. Chants began. The noise grew louder, louder, LOUDER! The entire hall was shaking. Suddenly, at five minutes till show time, with the crowd ready for blood, a small older man hobbled onto the stage. Not a person among us had the slightest clue who this man was, but none of us were interested in listening to a speech. We wanted Jaws, and we wanted it now! Eventually, the crowd quieted. The quicker we did so, the quicker the man would be finished and the filmic bloodbath could commence. The man stood in his place, waiting for complete silence. He took a breath, readied himself, and then spoke: “Good evening ladies and gentleman, I’m Peter Benchley.” The crowd erupted! It was the man who started it all! We were fools! How were we supposed to know that the literary giant responsible for Jaws would be presenting this movie? Every single person in the Hall was on their feet, cheering. This time Benchley smiled as he waited. Several happy moments later, we let him begin a truly eloquent and moving speech about his gratitude for Steven Spielberg’s efforts, and the quality of the resulting film. When he was finished, and the lights finally went down, the crowd was ready. Charged and already satisfied, we could all feel the intensity of what was about to happen. The curtains parted, and that familiar music swelled. For the second time in ten minutes, one thousand people stood in unison, clapping ferociously, until their hands were sore.

The film itself became an afterthought. Standing ovations came with every character intro, and with every utterance of a classic line. People were on their feet, cheering for a film they must have seen dozens of times. My obsession was re-energized. This showing of Jaws changed the way I looked at movie-going. If this many people could collectively share an experience so wonderful and jubilant, then opening nights could truly do anything. Walking out of Radio City Music Hall on that fateful night I smiled the smile of a sated lover. Somewhere deep inside me I could feel my destiny; the next challenge in the race to live my movie-going life. Jaws had solidified the purpose of my mission, and I would not fail. Two years later, I stepped in line to wait for the movie that began the tradition: Star Wars.

This is what we had been practicing for, for years. The opening of The Lost World: Jurassic Park, when my friends threw me out of a moving car, to secure a better spot in line. Godzilla, 1998, when we showed up four hours early, expecting riots, and instead found solitude. All the opening nights, all the lines, from Die Hard 2 till now… all just preparation for Star Wars: Episode 1 – The Phantom Menace.

The plan had bet set for months. We would purchase advanced tickets for the opening night, 7:30p.m show; the only show a true film lover attends. We would skip school, and spend the day at the theater, soaking up the vibe of twenty years of forced patience. The world had been waiting for this movie, and my friends and I would not let the world pass us by. We showed up at 7:30 in the morning, with chairs, snacks and entertainment in hand. Fifteen of my closest friends and family; our resolve was strong and our desire was awe-inspiring. Twelve hours till history… this is what opening nights are all about.

The day went on and the people began to arrive. They came by the hundreds, drawn to the theater like the cars at the end of Field of Dreams. People did come. And like Jaws, the line took all kinds. Adults dressed like Luke Skywalker, women with their hair in Princess Leia-like cinnamon buns. There was a lightsaber in almost everyone’s hand, and an immovable smile from their faces. Never in my life have I seen so many people dressed up on a day that was not Halloween. My friends and I took pictures and reminisced. We were seniors in high school, with the pull of the real world only days away. Star Wars was our last chance to bask in the ease of adolescence. On that day, in that line, my young life hit nirvana.

I had worked for this moment for ten years. Sitting in the theater after ten years and twelve hours of waiting, surrounded by friends and strangers, my obsession was vindicated. I was not there just to see a movie; I was there, like I had always been, to share a feeling. The same feeling I felt waiting for Bruce Willis, or for Godzilla, or Jaws, or Men in Black, the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park or the Jedi Knights of Star Wars. It was the same reason that people were dressed up in Star Wars-inspired clothes. It was the same reason that people had brought posters and action figures and signed memorabilia. We were all there to witness the culmination of our collective line experiences. Waiting in line for all the other movies seemed like a prelude to the time spent waiting for this one special film. Two men proposed to their girlfriends while on line. I spoke to another couple who planned their honeymoon around the opening of the film. I shared favorite movie moments with a grandmother who had taken her young grandson to see the first Star Wars, twenty-five years ago. The power of the night flowed through us all.

I sat with my friends. The same people who had waited with me on lines like this, for more than five years. We had bonded over countless Friday nights spent standing in front of the local movie house, and sitting in innumerable darkened theaters. There was no other place in the world that measured up to the passion, the frenzy, the lure or the wonderment of an opening night film screening. Star Wars was the climax of our fascination. We all understood the power, and we all knew what this experience meant. There would be other movies and other lines, but our work was done. We had traversed and explored every inch of the experience and came out on the other end, content. Looking around me in the moments before show time, I thanked my mother for introducing me into this world. I thanked her for inadvertently making me feel something I never knew existed. For giving me a path to take, that could guide my love of film to a road of realized dreams.

The lights of the house dimmed, the crow exploded into cheers, and I felt that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, one more time.

Yippe Kai Yay, Bangarang!

(Follow me on Twitter @jasonamatthews)

(NOTE: I’m sure these masks all have official names, but I’m not gonna go look them all up. Besides, my versions are probably a lot funnier. Also, the lighting in the room was way wonky, and it resulted in a lot of blurry pics. I did my best to correct it where possible, but not all of them are crystal clear. My apologies to the vision impaired. And those easily made naseous.)

Cool character renditions on this one.

Brain Vader

The Cabo Wabo Vader Shack (located on Tatooine, natch)

The Uni-Vader

The Statue Of Vader-y (bring me your whiny, your fearful, your bad actors)

This is crazy blurry, but I love the Yoda on this one.

Um, …ok. Kinda lame.

Rocky and Bullvader (“But Palpatine, when do we get to kill Luke and Obi-Wan?”)

The artist put NO effort into this. What is that, paper mache? This helmet is low-fi.

Pink, but still Punk Rock.

Darth Vader looks so pretentious with that goatee. What a art house douchebag!

This one is fun. Kinda youthful.

Patriotic Vader. God Bless (The) America(n) (Empire)!

I’m Seamus O’Kenobi, this is Bobby O’Vader. i’m ready to get drunk (and force choke some bitches)!

Star Wars plastic surgery gone bad. This guy has a worse eye job than Rose McGowan.

Dude, how awesome is this one? Reminds me of one of the light up bad guy from Running Man (“Thought it was pretty funny in the Death Star, didn’t you!”).

This reminds me of candy for some reason.

Darth Hick

Bozo the Sith Lord

Love the colors on this helmet. Wish I had gotten a clear shot.

Darth Hippy

Darth totally should have rocked a naked chick on his grill. He would have been less intimidating, but he would have gotten invited to A LOT more parties. A Darth Vader upside down force keg stand would be a site to behold.

And finally, my favorite helmet of the exhibit. Spy vs. Spy Vader. I would pay large amounts of money to see a cartoon of two Vaders, one white and one black, trying to blow each other up. It would totally absolve Lucas of the awful prequels. We really need to get the people of Mad Magazine on the phone. Pitch this project up.

Bangarang!

This is what you saw as you walked up to the Convention Center.

This is the awning you had to walk under to get to the main Exhibit Hall.

The view from the top of the stairs, looking down onto the main lobby area.

Kids love R2D2 (though they were too afraid to actually touch him). By the way, this was a working model. It rolled, beeped and the head even swiveled. It was way awesome.

These are made out of Legos. Legos! I could barely make a square out of Legos when I was a kid. But then again, I much preferred chewing on Legos, than actually playing with them. I was an odd child.

The dude in black was not pleased that I took this picture. Though he might actually be pissed because some random dude was trying to zap his alien lady. It’s hard to tell.

Is that a C.O.B.R.A. trooper? Go Joe!

Dark Jedi’s like their cancer sticks. Of course, Anakin probably smoked Virgina Slims (Sith Pussy!).

One of the many totally cute tiny Leia’s.

Even stormtroopers need a cell phone break.

Dimo likes him some Star Wars toys.

Like I said, the gold bikini is a privilege, NOT A RIGHT!

If you camped out for a four day event that never sold out, then you are crazy pathetic. It’s sad enough that the event producers felt it necessary to make this sign.

The Jay hanging with The Fett. Han wishes he could chill with us.

Blurily smooching on the Princess.

Probably the closest I’ll ever get to Natalie Portman.

Loving the R2D2 mailboxes. It almost makes me want to write a letter. Almost.

And finally, here was my favorite picture I took with a costumed character. The Jay and Elvis stormtrooper, rocking out with our Star Wars out!

Bangarang!

This is what the wall looked like (it stretched for about 50-60 feet):

I took the opportunity to plug TheJay.com, natch.

And I got in the spirit of things by leaving my own (typically sarcastic) message for George.

My friend Dimo got in on the wall action.

Here was his most excellent addition.

There was some other great messages left. This one pays homage to the biggest unresolved plotline of the entire series.

This is a sentiment many geeks can get behind.

Not everyone brought the snark, though. There were a few sincere, heartfelt words.

Geeks in love, how quaint. i bet that’s one attractive family.

And some people got their draw on.

When did Angelina Jolie show up in the prequels?

And lastly, here is my favorite message left on the signing wall.

Bangarang!