Far simpler than Tolkien's intricately crafted Middle-earth, the universe of "Star Wars" is more similar to our own. Fittingly, "Star Wars" is the more human of the two movies, infusing each major character with thematic clarity befitting flesh-and-blood action heroes. Recall Luke Skywalker's impatient dreamer, Obi-Wan Kenobi's involved and steady-handed mentor, Leia's spunky rebel princess, Han Solo's self-serving cynic, and remember that all four undergo individual transformation: Luke learns to use the Force, Obi-Wan sacrifices himself for the rebel cause, Leia thaws and Han learns to care about others. Lucas even delineates the Laurel-and-Hardy-esque droids: C3PO as the talkative killjoy, R2D2 the headstrong one, with a child's prankster sensibility. Undoubtedly, the dynamism of Lucas' pop icons have formed many a case study for Scriptwriting 101.

Accordingly, the "Star Wars" universe is merely a setting for what is ultimately a highly compelling, if not entirely original, story. "Star Wars" makes use of technical-sounding jargon to give itself a sci-fi feel, but it's clear at all times that any vernacular is subordinate to the needs of pure entertainment: plot, character, story arc, dramatic tension. For example, Luke's Uncle Owen bickers about the capabilities of various droids, but the point is not to flaunt nonsensical vernacular but rather to illuminate the humor in the haggling rug-merchant tactics of a pushy little Jawa.

Indeed, humor runs throughout "Star Wars," whose adventure-tale earnestness nevertheless refuses to take itself too seriously, squeezing jokes out of every "uh-oh" moment. When Luke and Leia nearly run headlong into the Death Star's gaping cavity, the moment isn't simply glossed over: It's acknowledged by Luke's understatement ("I think we took a wrong turn"), and Mark Hamill's subtle gift for physical comedy. And in truly brilliant moments of character-driven funniness, Han Solo -- hard-bitten space swashbuckler with a gooey, "aw, shucks" middle -- shoots everything he finds threatening: his would-be bounty hunter ("sorry for the mess"), the creature in the garbage chute, the Death Star control panel.

"Star Wars" is only a movie, and it never loses sight of that. It doesn't aim higher, and doesn't have to. As a result, "Star Wars" refrains from pretending its heroes are anything other than flawed humans -- and we love them for it. And yet, Lucas' movie doesn't shy away from displaying the gritty reality of human struggle: In a throwaway reference to the inferiority of droids ("We don't serve their kind here"), Lucas allows dribbles of nasty things like prejudice to seep into his world. Nor does being on the same side guarantee people will get along: Darth Vader comes close to strangling a few generals, and as for Luke, his rivalry with Han is the kind you'd expect from the idealistic kid brother.

Incurably down-to-earth, "Star Wars" gives a guided tour of evil's consequences, with a tailor-made John Williams score. Good guys do die: The very first scene sees all rebel fighters killed close-up. Then, in one chillingly evocative stroke, Vader obliterates Alderaan, Leia's home planet, into a hailstorm of rocks and dust. Both acts help define a real evil, make it more tangible.

And the movie does something not often seen in contemporary action movies: It shows restraint. There are no slow-motion shots. Instead, Lucas, who grew up on pulpy cliffhangers, makes clever use of suspenseful cutting that defers to the audience's imagination. Nothing is shown of what that floating ball of truth serum does to Leia, exactly, and there is a pregnant pause after the Sand Person raises his spiked baseball bat high over a fallen Luke, before you see he's fainted.

In "Star Wars," humanity is the point. In "LOTR," with fans and followers in the tens of millions, Tolkien's world is the point. And clearly, this emphasis on alternate worlds is better equipped to feed today's appetite for sheer spectacle (see a long list of cinematic disposables, starting not least with "The Phantom Menace").

Fanatics in any realm are difficult to satisfy, but Tolkien's are the type who engage in prolonged, heated debate over authenticity, all the way down to the technical accuracy of props. (An unauthorized photograph of a spiked wheel taken on set created a global rift among faithful readers before the film came out.) Just in making the movie, Jackson shouldered enormous challenges safeguarding it against similar nitpicking.

So meticulous is Tolkien's Middle-earth, with its genealogy charts and linguistic consistency, and so loyal Jackson and his crew to its detail, "LOTR" becomes a sort of glorified video trivia game, with dense graphics and a relentless pace.

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