The story begins, as all the subsequent "Star Wars" films have, with a massive spaceship crawling into view: This time it's Princess Leia's rebel spaceship, with stolen plans of the Galactic Empire's massive Death Star, running futilely from an Imperial Star Destroyer. In the care of robot droids C3PO and R2D2, the plans are jettisoned onto planet Tattoine where they will eventually wind up in the hands of Luke Skywalker, the movie's reluctant hero. It's in Luke's hands that the "New Hope" of the film's subtitle will, with the help of Kenobi and Han Solo, be realized.

As has been often discussed, "Star Wars" follows a classic mythological template articulated in Joseph Campbell's "The Hero With a Thousand Faces": the call to adventure ("You must come with me to Alderaan," Obi-Wan tells Luke); refusal of the call ("I've got chores to do," Luke protests); supernatural aid (Obi-Wan saves Luke from the Sandpeople); the crossing of the first threshold (surviving the "scum and villainy" of Mos Eisley Space Port); the road of trials (captured by the Death Star tractor beam); the meeting with the goddess (rescue of Princess Leia); the magic flight (attack on the Death Star); rescue from without (Luke saved by Han Solo); and freedom to live (the medal ceremony).

These themes can be found in countless other works, and that's part of the point: Some movies succeed by bending or breaking from traditional storytelling forms; "Star Wars" reminds us why these forms endure. And all these mythological antecedents wouldn't matter if Luke, Han, Leia, Chewbacca, Obi-Wan, the droids and Darth Vader did not have such lasting power as characters, particularly cinematic characters. Luke is the noble young warrior, and Han (said to be modeled after Lucas' mentor Francis Ford Coppola) is the skeptic; C3P0 and R2D2 are comic relief. Not only does rascally Han perfectly balance out Luke's earnest naiveti, but he and Leia make a classic screwball comedy pair, recalling Grant and Russell in "His Girl Friday" or Gable and Colbert in "It Happened One Night." The droids are right out of Laurel and Hardy. Chewbacca is the quintessential sidekick, a Tonto to Han's Lone Ranger. Vader is Nosferatu leading the Nazis. Yet thanks to the actors involved, they are more than just archetypes. For this and other roles, Harrison Ford has come to be called the Humphrey Bogart of his generation; Fisher is superb; and if Mark Hamill is not exactly a master thespian, can you picture anyone else in the role? Lucas has never been mistaken for an actor's director, but under his eye the characters perform with the essential mix of earnestness and humor.

Herein lies one of the biggest keys to "Star Wars": Lucas' genius for balancing the solemnity of its classic good-vs.-evil struggle with an enthusiastic embrace of innocent goofiness. The dialogue and bland anti-intellectualism may seem embarrassingly trite at times; during production Ford famously said to Lucas, "George, you can type this shit, but you sure can't say it." But ultimately, criticizing this movie's dialogue is like saying "Annie Hall" doesn't have enough action sequences, or "Schindler's List" doesn't have enough romance. The dialogue succeeds in diffusing a story that might otherwise take itself too seriously. Lucas knew what he was doing when he wrote cheesy lines like Luke's famous bellyache to Uncle Owen after being commanded to do his chores: "But I was going in to Toshi Station to pick up some power converters!" It's a way of ensuring that the somber weight of this galactic struggle doesn't suffocate us, as "Phantom Menace" and to a lesser extent "Attack of the Clones" and even the critically preferred "The Empire Strikes Back" sometimes do. Campy yet profound, comical yet electrifying, "Star Wars" is exactly what it wants to be -- nothing more, nothing less -- and the way it succeeds within its own limitations is part of what makes it great.

At the same time, "Star Wars" is indeed an old-fashioned morality play. Coming just three years after Watergate and amid the heyday of disco and cocaine, it is both of its time and completely contrary to it -- while ultimately transcending any time period. Surely plenty of movie lovers who cherished the lone-wolf films that had flourished in the earlier part of the decade couldn't help feeling alienated (pardon the pun) by this black-and-white portrayal of good vs. evil. Yet each genre or filmmaking style should make us appreciate the other: Some movies diverge from our traditional moral compass, while others ricochet us back. Having Martin Scorsese and Coppola on one end of the spectrum and Lucas and Spielberg on the other is what made the 1970s such a great movie decade. If one type of movie eventually crowded out the other, that certainly is a shame. But don't blame Lucas and Spielberg if the blockbusters that came after theirs weren't always as good.

In the end, it is the unbridled enthusiasm Lucas brings to "Star Wars" that, no matter how our perception of it may have changed over the years, makes it all but impossible to avoid being swept away. If the prequels of this era don't have that same brilliant simplicity, with their handwriting-on-the-wall sense of galactic doom, maybe it's because Lucas is not the eager idealist anymore, but the sobered middle-aged man who maybe no longer believes so unequivocally that the revolution can be won. If that's the case, it makes the original "Star Wars" all the more priceless.

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