Back in 1977, I was what is now a tween and what was then “a difficult age.”
My experience with movies encompassed arrangements with mom
via the paneled station wagon to drop me and my sister off. There was a continuous lineup of Disney
movies so something with a G rating was always at hand. When we needed to come home we scrounged
around for change, used the pay phone, and had to redial about a million times
before someone would answer.
I didn’t have a good grasp of media beyond Disney. Saturday
Night Fever, Pretty Baby and Taxi Driver were not so much actual movies as they
were shocking indicators of the American public’s lack of intelligence and
morals.
And then Star Wars came out!
It was an overnight switch from a pre-adolescent world view to hormonal
adolescent angst.
I was positive my parents would refuse my request to go
because of content, the PG rating and the requirement to take a bus
downtown. So I geared up for battle.
Both logical arguments and long term whining were reviewed.
Much to my surprise, “Sure” was the response. So, my friend
and I watched two of the most ideal heart-throbs probably 20 times with the
glandular rollercoaster in high gear.
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