Kirk A.C. Marshall

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High & Beautiful: The Sane Person's Column for Coping With the Demands of the New Century (#4)

The Trilogy That Gay Forgot (c)
 
Published: 09/05/05.

I’ve learnt well not to fall into that imperilled trap of entrusting myself to the possessed, self-wallowing words of Freud. Not everything need comply to some extant pre-conception where because something’s long and cylindrical it immediately equates to a representation of a dick. Look babe, I’ve seen what a parsnip looks like, and Ripley’s Auditorium would be integrated into valid science practice if some guy was packing something like that in his pants... So it was, upon protracted contemplation, that Freud’s worldly and accessible pseudo-science psychotherapy reminded me of nothing other than a Groucho Marx running gag. “There’s one! Aha! Everywhere you look, penis, penis, penis.”

                Still, I’ll be the first to concede that the uncontested great man does have verifiable applications (Freud, not Marx). Examples? Trump Towers, obviously, is a justified instance of over-compensation. And certainly one must question as to why nicotine inhalers had to be sexualised – they’re already goin’ into huskily breathy mouths, aren’t they? But worst of all, an exemplar of contemporary society’s pervasive ennui, is the fact that no-one has scrutinised the Star Wars films as a queer text. Shit, this one is an eternal puzzler. I comprehensively can’t divine an answer as to why no-one’s pointed this out before. I mean, it’s fucking vodka clear, yeah?

                A recent re-screening of Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope had me sitting up, grinning in the goof-ball kind of our star-spangled American President and other highly-evolved monkeys. I genuinely couldn’t believe what I was seeing. George Lucas is either a flaming queen (not something I can prove with my exclusive education of all things Tarantino), or more likely, a political advocator for the greater homosexual community (well done, that man). In the inopportune actuality that you, dear reader, are a committed Star Wars obsessive, I recommend you get into your Imperial star cruiser and fly to other pages before this gets any messier.

                It’s Like This: Star Wars is the journey of young closet homosexual, Luke Skywalker (as names go, that one has to leave you wonderin’), questioning his developing and querulous libido by embarking upon a journey of self-expression, upon the planet of Tatooine. Tatooine is one of those dour space-rocks lorded over by endless desert, scorching winds and the political right, those weird and dubious families of aggressively heterosexual farmers entrenched in their own repugnant procreative activities (you know how it is, your sister’s your mother, your mother’s your mistress, your uncle’s your brother, your daughter’s your wife). Escaping from the sedating clutches of these squares, Luke pursues the little gay droid R2D2 (Ready To Do You), with the subconscious and flowering hope that this burgeoning sexual confusion will be embraced by the robot (A New Hope - such a loaded title!). R2D2 has a droid friend (though - mind you - not a partner), who appears to be one of those sorrowful examples of an East Brooklyn transvestite entrapped in the body of a giant gold dildo. C3PO is a quivering mass of staid British wit all put to the soundtrack of an Olivia Newton-John orgasm circa 1981. In truth, and in deference to all evidenced documentation, C3PO might be the straightest of the lot.

Luke acts as escort for the two androids and in return is taken in as a brother and lover, and not as pretty-eyed pariah. The three become four when they are rescued by Obi-Wan Kenobi, which is regional Guam-speak for “Daddy Spice”. Intrepid warrior and knight errant, Obi-Wan thrills to the prospect of giving the young Luke, the innocent farm-boy with bedroom eyes, tutelage. Cut forward: Luke is no longer inexperienced in the weevil ways of Alec Guinness! – he has been broken in! In some risible challenge to fool a woman into bed, the four take to the skies in the Millennium Falcon, a technologically-advanced docking vessel piloted by Han Solo, who is basically the predecessor to Kyan, the Grooming Guy from Queer Eye.

As if the name Han Solo instilled any doubt, he is accompanied by a giant Chihuahua and leather fetishist named Chewbacca (how goes that proverb about a man and his dog?). The Falcon, a science fantasy allusion to contemporary gay cruise-ships, penetrates the black firmament of the galaxy with much buckling and speed (now you’re just clasping for innuendoes, dude!). Their eventual plight solidifies the need for a subsequential battle between Rebels and Imperials, between their minority (all fun and chutzpah) and the bigoted conservatives (here manifest as weirdo Nazis in stormtrooper gear, which in its own specious way is representative of some inner homosexual design). The crew of the Falcon end up kicking ass – getting acknowledgment for their struggle to subvert convention, to paint the universe a little pink.

                You see? It’s an openly homocentric allegory to finding the spunk, the couture, the more saucy human flavours within. The Death Star? A Reich instituted to kill off the queer culture. Darth Vader? The anti-Cher. Our heroes: Luke, R2D2, CP30, Han Solo, Chewbacca? They’re surely our Fab Five. Princess Leia Organa? A lovely lesbian with the wit of Eddy Izzard. Boba Fett? Freelance nymphomaniac with asexual lusts. Yoda? Swamp-dwelling hermit and total furry. Lando Calrissian? The bitch, Han’s ex-boyfriend. And please, dear provident God, don’t get me started on Jar Jar.

                It’s right there, isn’t it? As crystal as James Earl Jones’s reverberent vocal work. Pull out your “light sabre”. Show me different.

Star Wars should be the most venerated gay text of our times. It’s a John Wayne western, a homosexual star-vehicle, in the outer depths of space. It’s George Lucas’s ode to our universal diversity.

Shit.

It’s our Queer Eye for the Jedi.