I was born in the 70s. I don’t remember much of it, other than seeing Steve Martin live in Vegas with my parents, “Bewitched”, and a vague notion of un-ironic green shag carpet. My greatest memory from the otherwise greasy time period was undoubtedly seeing Star Wars in the theater on opening weekend. My dad and I had dropped my mom off at the airport back in the days when you could smoke on planes and walk people to their gate. We left the terminal and went straight to a movie theater to see what this space movie business was all about.
One hundred and twenty-five minutes later (no, I’m not counting the previews for whatever disco-themed movies probably ran) my brain was altered. A New Hope had grabbed my tiny imagination by the scruff and shook it for all it was worth. I saw the movie again. And again. And again.