Raiders of the Lost Ark

NOTE: The following is a work in progress. The entry here will be lengthened as writing continues. This is, as yet, unedited. Any comments and/or suggestions are welcome. Right now, I'm trying to get down all the details and see if this ends up going anywhere.

In the spring of 1981, the greatest movie ever made was The Empire Strikes Back, the greatest band in history was E.L.O., and I was 13 years old. The clarity of my mind and opinions at that age was aided by several key factors: the Star Wars films did not yet need to be designated by their episodic chapter numbers, for one, and there was no reason to believe that whatever sequel followed in 1983 (or whenever it showed up) would not raise the bar as high as it had been raised by Empire. For as jaw-droppingly great as Star Wars had been, The Empire Strikes Back had taken everything that worked in the first film and somehow made it even better—the dialogue, the special effects, the characters, the power of the Imperial Fleet—everything. The future of the Star Wars Saga seemed bright.

Another key factor: I hadn’t heard of many other bands that could do what E.L.O. seemed to do routinely and with ease, which was to make songs that were not only within the range of my vocal abilities, but to package them in grandiose album cover art that depicted spaceships in bright, primary colors that were replicated as massive stages when the band went on tour (not that I would ever see them live at my tender age). And the lyrics of the songs were about things like lions giving speeches in the jungle about our “great blue ship,” and aliens visiting Planet Earth from “a distant place and time.”

I had nearly completed my first year of junior high, doing well in most of my classes, other than P.E. and shop, and I had started getting the attention of others. Certainly not any girls and few, if any, of my male peers, but my English and journalism teachers seemed to think I was worth special attention. “You have some very real talents,” my 7^th grade English teacher, Mr. Dobson, had written in my yearbook. “Use them.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it sounded encouraging.

There was no reason to think that things would not just keep getting better and better. NASA had even successfully launched a Space Shuttle, a reusable orbital spacecraft! My phone call request for “Weird Al” Yankovic’s “Another One Rides the Bus” had been played on the Dr. Demento Show! I was the King of the World.

And sometime that spring came yet another indication that all the stars were aligned in my world. A mysterious letter, sent from the Official Star Wars Fan Club, showed up in the mail. The Official Star Wars Fan Club and I had joined forces shortly after I first heard news of an impending sequel to Star Wars. The Official Star Wars Fan Club, in those pre-internet days, seemed the only reliable source for news and updates of the latest chapter in the Star Wars saga, and I happily submitted my $15 membership fee, which, in addition to several tangible benefits like stickers, posters, and patches, ensured bimonthly delivery of Bantha Tracks, the official newsletter of the Official Star Wars Fan Club. I was an Insider, a status I proudly demonstrated to the world by repeatedly wearing my Official Star Wars Fan Club jersey to school, hastening the separation of myself from my peers, particularly the girls.

But such concerns were trivial once the mysterious letter was torn open in my shaking hands. For there, on an 8X12 flyer, were four color photos from something called Raiders of the Lost Ark, “the result,” the flyer declared, “of one of the most significant filmmaking collaborations in motion picture history.” Directed by Steven Spielberg! Conceived by George Lucas! Starring Harrison Ford! Holy crap!