I noticed right away that Harrison tended to quote philosophers when describing what he thought of the film. “As Winston Churchill said, ‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts,’” he might’ve said when asked if he thought success would change us. He also might’ve said, “Give me a minute—I’ve only been successful for a few weeks.” He might’ve said these things, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. But whatever he said shamed me. Why wasn’t I quoting philosophers? Because I dropped out of high school midway through the eleventh grade. Well, when you really came right down to it (not similar to down to earth—or earthlings), being a dropout was a good reason to tune in and turn on—but it was no excuse for not quoting philosophers on daytime talk shows. (Mike Douglas loves philosophers!) People on The Dating Game misquoted the greatest minds of all time. “The unintentional life is not worth believing,” Harrison might’ve said, and still gotten chosen as bachelor number three!
After a few shows of listening to Harrison waxing philosophical, I decided to take action. Harrison had majored in philosophy in college—what could I do to remain undaunted? Then it came to me: I would consult with a college professor in philosophy! And not just any college—I called Sarah Lawrence in suburban New York and asked if there was a professor whom I could consult with. They seemed hesitant until I mentioned Star Wars and implied I might soon share the screen with an intergalactic great mind known as Yoda, who would of course intone, “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” As far as doing went, that seemed to do the trick.
Not that the higher-ups at Sarah Lawrence are any less susceptible to Star Wars any more than the average—or above-average—human. Which is to say that they were more flexible regarding the possibility of securing a professor for insecure me. Having had a few tutorials in philosophy, I believe I found one or two talk shows where I could employ my new college-level insights, but quickly determined that to have two actors spouting philosophical gems to the moviegoing public was a bit much—a bit of smuggler monkey see, princess monkey do.
So after a very short while, I gave up on looking intelligent, thank God, and I continue that to this day. I would make it look like a devious plan when I seemed less than effervescent and approaching pedestrian (without a crosswalk). You couldn’t accuse me of doing a less-than-stellar job on the Johnny Carson show without my insisting that you had forgotten my telling you that that had been my intention all along.
We did so many chat shows that we finally wound up being overexposed. There are worse tragedies, but you couldn’t have gotten me to guess what they were at the time. But we plodded along, newly minted celebrities gracing television shows all over America. We didn’t realize initially how big a hit the movie was because we were traveling to every capital in every state promoting it—which you do when a film is an unknown quantity. It was being on the run and feeling as though I was trying to either keep up with something or keep away from some danger at my heels. But then bodies in motion tend to stay in motion—so that’s where we stayed: in motion and on the road.
To relax in our giddy unrelaxed configurations, we would sometimes go to amusement parks. I remember one particular day in Seattle where Harrison—well, all of us really—had gotten on a Ferris wheel that had cages for seats that tended to spin as it went around. As you can see, it’s difficult to describe—but the bottom upside-down line is that Mark and I had gotten on the ride first, so when we got off we watched as Harrison—who like all of us was still wearing what we’d worn on TV (not your optimum style for Disneyland Lite)—got on. And Mark and I stood on the ground laughing while a poker-faced Harrison hung upside down like a dressed-up fruit bat with a tie casually draped over his very serious face!
In some ways this whirling around made us look and feel like what our lives looked and felt like. I don’t know, you had to be there. “There” being everywhere all at once—the traveling snake oil salesmen of space travel.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry. Step right up, everybody, and see this new, once-in-a-lifetime product I call the Star Wars—a tale of intergalactic excitement, with battle sequences and heroes and smugglers and princesses all careening through space having the time of their lives. And now you can have the time of your life—for the low, low price of five bucks, you too will have the time of your moviegoing, going, gone life! Hurry, hurry, hurry, act now because this deal will only be offered . . .” And on and on we went from state to state, capital to capital, audience to audience, hawking our wares and frequently not knowing where we were.
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for me, the worst part of this better-than-best time period was when I was being photographed. I hate having my picture taken—maybe because it was already happening at the age of six hours, well before I was old enough to articulate my objections with words. I was forced to protest with infant expressions and baby poison eye darts. I hated it all through my childhood—when it shouldn’t have been that big of a trial because I was young and cute (even really cute, depending on who you talk to)—and I loathe it now. Especially in this smartphone era, when anyone at any moment can take a candid shot somewhere when you’re far from “camera ready” (i.e., most of the time), and you know it’s not just a bad picture but a scornful reminder of just how old you’re getting and how fat you’ve gotten—not only a reminder of what you once were but also of what you no longer are and never will be again. And, as if that wasn’t enough, some stranger owns this horrific image and is free to do whatever with it in private or with his friends.
The movie had been out for a few weeks and the lines were twisting around the blocks. (The term “blockbuster,” in fact, was born because ticket lines would come to the edge of the street, pause for that asphalt interruption, and then begin again enthusiastically on the next block.) I would drive by with my friends in disbelief, wondering how anything that popular could include me.
One day we were driving down Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood, where the Avco Cinema had what looked to me like the longest line I had seen so far. As you can imagine, I was really excited—“chuffed” is the British word for it. I love how they made themselves this little word that means “giddy with an excitement that you’re trying to suppress because you’d rather be thought of as looking kind of cool.” So I stood up on the car seat, and not just stuck out my head but squeezed half my body through the sunroof, then shouted, “Hey, I’m in that! I’m the princess!”
This certainly caused some interest, ranging from the scornful “What an asshole” variety to the breathless “Do you think it’s really her?”
“I’m in that!” I repeated for those who hadn’t heard me the first time. Then, suddenly realizing what I had done and quickly fearing that some of these moviegoers might identify me, I slid back down into my seat and said to my friend, “Quick! Drive!” So she stepped on the gas and sped away.
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the one question people can never seem to stop asking me is “Did you know Star Wars was going to be that big of a hit?” Well, given that there had never actually been a film that had been that big of a hit before, who could possibly ever have assumed that there now would be?
Now I’ve begun answering that question differently than replying, “No I didn’t.” I’ve begun saying, “Well, actually, I thought it was going to be an even bigger phenomenon. So when it wasn’t—when Star Wars and its sequels failed to meet my remarkable, almost unbelievable expectations—well, I want you to just try to imagine how crushed, how disappointed I felt, and still feel.”
Imagine how it felt when my anticipated dreams and fantasies failed to come true. What would you have done if you were me? Turn to drugs, maybe? Lose your mind? Possibly maybe even both?
leia’s lap dance