What I Mean by "Narcissistic Possessiveness," Or Why George Lucas is an Ass

I was going to write this post after seeing "The Force Awakens" for the third time. But there were holidays, and I wrote about women in pop culture instead. Then George Lucas gave an interview, and I thought about it again, but it seemed like a topic the Internet was all over anyway. Then someone made a stupid web comic depicting George Lucas as an ass, and I posted it because, while simplistic, I thought it was funny. Which led to a quick back-and-forth in which I wrote that "what [George Lucas] said belies a narcissistic possessiveness on his part that makes me want to punch him in his stupid face." That then gave way to a valid comment on the commerce of art and the legitimacy of an artist being possessive of their work, which is something that requires a much more involved response. And so here we are.

There is a long and storied history of artists being possessive of their work. Most of it has to do with being misrepresented. From Chekov famously denouncing, "Stanislavski has ruined my play!" to Edward Albee shutting down all-male performances of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" to Frank Lloyd Wright rearranging furniture, artists have a vision, and often get angry or upset when someone tries to compromise that vision. So how is George Lucas's comment any different than Chekov's? Honestly, it isn't, really. At least, not in any ways that are relevant to why George Lucas is an ass.

Possessiveness isn't the key point, narcissism is. And before I begin, let me just state that I know full well the prevalence of ego-tripping in the arts. I studied theatre for 12 years, dance for 8, and visual art for 2 (formally speaking). There are a lot of assholes out there, but none that come to mind have tried to pull what George Lucas thinks is his right to pull.

So let's start with the "new " original trilogy. Does George Lucas, as the owner and "creator" of those films have the right to rework them? Yes. That does not mean, however, that we, as an audience, have to like them. The fact that the reworked versions better represent Lucas's vision, as he claims, does not mean we have to respect that vision. But Lucas had the power to demand that we do, and used that power to strip us of our ability to see the unaltered films in perpetuity. He even had the gall to say that he was sorry fans fell in love with an unfinished product. Insulting your fans for their taste at the same time that you demand they respect your vision is textbook narcissism.

Beyond that, what he did in pulling the original versions from distribution is something that can really only be done with artistic media that require publishing and distribution. Imagine Picasso, what a dickhead he was, selling a painting, then years later saying "I'm sorry, I need that back so I can make it worse, then you can have it." It's absurd. But publishing and distribution provide a structure that allows for this kind of take-back. The thing is, most artists don't own distribution rights to their own work, so if, say, an immensely popular children's book gets republished with new illustrations (even though the original illustrations were a major part of why it was so successful in the first place), and discontinue distribution of the original, fans can get mad at the publishers, from whom we anticipate a level of "bottom-line," "take no risks" thinking. But when the artist is responsible, it breaks a pact between artist and the audience, implicit in any artistic endeavor--we assume that the artist stands behind their own work, meaning that if we like it, too, we are on the same side.

Of course there are tons of examples of this pact being broken, but the separation between distributor and artist means that the consumer power of the audience gets taken into account. That's why The White Album still has "Birthday" on it even though John Lennon thought it was a "piece of shit," and why OK Computer still has "Electioneering" on it even though Radiohead agree it was the one song they wish they'd never recorded. That and the fact that, whatever their flaws, those artists aren't total tools who retroactively tried to deny their audience joy from something they themselves no longer cared for. They had no desire to rewrite history in order to shield themselves from their "mistakes." Because they're fucking adults.

Film places a greater value on the voice of the audience than most media. Nowhere else does the contribution of the audience play quite so pivotal a role in determining what gets shared, or remembered. Cult "bad movies," like "The Room" or "Troll II," are the extreme of what this dynamic looks like. The director's estimation of his or her film is the opposite of what the audience's is (even if they try to take it back). And yet, that these movies are terrible is why we love them. But our joy is also reliant upon the earnestness of the endeavor, which is why the cynical attempts to intentionally make us love something bad don't have the same effect. These two necessarily opposite opinions of the same works are the only reason anyone still talks about them. In other words, if the directors had had their way, and we were somehow forced to take these films seriously, there would be no enduring memory, no love. All of this is to say that in any art form, the audience is the final collaborator.

Art does not exist in a vacuum. It never has, and it never will. Because all art (yes, all) is about communicating something, however obtuse it may be. Contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as good and bad in art. And the criteria is pretty much just, "how well did you, as an artist, express your intent to your audience." It's a simple and malleable metric. Think of it like writing a story by hand. At the most rudimentary level, your penmanship must be legible. That's the base line of adequacy. The next obstacle is whether you are writing in a language your audience understands. This is actually one of the biggest frustrations in modern and contemporary visual art--most people, at least in the U.S., are not taught how to read or speak the language, and so assume it's a bunch of gibberish (it's not). After language comes grammar, syntax, diction and the like: how adept are you at utilizing the rules of the language to make yourself clear? Think of any number of formulaic films or novels, and you get the level of accomplishment here. Beyond that is where we get into much more subjective territory. What is the work saying, what is the emotional impact, and how well does it deliver both of those things?

And it is here where George Lucas shows himself to be not just an ass, but someone who fundamentally fails to understand why the original trilogy was so successful. His obsession with ideas reveals a childish assumption that the success of one's art is about the "what" and not the "how." I mean, the difference between "the force" being something awesome or something asinine lies entirely in how it's presented--throat-crushing or midichlorians, anyone? This is exacerbated by the myth of the sole artistic genius, a myth that is intrinsically linked to the myth of the original idea. This is the role that George Lucas seems to think he's embodying: the genius with original ideas. But he's not. Nobody is.

Not Jim Henson, not Carrie Fisher, Harrison Ford, Mark Hamill, Alec Guinness, or James Earl Jones. Not Frank Oz, or Ben Burtt (who built the sound you try to replicate when you talk like Chewie or R2D2, or when you reenact light saber fights), John Mollo (thank him for your coz-play inspiration), Chris Evans (matte paintings), or John Williams. Not one of them is the reason Star Wars holds a place in our hearts--all of them are. Bringing an idea to life is the result of a massive confluence of things and people that nobody, George included, can control for.

And it is humility before this awesome happenstance that we call for when an artist accepts recognition for their work. And it is that humility which George Lucas routinely fails to express. This isn't just about me as an audience member being turned off by a massive ego. This is about me, as a fellow artist, knowing what I know about the creative process through my own experience, hearing him talk and thinking, "this guy has no idea what makes things work." That is why, when given the opportunity to hear him speak at my school, I declined to go (all the talk-back questions were pre-screened, btw, so no opportunity for confrontation). There are plenty of artists who are egotistical that I would still go see because I respect their understanding of their work, and therefore think there would be something to gain from listening to them. But not Georgie.

So no, George, you didn't sell your kids to white slavers. By the way, another marker of narcissism is constantly describing things that you did as though they "just happened." I mean, sure, in your metaphor, a white slaver is the bad guy, but you skirt over the part where you sold your kids to him! Anyway, that's not really how it went down. Rather you, a white slaver who enslaved his own kids when they started exerting their independence, accidentally sold them to an abolitionist (an honest mistake, Disney does give off that vibe) who set them free. . . Honestly, talking in these terms is so reductive and inflammatory, it all sounds ridiculous. And it's so tenuous a comparison, it can't possibly be accurate. I only used the framework Lucas provided to express how the dynamic is different from what he described. But fuck it, he has bad ideas anyway.