When I was five, it was a dream. It was a few scattered visions of fights with flashing “life savers” and nightmares of an old, cloaked man my friend simply called “The Empire”. We thought we saw him one time, peeking in the window as I slept over at his house. Our parents discounted the probability of such an appearance, but little eyes knew what they saw.

When I was eight, it became reality. My parents were out for the night and asked the babysitter to rent Star Wars and play it for me whilst my younger siblings slept. Like so many others before me, my young mind was instantly captivated as the now-familiar yellow text scrolled away in space, punctuated by the most heroic music I had ever heard.

That night I stayed up late – far later than my parents knew – assembling characters and building ships from my Lego collection. I built Darth Vader and his TIE fighter. I built Han Solo, Luke, and Leia, and was well on my way to finishing the Millennium Falcon when sleep overcame me.

It didn’t stop there; with makeshift blasters and light sabers (I had since learned the correct name for them) my friends and I enacted each battle, adding our own twists and alternate endings. I usually took Luke’s part; I would rather have played Han Solo, but continually lost the role to more forceful friends.

When I was thirteen, I was obsessed. The desire to play out such fantasies had faded, but with the remake of the trilogy, it returned with a vengeance. It found its outlet in computer games this time around as I discovered the excitement of X-Wing and TIE Fighter.

With the help of my trusty joystick I fell into my old fantasies and served each side with equal fervor. I memorized technical specifications and battle plans. I learned the quickest way to disable Nebulon-B frigates and how to out-maneuver A-wings. My fellow gamers and I would cluster together after church, trading war stories and tactical advice. Our sketch books were filled with intricate drawings of ships from the movies and our imaginations. If we would have had the funds to create our own uniforms, we would have.

In the years following my technical obsession, I had grown to love Star Wars for the sake of the fairy tale – for that is what it was. It managed to bring all the wonder, fantasy, and dogmatism of the fairy tale into the world of modern cinema; and I loved it for this as much as for all the special effects, clever lines, and action. It became sacred to me.

But when Episode I: The Phantom Menace came out, I felt cheated - George Lucas had trampled the fairy tale. Obi-Wan Kenobi became a Gen-Xer with a bad hairdo. Yoda became a stuffed shirt that only exasperated me. And the Force? The most magical part of the legend was reduced to a mere scientific explanation. It became a measurable substance - midi-chlorians - that lived all over the universe and formed sort of a collective consciousness. It became a genetic phenomena more in the sense of textbook science than the passing on of family curses or blessings. It became a fact, not a mystery.

Perhaps Mr. Lucas thought that his audience had grown up and become jaded. Perhaps he thought that we wouldn’t believe anything that was not explainable. Whatever he thought, it destroyed the wonder the first three movies created.

Now I wait on a bench outside the theater, writing to steady the tremors of anticipation in my hands. I go in to see Episode II: Attack of the Clones in less than an hour.

My anger towards Mr. Lucas has faded and is replaced by hope – hope that I’ll go into the theater and find the fairy tale again – find the obsession and reality and fear as I had when I was younger.

An assorted group of costumed folk, from Han Solo to Darth Maul, walk past me into the theater. Forty-five minutes to go.