It's not a real big disturbance. Not like when they blew up Alderaan. Ouch. This was more like a wave you might feel on the opposite side of a cantina in Mos Eisley when Greedo walked in. If ;you made it past those first few sentences, then you probably already know that J.J. Abrams has been contracted to direct the next Star Wars film. I can say "next" because, after years of having to explain which "first" Star Wars movie I was referencing, when everyone knows that Episode IV: A New Hope is number one, while number four in the series calls itself number one. Mister Abrams will be in charge of number seven. Lucky number seven.
No pressure. Just the desires and expectations of two generations of geeks who know what THX-1138 was, and have lengthy discussions about why it's important that Han shot first. Sure, there are millions of dollars at stake. Billions, probably. But those dollars will exist with or without pleasing the nerds who are busily imagining how the guy who rebooted the Star Trek series could possibly do the same for what is, for some, the sacred text. And what about Harrison Ford? How could he be coaxed back into that black vest one more time? Will Princess Leia be in space rehab by now? Will Mark Hamill be able to parlay all this attention into a sequel to Corvette Summer?
And so on. J.J. Abrams has quite the resume already. He's a little like Dan Fouts. A great quarterback, but he never played in the Super Bowl. Now he does color commentary for ABC and talks about his glory days. He's even in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. What if he had played in a Super Bowl and lost? Would he still have a bust in Canton? If J.J. turns out something more on the Phantom Menace side of things, he might have to go back to his booth at Comic-Con. Or maybe the Empire really will Strike Back.
I can dream, can't I?