In a recent bid to improve my seemingly endless affliction of ill-health, I decided to take it upon myself to endure a week or so without alcohol. Misguided, you might think, but I thought I’d experiment with these ‘medical’ ideas doctors and the government expound upon alcohol being detrimental to well-being. Therefore, it was on a sober Thursday night this week when I sat down to watch the final Star Wars movie – Return of The Jedi. Now don’t get me wrong – on a scale of science-fiction geekery I remain firmly entrenched in the ‘I like Alien 1 to 3, but show me a Predator or Star Trek episode and I’ll probably try to poison you. And definitely don’t ask me to fix your computer, I barely know how to plug it into the mains’ camp. However, Star Wars has always held a certain fascination for me, and it’s this that set me wondering about why it is that we so enjoy fantasy fiction – in all its forms.
Perhaps it’s that, as an ex-fencer, lightsabres represent possibly the most fun toy ever conceived. Swords are obviously wholly exciting and cool in themselves (I feel I should re-assure you at this juncture that I am definitely not some sort of anarchic mugger that assaults people with a full-sized samurai sword...promise!), but a sword that can slice through anything, make humming noises AND glow in the dark truly puts my array of dashing sports-swords to shame. On top of that, the idea of using ‘the Force’ would make life both far easier and much more enjoyable – from eradicating the necessity of getting off the sofa to fetch a beer (you can just pull it to you with your intense mind-powers, dontcha know) to the amusing prospect of insisting to anyone refusing you entry to some venue that ‘you want to let me in, you don’t need to see my name on the list’ just opens up a world of delight to be had by the blossoming Jedi.
And then there’s the possibility of using your powers for evil! Sure, normal human beings can be quite evil. Hitler and Stalin certainly had a good go and definitely made their way up several rungs of the bastard ladder. But surely the idea of being able to demonstrate your general pissed-off-ness by sending thousands of volts of lightning through your fingertips elevates you into a whole new stratosphere of evil. The ability to build a whole star dedicated solely to fulfilling your darkest desires and wontonly destroying any planet that even considers looking at you in the wrong way is also something that human fascists could merely dream of. Although that’s probably a good thing – without those furry little Ewok-things on our side, we’d be well screwed if Nick Griffin suddenly took to the skies and started destroying seaside towns all day.
However, it’s all this wishful thinking that draws me to my real conclusion. Whilst of course fantasy fiction allows us an escape from the humdrum vie quotidienne, surely it ultimately leaves us more depressed at our lack of special abilities? What child didn’t read Philip Pullman’s Dark Materials and then glare malevolently at the vague centre of their bodies, trying to transmit to their ‘soul’ their deep disappointment that it didn’t jump out of their ribcage and assume the form of a cuddly, talking beast to accompany and advise them throughout their life? And who didn’t gaze out into the night, hoping for an owl to swoop down and present them with an invitation to Hogwarts after the Potter opus? For any kid that spent hours trying to knock over a glass with their eyes or scrabbling at the back of every wardrobe they could get their hands on, fantasy fiction serves to reinforce the unpleasant idea that we are not as special as we think. And perhaps it’s that masochistic aspect of humanity that leads a 21-year old student who definitely should know better to wish once again that I also could have a special, humming, glow-in-the-dark sword to throw around as I run about saving the galaxy.. or even just on a trip to the pub - I’m not fussy if anyone’s got a lightsabre going spare...!
