Columnist John Katsilometes: Why the Force is on course

Tuesday, May 18, 1999 | 12:15 p.m.

It would be tempting to rip "Star Wars: Episode I -- The Phantom Menace," joining in on the inevitable backlash from the hyper-hyped George Lucas vehicle, the latest in his weirdly popular "Star Wars" series that opens Wednesday to 2.2 million movie-goers (most of whom will mysteriously fall ill and call in sick on that very day).

It would be easy to chide the short, hairy and cuddly Wookies -- which reportedly were modeled after short, hairy and cuddly Danny DeVito.

It'd be cheap fun to note the sinister similarities and shared physical deformities of Jabba the Hutt and Don the King. It'd be unfair to cynically envision Macaulay Caulkin wailing into a pillow because he was born a decade too late to snap up the plumb role of 9-year-old Anakin Skywalker, or to wonder why Lucas found no room for real-life science fiction characters such as Ross Perot or Calista Flockhart.

No, we resist such piffle.

Having no discernible interest in any of the "Star Wars" movies thus far (other than suffering from the recurring, impure image of Princess Leia and Chewbacca ducking into the Oasis Motel), I cannot speak to the popularity of an other-worldly series of science fiction films that originally starred the third-worst actor ever (after Kevin Costner and Daryl Hannah): Mark Hamill.

But there are a few subtle-yet-revealing reasons why "Star Wars" -- and related merchandise ranging from toy lightsabers to personal hygiene products -- remains unfailingly popular.

It's a science fiction adventure story not focused on a big computer-generated lizard (hello, "Godzilla.")

Lionel Richie doesn't sing the theme song.

Young Skywalker doesn't rush to the edge of the Death Star and shriek "I'm the king of the world!"

Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn't climb into a boxing ring to take on "Thunderlips," played by Hulk Hogan.

Eddie Murphy doesn't show up for no apparent reason and spend several minutes spewing F-bombs.

No Cheech or Chong running around trying to get the Ewoks stoned.

Kevin Bacon does not play a flighty, eccentric minor character.

Arnold Schwarzenegger doesn't burst into a crowded club with a laser-sighted automatic weapon and start indiscriminatingly blowing everyone away.

No close-ups of a distressed Demi Moore blinking gigantic tears down her cheeks.

Oliver Stone has no input on the story line, and therefore the eventual destruction of the Death Star cannot be traced to Cubans, the FBI, the CIA, the Mafia and five seedy characters who share office space in New Orleans.

Burt Reynolds, Jerry Reed and Sally Field aren't chased through the galaxy in a tricked-out black Trans Am by a flustered Darth Vader.

C-3PO doesn't spend the balance of the movie mired in sexual frustration and confusion, wondering if his affection for R2-D2 is deeper than mere "friendship."

No Woody Harrelson.

The movie isn't capped by Tom Cruise triumphantly flying an F-16, triumphantly winning a Winston Cup race going 180 mph in a Chevrolet Lumina, or triumphantly doing something equally self-gratifying.

We don't have to worry about when or how long the rumored shot of Cruise's butt will be.

After 20 or so viewings, you can readily recite all of the dialogue.