[WEEKEND OPEN BAR: The one-stop ramble-about-anything weekend post at OL. Comment on the topic at hand. Tell us how drunk you are. Describe a comic you bought. This is your chance to bring the party.]
It’s become the stuff of legend – as Star Wars neared the end of production, the pressure began to take its toll on George Lucas. The director found himself working round the clock and constantly worrying about the budget, doing everything in his power to finish the film he’d been imagining for years. Under this incredible strain, Lucas even believed that he suffered a heart attack.
The doctor assured George that he hadn’t had a proper attack, but was suffering from supreme exhaustion and hypertension. And so the film was finished.
The rest, as they say, is history.
But in this tale, it turns out that the ailments weren’t confined to fatigue and irregular blood pressure. George Lucas, despite being told otherwise, had in fact survived a heart attack. The motivation for the misdiagnosis? With so much on the line, both in terms of money and reputation, Twentieth Century Fox had greased the palm of Lucas’ physician, thereby ensuring that their product would be delivered.
Star Wars, of course, was a goddamn commercial and critical juggernaut. Lucas immediately began work on the sequel, and in 1980 The Empire Strikes Back was met with even more admiration. Personally and professionally, the USC alum was on top of the world.
But when it came time to finish the trilogy, George’s heart just couldn’t take it.
The bickering with Marcia climbed to new, more incendiary summits. George knew his wife was talented – hell, the whole world knew – but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his gut instincts were always the ones worth following. Love and work and sex made for a dangerous cocktail, and his home life was far from happy. In fact, it was pretty fucking terrible.
He and Stevie had barely finished their pet project when it was time to return to his space-epic. George was at a loss – he had some real, inspired ideas as to how the trilogy should conclude – like the serials of his childhood and the Spaghetti Westerns of his adolescence, this new movie should end on a somber, open-ended note. Perhaps the battle is won, but a new war looms on the horizon.
But he also knew what the studio executives were expecting. Cutesy. Cuddly. Lunchboxes and action figures. He was willing to bend, allowing for merchandise to made and marketed. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were trying to break him. They had come dangerously close to ruining him back in `78.
So on an October evening in 1981, when George Lucas felt those same chest pains he had experienced on the set of Star Wars, he put aside his notes and tried to relax, take his mind off the troubles at hand. He sat back in his recliner, rubbed his temples, closed his eyes, and tried to escape his woes.
George Lucas died at the age of 37.