A Jedi and a Jar Jar walk into a movie…

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Maximum Film/Alamy

A Jedi and a Jar Jar walk into a movie…

Maximum Film/Alamy

The year is 1999. Fans are lined up around theaters. News stations are treating it like a breaking news event.

On May 19, Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace hit theaters, the first movie of the franchise to be released in well over a decade. It promised to tell the origin story of how Anakin Skywalker became Darth Vader.

Fans were so excited some camped out for days, sometimes even weeks, to see the film on opening day.

“The original trilogy was so phenomenal,” said one eager moviegoer. “People have been waiting for this for, like, 16 years.” Another went so far as to say, “There are now eight wonders of the world, one of them being this movie.”

When one reporter asked a crowd if there was any concern the movie might be bad, they responded with a resounding “No.” Oh how wrong they were.

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The consensus? It was a huge flop

NPR sent two critics to review the film. Neither had much good to say.

Here’s how Tom Shales described the movie: “The new Star Wars movie Episode 1 — The Phantom Menace is a menace. It’s not about storytelling and it’s not about people … it’s about effects and technology. It’s a computer movie through and through, by computers and maybe for computers.”

NPR’s Bob Mondello took issue with the infamous Jar Jar Binks: “‘What could he have been thinking,’ you say to yourself as [George Lucas] introduces a race of idol-worshiping primitives who speak with Caribbean accents and behave like refugees from Amos n Andy.”

The backlash didn’t stop there. People hated nine-year-old Darth Vader. They didn’t like all the talk of taxes and trade embargoes.

Hating on The Phantom Menace has become somewhat of a punchline in Star Wars circles, says Erich Schwartzel, who covers the film industry for The Wall Street Journal and is writing a book about George Lucas and Star Wars.

He told NPR the hype only amplified the sting of disappointment: “It’s really, looking back I think, the first example that I have, and maybe the film industry has, of the movie almost being beside the point.”

25 years later, nostalgia has given the film new life

While the overwhelming consensus was The Phantom Menace was terrible, only a Sith deals in absolutes (sorry).

To understand how popular opinion on the film has changed, Schwartzel points to Jar Jar Binks. Schwartzel said most of the fans who grew up on the original Star Wars trilogy would have been in their late 20s or early 30s when they lined up to watch The Phantom Menace.

“[Jar Jar] represents the inherently childish nature of Star Wars, and how childish it can be,” Schwartzel said. “I think Jar Jar is a bit of an affront to those fans, sort of being a reminder that this is also for kids.”

Fans line up at the Ziegfeld Theatre in New York on May 6, 1999 to be the first to see the movie, Star Wars: Episode 1 — The Phantom Menace.

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Fans line up at the Ziegfeld Theatre in New York on May 6, 1999 to be the first to see the movie, Star Wars: Episode 1 — The Phantom Menace.

Stan Honda/AFP via Getty Images

Now that those kids, whose introduction to the Star Wars world was The Phantom Menace, are adults, it’s unsurprising the film is remembered more fondly. The “prequel kids,” as Schwartzel puts it, hold The Phantom Menace as dear to them as older fans revere A New Hope.

After a recent anniversary screening of the film in D.C., All Things Considered host Scott Detrow met 29-year-old Eleni Salyers, who said she’s been a fan of the prequels since she was a kid: “For me it’s nostalgic. Growing up I always preferred the prequels, which is a hot take for many Star Wars fans.”

To fans like Salyers, some of the best moments include the lightsaber fights, which compared to those in the original trilogy, are faster and flashier. The Phantom Menace also introduced fans to podracing, with its now iconic visual and sound effects.

The prequel trilogy has played a foundational role in building the Star Wars franchise into a “multigenerational juggernaut,” Schwartzel said. He notes that if you look at the fire hose of Star Wars content Disney has released over the last decade, you’ll see much of the themes and characters come from the world the prequels created.

This episode was produced by Marc Rivers. It was edited by Jeanette Woods. Our executive producer is Sami Yenigun.

Heartbroken after a breakup that was long overdue, crushed by a stalled entertainment industry and depressed by my temporary day job at a dementia center, I grasped at any semblance of stability. Desperation led me to apply for an office job at a law firm in Westwood despite having zero legal experience and a unique disdain for cubicles and fluorescent lighting.

Months of hopeful waiting ended with a curt dismissal: “We’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.”

I was bitter, and my mind was overflowing with imagined shortcomings directed at the other candidate. The guy they chose was probably fluent in legal jargon and adept at being mundane as hell. He probably penciled in his laughter. He probably was awful, I thought.

Two months later, I received a phone call. The firm was expanding and wanted to hire me. I knew I would have to work with the person who got the job I had applied for, but I needed the income, so I dusted off my loafers and put my ego aside.

I wasn’t going to be there for the long-term and I certainly wasn’t going to make friends, I decided. Naturally the universe had other plans for my time in the office. My aloof facade crumbled upon meeting Chris.

When we were introduced, I politely asked him how he was doing, and he proudly belted out, “L-I-V-I-N!”

It was obvious why Chris was selected for the job that I had wanted. He didn’t know about statutes or precedents. He wasn’t stuffy or boring, and his laughter was far from regulated. Everyone loved him. And why wouldn’t they? I’d never met anyone like him.

His smile was like a floodlight. He repelled negative energy, and anxiety feared him. In an office that made the DMV look like Disneyland, he was everything.

Chris was training me, and we were the only people in our department. I started wearing mascara, removing my headphones and asking Chris questions I already knew the answer to. He would leave notes on my car. We exchanged screenplays, and he would text me after work, referencing inside jokes that we pretended were funnier than they were.

But I’ll admit that I was stubborn. I couldn’t let myself enjoy anything about this job or this phase in my life. I needed to focus on my writing. The strike would end, the clouds would lift, and this blip in time would be forgotten. I couldn’t admit that I was in love with Chris. It wasn’t part of my plan.

We would go to Barney’s Beanery together on our lunch breaks but pretend that we weren’t going on dates. We would take our 15-minute breaks together to “get fresh air.” We made a combined Spotify Blend playlist, revealing our mutual love of Green Day and the Smashing Pumpkins. Sometimes I even forgot how much I hated going to the office.

Chris had an AMC Movie Pass, and I was a good liar. He would see movies after work to beat traffic, so I bought the pass and acted like I’d always had it.

The day we planned to see a movie after work, Chris received terrible news of a death in his family. I offered my condolences at the office. I wanted to hold him but didn’t know if I could so much as pat his arm. I asked if he’d still like to see the movie, and he insisted he needed the distraction.

It was Christmas for all of December in Century City. As we drank three limoncellos each, Chris told me stories about his uncle who made Southern California feel like home, and we shared our first hug. He smelled like clean laundry, and I was drunk enough to tell him.

We sneaked more drinks into the theater and watched Paul Giamatti in “The Holdovers,” which made me cry. Chris held my hand. We stumbled into another movie — a private screening of a live production of “Titanic the Musical.” We didn’t want our night to end, so we went to Barney’s for a nightcap. Standing outside of our favorite bar, we shared our first kiss. It felt overdue.

Since then, we’ve met each other’s families and friends, taken road trips together and seen many more movies. (For me, the AMC Pass was a great investment.)

We also finished all of our work assignments at the law firm. Three weeks ago, the firm let Chris go. I wondered if I should quit. I wanted to. Chris was the best thing about that office, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being there without him. Thirty minutes after Chris was let go, I was let go. We were so happy to be free. The next day we went to Universal Studios to celebrate.

The maze of dead-end interviews, the drudgery of temporary gigs and the tumultuous nature of making a living as a writer don’t feel so bad anymore. We have new day jobs but still go to Barney’s Beanery. We also work on our screenplays and write bad jokes.

Occasionally I make arbitrary plans and ridiculous statements about how things ought to pan out. And I find myself laughing. Not a penciled-in laugh. An unchecked laugh. A Chris-inspired free laugh. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but for now, Chris and I are falling deeper in love and “L-I-V-I-N.”

The author is a screenwriter living in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @mlindz

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

Brian Wilson, performing in Los Angeles in 2015.

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Brian Wilson, performing in Los Angeles in 2015.

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Brian Wilson, one of the founders of The Beach Boys and the writer of many of their hits, will be placed under a legal conservatorship due to a “major neurocognitive disorder,” a judge in Los Angeles ruled Thursday. Wilson’s conservators will be two longtime associates: his manager, LeeAnn Hard, and his publicist, Jean Sievers. Wilson’s family pursued the conservatorship after the death of his wife, Melinda, in January.

Wilson’s situation appears to be markedly different than that of another high-profile celebrity conservatorship: that of Britney Spears, which was in place for 13 years before being lifted in 2021.

In his order, Judge Gus T. May of Los Angeles Superior Court noted that Wilson, now 81 years old, agrees to the conservatorship, and that the court has found “from clear and convincing evidence that a Conservatorship of the Person is necessary.”

May observed in his ruling that Wilson lacks the capacity to make his own healthcare decisions, because “the Conservatee has a Major Neurocognitive Disorder and lacks capacity to give informed medical consent for medications.” Judge May stipulated that Wilson’s seven children will be consulted by the conservators regarding major healthcare decisions and kept informed on their father’s condition.

Wilson’s family publicly announced its intention to file for a conservatorship in February, writing on social media:

“Following the passing of Brian’s beloved wife Melinda, after careful consideration and consultation among Brian, his seven children, [longtime family housekeeper] Gloria Ramos and Brian’s doctors (and consistent with family processes put in place by Brian and Melinda), we are confirming that longtime Wilson family representatives LeeAnn Hard and Jean Sievers will serve as Brian’s co-conservators of the person.

This decision was made to ensure that there will be no extreme changes to the household and Brian and the children living at home will be taken care of and remain in the home where they are cared for by Gloria Ramos and the wonderful team at the house who have been in place for many years helping take care of the family.

Brian will be able to enjoy all of his family and friends and continue to work on current projects as well as participate in any activities he chooses.

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Although the exact nature of Wilson’s illness has not been disclosed publicly, the family’s court filing in February seeking the conservatorship also noted that Wilson suffers from “a major neurocognitive disorder.”

Wilson has experienced mental health issues throughout much of his life. He continued to record music and tour until 2022, which he credited to his late wife.

In the mid-1970s and again in the early 1980s, he became deeply entwined with psychologist Eugene Landy, who wound up exerting near-total control over Wilson’s life; as Wilson told NPR’s Weekend Edition in 2016: “He wouldn’t let me talk to my family on the phone for nine years … He had power over me.”

In the early 1990s, members of Wilson’s family filed other conservatorship petitions in bids to separate him from Landy; a 1992 restraining order forbid Landy from having any contact with Wilson.