At a crucial point in American Graffiti (1973), Laurie repeats Curt’s heartfelt words about the pointlessness of moving away:
"It doesn't make sense to leave home to look for home, to give up a life to find a new life, to say goodbye to friends you love just to find new friends.”
Knowing that his girlfriend threw his best friend’s words at him in order to keep him from moving away, Steve responds, “You know what I want out of life. And it's just not in this town.”
And that exchange seems to reflect not just the core inner conflict of American Graffiti’s lead characters, but of George Lucas himself at that stage in his life.
“Should I stay, or should I go?”
“Should I change, or should I stay the same?”
Looking ahead at the rest of Lucas’s career, it seems as if he might have chosen both.
What do I mean by that? Well, for starters, it’s clear that Curt, who is being torn apart by the dueling impulses of leaving or staying, serves as Lucas’ surrogate character* in the film.
*Isn’t it funny how both Lucas and Spielberg cast Richard Dreyfuss as “themselves” in their respective breakout hits American Graffiti and Jaws?
At the same time, all the other lead characters seem to represent aspects of Lucas’ personality at that stage of his life as well. And it’s no coincidence that each of said characters’ crucial epiphanies are directly tied to their (and Lucas’s) key attributes and dilemmas.
John is the car-loving “cool guy,” and his epiphany comes about after he loses his first race to Harrison Ford’s (!) Bob Falfa; it’s clear John is not as “together” as he thinks he is.
Terry is the insecure one, and his epiphany comes about when he is exposed as a fraud to Debbie, his dream girl; Terry desires to be anyone other than who he is, so this is a nightmare come true.
Steve is the leader of the group, the guy who doesn’t care what others think as he walks his own path, and his epiphany comes about after Laurie breaks up with him; Steve quickly realizes that he is not as independent and ready to spread his wings as he thought he was.
And Curt is the dreamer. His epiphany comes about after he commits an act of vandalism with the Pharaohs gang; sure, it was fun in the moment, but does Curt really want a life of trouble in a dead-end town? Because that is what surely awaits him if he stays.
So not only do we see aspects of Lucas’ psychological concerns cemented in American Graffiti, but we also see his aesthetic obsessions and storytelling aesthetics become cemented here as well.
Cars, racing, speed, “lived-in” realities, intercutting between several storylines, the themes of seeking and belonging, the theme of rebelling, it’s all here. We even see contentious, bantering romantic relationships (ala Han and Leia), as well as life-changing mentor-mentee relationships (e.g. when the DJ known as the Wolfman finally inspires Curt to get on that plane at the end). All of which, of course, Lucas carried over into the Star Wars universe. Definitely a pattern.
This is why I say that, in real life, it feels like Lucas chose to both leave (his ordinary world) and stay (in his comfort zone). And while he certainly left his humble beginnings behind to go tell stories for a living, his initial ambitions were aimed at the avant-garde trappings of THX 1138 more than the mainstream sensibilities of American Graffiti.
But once his career exploded into unimaginable success with Star Wars, it became clear that Lucas would forever be defined by that galaxy far, far away.
In fact, some might argue that Lucas may have felt trapped by his success, and that’s why he could never really let Star Wars go.
Prime example: Even after he sold Lucasfilm to Disney, Lucas stayed on as a shadow consultant for both the Clone Wars and Rebels animated series, as well as the recently completed Sequel Trilogy. Most tellingly of all, Lucas was still tinkering with the Star Wars Special Editions right up until they were released on Disney+.
And this is where the conflicted psychological aspects of Lucas’ American Graffiti characters come back into play.
Maybe Lucas doesn’t feel as “together” as we think he might; his insecurities as a filmmaker may have never let him see past what he sees as the flaws of the Skywalker Saga. Maybe he doesn’t want to try making another movie and be exposed as a “fraud.” Maybe he was more dependent on audience acceptance than he let on.
Because maybe Lucas is, above all else, concerned with the legacy he leaves behind.
And who could blame him? The success Lucas has attained in life is unparalleled beyond belief – among other things, he created the defining pop culture mythology of our time that, in turn, went on to revolutionize cinema itself. (He will always be my hero.) So of course it makes sense that he couldn’t let it all go, even when he tried.
Even so, we all think about the “what ifs” from time to time.
I’m sure a part of George Lucas stayed behind on that plane with Curt, watching that glistening T-Bird far below, heading toward a horizon of infinite possibilities.
Speaking of horizons…
“Movies are dreams that you never forget.”
The thing I find most fascinating about these two men’s autobiographical films is that Lucas made his very early on, while Spielberg made his own “American Graffiti” during the third act of his career. And that speaks volumes as to how differently they approach filmmaking - and dare I say life - overall.
That said, much in the same way that Lucas never stopped exploring the themes that drove him, we can look back now and recognize that The Fabelmans (2022) is the movie Spielberg was clearly building up to all his life.
As I said before while discussing E.T., I don’t think Spielberg could have made this film at any other point in his career. But that certainly didn’t stop him from processing his baggage throughout his entire filmography.
In fact, tracking the Spielberg side of this essay series has revealed just how many of his films are centered around broken families - his “prodigal father” stories, such as Catch Me If You Can and Hook, are especially telling.
Specifically, there’s a scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Indy and his dad argue about their family history, and it feels like Spielberg is talking directly to his father through the camera.
Now, while Fabelmans was well-received overall, I did notice that Spielberg came under some fire for daring to tell such an “on the nose” personal story about his life – I saw quite a bit of “why not just call it The Spielbergs” smarminess going around.
The thing is, Spielberg is far from the only director to incorporate aspects of his life into his stories; frankly, all the guys from Spielberg’s era have a Fabelmans. Ask Martin Scorsese about Mean Streets* some time.
*"[Mean Streets] was an attempt to put myself and my old friends on the screen, to show how we lived, what life was like in Little Italy. It was really an anthropological or a sociological tract."
But I think the key reason Fabelmans works for me - other than the family stuff I’ll get to momentarily - is that while Spielberg does explore his love of filmmaking here, it didn’t in any way come across as arrogant or self-congratulatory.
No one ever calls the main character Sammy Fabelman a “genius” or anything like that; we simply follow Sammy as he grows up making films with his family and friends, absorbs it all, and learns his craft. (Judd Hirsch’s fiery speech about the allure and passion and sacrifice of creativity is a particular highlight.)
Moreover, we never got to the powerhouse stage of Sammy/Spielberg’s career. This means that although there were some clever references to Spielberg’s classics throughout – I really appreciated how Sammy “hated the beach” - we never saw Spielberg’s proxy character making mirror images of his most well-known films.
Instead, Spielberg kept things humble and intimate. He showed us how filmmaking helped Sammy get through the defining period of his life. Namely, storytelling was an escape for Sammy initially, and eventually, it became his outlet for trying to understand the people around him.
And the sobering reality is that Sammy discovered some hard truths through the lens of his camera.
The most hard-hitting of these instances occurs when Sammy uncovers his mother’s emotional infidelity via some home footage he had shot and pieced together. And later, during an argument between Sammy’s parents, the imagery shifts back and forth between Sammy just sitting there numbly to Sammy imagining himself filming the fight. We see him appear in the living room mirror’s reflection, dutifully holding his camera as if he is trying to both hide behind the lens and analyze what is happening to his life at the same time. It was handled beautifully - it just felt so true to the way storytellers process the world.
My personal favorite aspect of this filmmaking thread was the climax involving Logan Hall, one of Sammy’s bullies, which began when Sammy showed the kids at school his end-of-the-year tribute film.
As the tribute film unfolds, we see that the footage Sammy has cut together portrays his tormentor in a favorable light, depicting all of Logan’s sports feats as if he was a larger-than-life super jock. Then Sammy sees how this is landing on Logan in real time, and it confuses Sammy as much as it does Logan.
In fact, it confuses the guy so much that, after their confrontation and illuminating talk in the hallway later on, Logan has no choice but to respect Sammy - he even punches out Sammy’s other bully for him.
It was a truly unique way of dramatizing that very specific moment when a storyteller discovers that their gift in life is connecting with other people through art. And they do so by showing us what we could be, transporting us to new emotional heights, and making us feel things we can’t articulate, yet we know exactly what it all means.
And this of course all culminates in that great John Ford scene, wherein a family friend somehow gets Sammy a meeting with one of his idols.
What’s wonderful about this ending – and I really do hope it happened in real life as it was purported to – is that Sammy doesn’t get any easy answers from his favorite director either.
In short, Ford’s advice is that there isn’t a magic key to filmmaking. You just follow your gut and do your best to find the most compelling shots you can. Of course, Ford says it much more colorfully and succinctly than that, using the hypothetical framing of the horizon line as an example, but that was the gist.
And if you imagine that Ford’s filmmaking advice was an allegory for life, then Sammy once again came away from a consequential encounter with an existential epiphany he can’t explain, yet it all makes perfect sense. And that’s always a good thing.
In the end, all we can do is hope we will always find the most interesting way to frame the horizon.
If you’ve noticed, I’ve basically only discussed the filmmaking aspects of The Fabelmans until now. And that’s because it’s hard for me to write about the familial aspects.
Don’t worry, it’s not because of any deep-seated trauma or anything. What I mean is, it is literally hard for me to find the words. And I think anyone who writes about stories eventually runs into something like this – when it comes to certain personal pieces, every one of us wishes we could simply get away with, “Whatever, I liked it because it’s good. Leave me alone.”
The obvious truth is that I’ve always felt a kinship with Spielberg. His stories connected with me from day one, yes. But it was about more than just loving genre films, and I could never really articulate what it was growing up. I just always knew there was something else.
Then, as I reached my teens and learned that Spielberg’s parents had gotten divorced when he was around the same age I was when my parents did, I began to realize it was because I identified with his voice.
And that’s when I learned that what truly makes stories matter is how you tell them.
As I worked my way through Spielberg’s filmography, I internalized the ways in which he was processing his life’s pain in real-time, and I marveled at the imagery via which he chose to convey his thematic points, and I felt the emotions he decided to focus on and elicit from his characters, and it all just spoke to me.
As corny as it is to say, when I finally understood all this as an adult, I guess I felt a little bit like Logan Hall too. Now, I hadn’t come to the realization that I was a lifelong bully or anything, but I had discovered the wordless camaraderie you share with someone who sees the same world you do.
I don’t know.
Like I said, I can’t put it into words – certainly not at thirteen years old, and somehow even less so now.
Sometimes, you just like it because it’s good.
OK, that’s all, folks, at least until one of these guys decides they aren’t done. If you got this far, it means the world to me!