review published on January 28, 2014. Reviewed by jj redfearn
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Long ago, in the Leicester Square of a city far, far away, a couple of my colleagues and I, accompanied by a harassed teacher and twenty five or more nine and ten year olds, sat in the second row of the circle, to observe, on the second day of its UK release, an historic document, telling the strange events, that occurred in the days of the old galactic empire. Nine and ten year olds are an unforgiving lot now, and were an unforgiving lot then. “The Green Cross Code man doesn’t sound like that”, said one. “A parsec is a distance”, said his friend. “Those canopies aren’t airtight, their blood would all boil and they’d die. Their eyeballs would burst”. “Chew ‘bacca? Sailors used to do that. They didn’t have chewing gum. Bugglegum’s much better.” “Why is she wearing cinnamon buns over her ears? I’m not going to do that”.
A fair subject then, for an historical Shakespearian epic telling, in ten syllable iambic pentameter, the adventures of R2D2, C3P0, 0B1Ken0Bee, Looook, Haan and Layer. Forsooth in truth they all have strange names, but yet not strange in the telling. Cynical too be they all, with many an aside to the audience about how they duth loath each other, like each other, or manipulate with good intent each other. Strange, nevertheless, that few of the sentences their verbs at the end do they have, though mayhap that’s because the gremlin green known as Y0DA makes yet sans appearance in ye Hope New.
William put little effort into this, his last and hitherto unplay’d play, lost as it was for centuries. Verily I tell you he haths’t plagiarized his own works in this tale of woe, stealing lines and couplets from some of his most famous pieces and rending them forth from said Looook, Layer and Haan. Indeed a new art form has he here created with his story, a tragedy with a happy ending. Not happy for the inhabitants, now deceased, of the fair Alderan, but happy, happy for the crew of the Falcon. Ian, methinks, on the other hand, had much to ado, to reconstruct, this lost manuscript.
Boldly having gone into the surreal realms where science fiction is conjoined with fantasy and told through the words of great literature Doescher has produced a curious yet entertaining little tale. Were it a picture worthy of Escher himself would it be.
The Language of Dying, by Sarah Pinborough