But Star Wars: A New Hope is better. Unrivaled in its ability to bridge the gap between the people who are sitting in their seats watching the movie and the characters that are dashing about in it, it's film as a congruous journey. Empire, conversely, doesn't have Hope's cohesion, even though its plot, essentially, is that the rebels run away, and assorted incidents, adventures, and anecdotes accrue with great rapidity.

Maybe that frantic pacing is why Empire resonates so much with many of the younger Star Wars fans. There's nothing stately about it. It's action upon action upon action. If you're watching Empire, you've probably already seen the first film, and you've bought into its universe. You know that Han Solo is the galaxy's master of Robert Mitchum-type bad-assery, so it's OK for the filmmakers to give him a few killer lines—like his response to Leia just before getting frozen in carbonite—and turn him loose. The film's emotional resonance—and its cultural resonance, too, really—hinges on its crescendo moments, which are familiar even to people who haven't seen the film: those moments parodied, discussed, and referenced time and again. If you want a popcorn flick that shows what's both good and bad about the mega-blockbuster movie experience, Empire is for you.

But if you look at a film as a film and not as part of a phenomenon, A New Hope is the galactic gold standard. It's the one movie out of the six Star Wars movies that you can put alongside The Searchers, Bride of Frankenstein, or The Wizard of Oz as an American film masterpiece. There's a lot of talk in it, but that dialogue is not deployed merely for exposition, as it often is in the Star Wars films, but rather for fostering a feeling of place and community within the picture. Its overall look is rougher, with less chrome and gloss, and more dirt and ash. But that griminess lends the film a mood that—despite the triumphant climax—infiltrates you, rather than pumps you up. And there's a beguiling innocence in the film-making that might be unmatched in the medium's history. You get full on visual derring-do, balls-to-the-wall-style, almost as if Lucas and his crew had been granted one chance to do a movie and one chance only. In other words: If anyone wants to try some crazy idea, now would be the time.

There are plenty of gutsy cinematic moments. The heartrending shot of Luke staring toward the horizon with the two suns overhead is a perfect example of how an internal emotion like longing can be made visual. We're talking distances: a boy far removed from what he wants to be, and celestial bodies far removed from where he is presently standing.

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But the film reveals its characters' personalities in more subtle ways, as well. People hang out a lot in A New Hope. Luke and C-3PO get to know each other in a glorified tool shed; Luke and Ben bond in the latter's hut; space chess and early Jedi training occur simultaneously as our plucky band travels from one spot of adventure to the next. We understand these individuals because Lucas had the courage to simply show them together, during their downtime. Viewed in relation to the rest of the franchise—especially the prequels—New Hope's restraint seems radical.

Lucas was well-versed in the old serials, and when you consider all of the transitional wipes and the occasional faux-camp spirit of Star Wars, it's obvious that the film was pitched as an extension of something like The Secret of Treasure Island or Captain Marvel. But Star Wars goes where serials like that never could. Serials rely on spectacle as spectacle; A New Hope uses spectacle to create meaning. Its loud, splashy moments turn to foster quiet, personal scenes. After Darth Vader strikes down Obi-Wan Kenobi, we see Leia consoling Luke in a hushed, almost maternal manner that pulls the viewer into the screen as we note each gesture, each word. You start to feel like you're riding along with these characters, invested in a way that you weren't previously.