One of my very earliest memories of childhood: I am barely five years old, and standing in my sandbox. (Actually, “mudbox” would be a more accurate description, but that was exactly the way I liked it.)

My father is kneeling down beside me with the vaguely conspiratorial air of one about to bestow a present upon a recipient who may not fully appreciate its import for some time to come. “Mañana,” he says, “te voy a llevar al cine, y veras los Jinetes Jedi, y las espadas de luz.” I nod, not realizing what a seminal moment in my young life is bearing down upon me. And it is seminal, even though I wind up hiding my face behind the seat in front of me when Obi-Wan and Darth Vader fight their final duel, and again as the Imperials whittle mercilessly away at the Rebel squadrons during the trench run.

Now, twenty-eight years later, I’m hoping that I won’t again feel the urge to conceal the sight of the screen from my own eyes — but for very different reasons.

Please, God, let this movie not be a complete disappointment.