It’s difficult to imagine the modern blockbuster landscape without Star Wars.

In 1977, when that Star Destroyer flew into frame, the idea of what a film could be was permanently altered and ultimately, paved the way for films like Avatar (2009) and Avengers: Endgame (2019) to become the most fiscally successful films of all time.

But the strange reality is that most of these blockbuster filmmakers have some fairly unorthodox grassroots. James Cameron started out with the awful Piranha 2: The Spawning (1982). The Russo Brothers started out in comedy with Welcome to Collinwood (2002).

And George Lucas was an experimental filmmaker.

Electronic Labyrinth THX 1138 4EB was made during George Lucas’ MA in Film at the University of Southern California. As with any short film made by a famous director, one might expect some inkling of a stylistic DNA that makes its way into subsequent projects.

Upon initial viewing, these inklings seem tenuous to say the least…

Electronic Labyrinth takes place in a seemingly post-apocalyptic future where humanity has retreated underground. The main character, THX 1138 4EB endeavours to escape the titular ‘labyrinth’ for reasons that are left vague.

Is it to escape this totalitarian regime? Is it because his assigned mate effectively cheated on him?

The truth of the matter is that the reasons are pretty much irrelevant. Electronic Labyrinth conforms to the ‘tone poem’ style of filmmaking adopted by Lucas during these early years in other shorts such as Freiheit (1966) and 1:42:08 (1966). The term itself, alternatively called a ‘symphonic poem,’ was coined by Hungarian composer Franz Lizst and meant to be an alternative to the Romanticism movement, which zeroed in on grand, sweeping narratives and feelings. Instead, the symphonic/tone poem sensibility was built around tonal evocation.

In other words, the focus is entirely on the mood being created. Narrative is virtually non-existent. Characters are window dressing.

And the mood here is shockingly oppressive from the man who would bring us the brevity and humour of Star Wars a mere decade later. The sounds are cold and dissonant, blaring. The entire film is punctuated by the constant droning of workers spouting random numbers as they attempt mind control on THX. Faces are scarcely seen in their entirety, with most characters being shot from the waist down or in extreme close up, sapping even an ounce of human connection.

It creates a horrifically uncomfortable mood. There were multiple points during my rewatch where I was almost inclined to look away due to the film’s complete lack of respite from the viscerally dower atmosphere. Yet, it accomplishes something wholly unique when compared to the majority of Lucas’ oeuvre.

It’s a film so captivatingly hypnotic and so obtuse in its intentions beyond its stalwart conviction in creating this oppressive tone that you are left marvelling at how a student was able to make a film that confident, assured and mature.

Despite the chaotic, scattered nature, from start to finish it holds the reigns and knows exactly where to take you and the ways it will take you there. It is completely unconcerned with how it might be perceived and works all the better for it.

However, it is only on subsequent viewings where a clearer reading emerges. Something far more subtle and surprising.

Electronic Labyrinth THX 1138 4EB is, in many ways, the edgier, film student prototype for Star Wars.

An oppressive empire, a rebellious individual, a liberation, advanced sci-fi phenomena like mind control. The DNA is in fact there; it’s just in such a vastly different and abrasive form that it becomes remarkably easy to miss.

I’ve often thought about the way that artistic sensibilities change over time. I think about how Martin Scorsese, the man who made Taxi Driver (1976) would end up making Hugo (2011), and what possible connective tissue those two movies have within a filmmaker’s body of work.

When creatives are younger and hungrier there is almost always an attempt to upend the establishment by not going in the direction others expect you to. You actively rebel by not giving them the cohesive film people expected. In a way, you purposefully alienate them.

This is something I’ve very much been guilty of. But it seems that over time, your willingness to let people in, to actually express yourself in a cohesive way that can affect a larger audience becomes much clearer. You stop being on the defensive.

Artists are undeniably sensitive people. But that sensitivity is packaged with an emotional obscurity and fear at being able to express your beliefs, your desires, your fears.

George Lucas was not ready to publicly decry the Vietnam War and the animalistic actions of the U.S. government. He was not ready to talk about his desire to be liberated from the mundane life awaiting him back in his hometown of Modesto, California. At least not in a clear cut, obvious way. He wanted you to look for it initially, to fight through the noise and the numbers and jarring cuts to reach his truth.

Eventually, he didn’t have to hide it. He made it digestible and clear cut. And it became the biggest film of all time.

Electronic Labyrinth THX 1138 4EB is, in my opinion, one of the most important films an aspiring filmmaker can watch. It is a gorgeously restrained display at the embryonic ideas that would eventually become his entire creative ethos. A reminder that your initial work is just that, your initial work.

That doesn’t make it unimportant, or juvenile. Far from it. Your early work is the most important work you ever make. There is a raw, unfiltered restraint in your voice when you first speak. Like a child that doesn’t know how to say please and thank you yet. But eventually, when that blossoms into something more decipherable, with enough time and maturity, it becomes a voice that speaks for hundreds, and thousands and possibly millions.