This is not a mini-review but an acknowledgement that last night’s post-premiere tweets didn’t lie: Nothing more to say until the embargo breaks tonight (or technically tomorrow) at 12:01 am, but rest assured Star Wars: The Force Awakens hit the sweet spot with an overwhelming majority of last night’s premiere-attenders. Two or three guys were “meh”-ing it but everyone else was happy. Daisy Ridley and John Boyega (no longer a sanitation engineer in my head but a kind of a young and beautiful Muhammad Ali with drillbit eye contact and lightning-fast emotional reflexes) hit the pitches over and over with a nice clean crack-of-the-bat. Pic whooshes and soars and skims along in a super-efficient and “fan-friendly” way — you’d have to be some kind of committed shithead to put it down with any conviction. The premiere itself wasn’t a clusterfuck after all — huge but nicely handled — hats off to Disney. It felt cold as a witch’s tit in Chicago last night — windy, blustery. Even inside the big party tent. But the piping-hot mashed potatoes were delicious.

Original headline: Everyone Has A Star Wars Pocket In Their Head. A Warm Alpha Place, I Mean. The Prequels Came Close To Poisoning That. Last Night It Felt As If That Poison Had Been Washed Clean, or At Least Decisively Forgotten. Warp-Speed Pizazz, That Old Whoo-Whoo Feeling, Gang’s-All-Here Warmth & Humor and More-Than-Your-Money’s-Worth Fun Have Recaptured The Flag.