An writers perspective on the behind the scenes "action" that went into The Revenge of the Sith. Excerpt :

He bursts into laughter. "Ohhhhh. Okay, right. The 'script,'" he chuckles, making little quotey gestures with his fingers. I interpret these to be an olive branch of friendship and once again try to shake one of his quote-making hands, with little success.

"I've been trying to make the bottom two inches of Darth Vader's cape look wrinkled for sixteen hours straight," Tom complains to his monitor. I nod sympathetically. "First it was too black. Then not black enough. Corrected the gamma, the hue was off. Got the hue right, then the saturation wasn't exact. Do you understand?"

Not even slightly. "I understand," I say.

"Now he tells me I have to scrap the whole thi—" But he never finishes, as he's cut off by a booming voice that storms in from the hall behind me. "Say, are there goats fucking in here?" it bellows. It's George Lucas himself, creator of the Star Wars franchise, sporting his trademark bulbous flannel torso and chinstrap beard. My jaw slackens in awe.

"Oh!" he exclaims in mock surprise. "No goats? So I guess that was your bleating, Tom? You wanna squeal more about your tender goat ass, or do you wanna make that digital cape flow in a way that's gonna sell me some action figures?"

Boier flings himself from his seat. "You want to know how to fix Darth Vader's cape, George?" He grabs a black overcoat from a nearby coat tree. "Watch," he says, tying the sleeves around his neck and clutching at the coat tails, causing them to swish around.

"There. It's fucking magic," he spits. "A sane man doesn't drop 400 million dollars on CGI effects when he could spend six dollars for black cape material at Wal-Mart, George!"

Lucas narrows his eyes and spits a large wad of phlegm onto the carpet. "You want to join the ex-writing staff out on the streets, Tom? Gargling testicles for cans of pork and beans? I'm the alpha male! Make me a cape, you son of a bitch!" Lucas undoes his fly and prepares to urinate on Tom's desk. I decide to interrupt in an attempt to diffuse the situation. "Mr. Lucas?" I ask. "I'm here for the writing—"

Read it all here. Credit Pointlesswasteoftime.com and nationallampoon.com