The influence of 'Hidden Fortress' comes up a lot because it was

Hearken, O seekers of story and meaning, to the words of George Lucas, the shaper of galaxies far, far away: “The influence of ‘Hidden Fortress’ comes up a lot because it was printed in a book once. The truth is, the only thing I was inspired by was the fact that it’s told from the point of view of two peasants, who get mixed up with a samurai and princess and a lot of very high-level people.” In this confession lies not only the tale of art’s inspiration, but also the deeper wisdom of perspective. Lucas, like the poets of old, reminds us that the greatest epics are not only about kings and heroes, but about how the humble walk among them, shaping destinies unseen.

The origin of his words lies in the meeting of East and West, in Lucas’s admiration for Akira Kurosawa, the Japanese master who framed honor and survival with the eye of eternity. From Kurosawa’s ‘Hidden Fortress’, Lucas did not steal spectacle, but received a spark: the idea that the eyes of the lowly can frame the grandeur of the mighty. Thus, in the forging of Star Wars, the galaxy is not only seen through the gaze of Jedi and princesses, but through the bumbling, faithful droids—creatures who, like peasants in Kurosawa’s tale, carry us through wars and councils, witnessing the rise and fall of empires.

Mark this well: perspective is power. For what is history, if only told by kings? It becomes a tale of crowns and battles, of decrees and victories. But when the story is told through the eyes of the common, it becomes alive, human, and whole. The peasants, the soldiers, the droids—these become the mirrors in which we see ourselves. They stumble, they laugh, they err, they fear, and in their smallness, we behold greatness. Lucas understood this eternal truth: that audiences cling not to thrones but to companions who walk the dusty road beside them.

Think upon the tale of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. Though they sing of warriors and gods, much of their power lies in the moments seen through servants, companions, and wanderers. Even Odysseus, mighty in cunning, is seen at his most human when humbled among strangers, when his tale is told not with the voice of Olympus but from the hearth of common men. The truth of a story is magnified when it is seen from below, for the low vantage makes the high all the more vast.

So too in the chronicles of nations. Consider the writings of soldiers in the trenches of the Great War. While leaders proclaimed strategy and generals spoke of glory, it was the letters of the ordinary—the foot soldiers who endured mud, hunger, and fear—that revealed the real heart of that age. Without them, history would be hollow. Their voices, like Kurosawa’s peasants and Lucas’s droids, carried the authentic vision of a world in turmoil.

The lesson, O children of tomorrow, is clear: never despise the vantage of the lowly. For in their eyes lies clarity that the lofty may lack. The humble see with fewer illusions; they perceive the cost, the folly, the humanity of the great events into which they are swept. To tell a story truly, to live a life fully, you must honor these perspectives and give them voice.

Therefore, let your practice be this: when you seek to understand an age, a story, or a soul, listen not only to the mighty but to the ordinary. When you tell your own story, do not fear to begin from your humble place, for it may be the very window through which others find the universal. Remember always that the truth of the epic is not only in the hero’s triumph, but in the witness of the simple ones who walk beside him.

Thus Lucas, drawing from Kurosawa, reminds us of the ancient wisdom: that the greatest tales are not the tales of the mighty alone, but of how the small, the forgotten, the humble weave their thread into the fabric of destiny. And in honoring them, we find ourselves—and the truth that no life is too small to illuminate the epic of mankind.