#1. Citizen Kane (1941)

Wow. #1. Finally. Here goes…

I realize that in any kind of a ranking system, the level of subjectivity will always vary from person-to-person. Wilt Chamberlin people will always resent Michael Jordan people and vice versa, when the subject of the greatest basketball player of all time comes up. There will always be a Team Chevy vs. Team Ford rivalry as long as there are cars. And I will be worm-food before I agree with Rolling Stone’s assertion that “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” is the greatest album of all time. As tempting as the notion was, I am not seeking to convince anyone that the AFI was right or wrong in declaring “Citizen Kane” the greatest film ever made. I am just going to analyze it the same way I have all the others on this list. There are moments of undeniable genius and there are flaws as well, and I hope to cover all of them.

Since I always dissect these films according in sequence from beginning to end, now seems as appropriate a time as any to just say right away that this movie’s chronology sucks. I won’t deny that the narrative of one man’s life told in a series of flashbacks by different people at different times is a creative and unique approach- but I feel like it is done to such an extent in this film that you could literally watch it on shuffle and not have it effect the flow all that much.

Also, I make it a rule to not discuss anything I might know about the production aspect or behind-the-scenes stories in these films because I am analyzing all of them solely on their merits as a stand-alone work of art and want to preserve the same level of knowledge anyone else seeing them for the first time may have. However, to think I could get through this entire blog without acknowledging that the film is meant to be a thinly veiled attack on publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst and in fact goes into some extremely specific elements of his life, then I would have to be a complete moron. With that in mind, that will be my first and only mention of Hearst/Kane comparison and contrasts. This is a blog not a film class essay question.

The film opens with several shots from different angles of an eerie, ominous castle called Xanadu. There are a number of exterior views leading up to the first reveal of the interior of the building. Symbolically, the very first image is of a “No Trespassing” sign outside the mansion (considering Kane made his fortune trespassing in other people’s lives)- as each shot takes us further inside Xanadu’s walls, it is evident that the viewer is doing just that in a sense. The camera pans up the chain link fence as if it were climbing over it. Next is a barbed-wire fence, then a full-on wrought-iron gate, a moat, an archway, a main-gate and then a stairway. The entire ascent towards Xanadu is a metaphor for the life of the home’s owner and the film’s principal character Charles Foster Kane (Orson Welles): alienation as a result of shutting people out. Kane’s first onscreen appearance comes at the final moment of his life, clinging to a snow globe and uttering his symbolic last word “Rosebud.”

After Kane’s death, a newsreel film is shown depicting a summarized rendition of his publishing, political and personal life. It is done in the style of a wartime propaganda film and ironically gives Kane’s life the same treatment he tended to give others: very sensationalistic and focusing more on the negatives than the positives of his life. Not only do they mention his failed marriages, political ventures and business endeavors, they also show him acting chummy with historical figures as diverse as Teddy Roosevelt and Adolf Hitler (in footage very similar to “Forrest Gump” Welles is superimposed into real film of these people). The most amazing thing about the opening sequence is that it manages to spoil pretty much everything about the movie; his affair with Susan Alexander (Dorothy Comingore), his rags-to-riches story, his ill-fated Gubernatorial campaign, even the death of the main character, and still it makes the disheveled timeline somehow still interesting and compelling as the movie progresses.

Once the newsreel wraps, a cluster of reporters discus the news that Kane’s dying breath was the utterance of “Rosebud” and speculate as to what it could mean and why it could be the last thing on the mind of such a titanic historical figure. One of the reporters is tasked by his editor to track down everyone who knew Kane in order to find out what he can about him, but more specifically, to gain some insight as to the meaning of Rosebud. From here on, the reporter assumes a sort of first-person protagonist role. Though he is never really shown very clearly, the viewer almost feels as though they are seeing the entire film from his perspective, as the remainder of the narrative will be told to him from other characters in flashback mode. Thus, we learn everything the same way he does.

The first interviewee is Susan Alexander, the disgraced opera singer and mistress who becomes Kane’s second wife. She runs a nightclub in Atlantic City and has become a nasty, manic depressive drunk. Susan refuses to speak with the reporter and he is essentially forced to leave with no information, though he does manage to bribe Susan’s valet into telling him he or Susan seem to have no answers in the Rosebud mystery.

In order to break up the one-on-one interview motif that will dominate the latter part of the movie, the second lead the reporter follows is a visit to the Walther Parks Thatcher Library where he has unprecedented access (as the stern librarian reminds him) to Thatcher’s memoirs where he documents Kane’s early years and how he came to be Kane’s legal guardian. Mrs. Kane, suddenly rich after being given the deed to what was supposed to be a worthless mineshaft that turns out to be The Colorado Lode, one of the most prosperous gold mines in the west, makes arrangements to send young Charles to Chicago under the care of Mr. Thatcher. Charles’ father pleads with Thatcher and Mrs. Kane to let the boy stay in their care and is completely ignored. Mrs. Kane’s cold demeanor and schoolmarm appearance first indicate that she is simply just uncaring and wants Charles out of her way. However, the script is flipped somewhat when Charles reacts angrily to the news that he is being sent away and attacks Thatcher with his wooden sled (I’m not spoiling this for anyone at this point in history, so I will just get this out of the way now- the sled he hit’s Thatcher with is Rosebud). Mr. Kane indicates that his son needs to be severely beaten, at which point Mrs. Kane reveals that his abusive nature is the real reason she is sending Charles away.

The next several scenes indicate how difficult Thatcher’s relationship with Kane will be: a bratty reaction to a newer, nicer sled than he is shown to have previously and an exasperated Thatcher, years later, learning that Charles wants to run a down-and-out newspaper called the New York Inquirer simply because he thinks it would be fun. Almost immediately after taking control, Thatcher is even more perturbed to learn that Kane has transformed the paper into a scandal sheet that even operates against Kane’s own interests by smearing New York’s public transit system, in which Kane is a major shareholder. Their face-to-face confrontation at the offices of the Inquirer give us the first glimpse of Kane at about the same age as Welles would have been at the time the film was made and effectively portrays his arrogance. He dismisses his extreme conflict of interest by claiming to also have a moral obligation to expose corruption at the corporate level because he is an advocate of the working class. While it is never explained whether he truly feels this way or is just cultivating a “man of the people” image knowing that he intends to run for office someday, I believe it is left ambiguous on purpose so that the viewer can decide for themselves. It is also a good litmus test to see how cynical you are by what you actually choose to believe.

”You're right, I did lose a million dollars last year. I expect to lose a million dollars this year. I expect to lose a million dollars *next* year. You know, Mr. Thatcher, at the rate of a million dollars a year, I'll have to close this place in... 60 years.” (Charles Foster Kane, “Citizen Kane”)

The other reason this scene is so pivotal is because it also introduces two more major characters, Jedediah Leland (Joseph Cotton) who is Kane’s best friend from college and now a reporter for the Inquirer and Mr. Bernstein, an older friend of Kane’s who is also something of a personal assistant. In a very subtle way, they are both shown to be enablers as they do not object when Kane decides to fabricate a war in Cuba simply for the sensationalistic story (an obvious reference to the Spanish American War). The scene then transitions to much later in the future, where Kane is beaten down, old and defeated. He is forced to sign away control of his empire back to Thatcher, who berates him on his financial recklessness, very much still playing the role of father figure to Kane. After having pored over every account of Thatcher’s time with Kane, the reporter leaves, again defeated having gained no further insight.

The next interview is conducted with Mr. Bernstein, who remained loyal to Kane for the entirety of his life. So much so that he even has an enormous portrait of Kane as the centerpiece of his office. Despite coming across as a little senile, he offers interesting and slightly foreshadowing insight as to what Rosebud could mean when he references a girl he saw decades ago for a split second but never forgot; implying that Rosebud could be something small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

True to his character, Bernstein’s flashbacks are much more lighthearted and humorous than previous accounts, including Kane moving into the Inquirer building upon taking the paper over, and a lot of slapstick involving the paper’s very vaudevillian editor. However, there is also some seriousness as well as more foreshadowing in the scene where Bernstein, Leland and Kane discuss the future of the Inquirer and Kane reveals his “Declaration of Principles” in which he promises readers to be their uncorrupt champion (intentionally ironic considering his obvious propensity for yellow journalism).

Kane’s ambitions are further illustrated in one of the greatest scenes in the whole film- Bernstein, Leland and Kane are shown in the front window of the Inquirer building which advertises its 26,000 issue circulation; a pretty pitiful number in New York City. The three men then visit their closest rival, the well established New York Chronicle, boasting a circulation of almost half a million. Bernstein points out a photo in the lobby of the Chronicle’s staff, which they proudly advertise as the Greatest in the World. The camera zooms in on the photo of the 10 reporters, then freezes as it transitions to a live action shot of the same 10 men in the same configuration but in different clothes, indicating that Kane has not only poached the entire Chronicle staff and recreated the same photo for HIS lobby, but in doing so, has gone straight for the jugular and clearly intends to wipe out rather than compete with the rival paper.

To celebrate his newly acquired staff as well as circulation totaling almost 700,000, Kane throws himself a victory party at the Inquirer. While the scene involving dancing showgirls and opulent ice sculptures seems harmless and good natured, it serves as an indicator for how gluttonous and self-indulgent Kane has become- punctuated by an entire musical number about himself capping off the party.

Yet another passage of time is illustrated as Leland and Bernstein talk about Kane who is conspicuously absent, and his obsession with buying material things, particularly paintings and sculptures. This is the first indication as to how out of control he is about to become, not just as a consumer but as person in general. Though no specific time-frame is given for Kane’s absence, he does appear older and heavier when he returns, albeit briefly, to hand-deliver his engagement announcement to Emily Norton, the niece of the President of the United States. The flashback scene with Bernstein is bookended nicely with a prophetic reiteration that Rosebud could be something that Kane lost along the way.

The next interview is conducted with Leland at a retirement home (as is evidenced by the elderly, significantly alone patients sitting in wheelchairs visible over Leland’s shoulder as he is interviewed. Though they are sitting in beams of light from dramatically large windows, their heads and faces are noticeably in shadows, which seems to indicate that life for the residents is solitary and depressing- a theory reinforced by Leland’s overt chattiness, as if the visit from the reporter is the first human contact he has had in ages. Leland’s reminiscences of Kane are of darker times in his life; further illustrating the ongoing pattern of Kane being depicted in accordance with his relationship to the person describing him. Leland mentions that the two had not been friends for some time, thus setting the stage for more negative portrayals of Kane to contrast Bernstein’s loving and supportive ones.

Leland’s flashbacks jump right into one of the most skillfully crafted scenes in any movie. The dissolution of Kane’s marriage to Emily Norton is essentially depicted in just a few brief time lapses. The newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Kane sit close to each other at the breakfast table while Charles buries Emily in compliments. She voices disappointment with his having to return to work but the conversation is still good natured and affectionate. The scene then transitions to a later point where the two are now sitting across the table from each other and bickering more seriously, as the time lapses continue the conversations become less and less civil and the table grows longer to illustrate that they are literally as well as figuratively growing apart. In the final scene of this montage, Emily is seen staring spitefully across the table while reading the Chronicle instead of her own husband’s paper, though he is so detached he doesn’t even seem to notice.

Leland then regales the reporter with the account of how Kane first met his second wife Susan Alexander. While on his way to a storage unit containing his now deceased mother’s belongings, Kane meets the much younger Susan as she passes him on the street, laughing at him having just been splashed by a carriage. She takes him to her apartment to clean himself up and he in turn amuses her with shadow puppets and the two talk about their respective pasts. Her uncontrollable giggling and being amused by childish things serve to depict the significant age difference between the two, but their body language and intimate conversation indicates attraction if not love at first sight. While this scene is significant in framing the relationship between Kane and Susan, it is much more important to point out that this represents a dark turning point in Kane’s life. Not just because his eventual affair with Susan will lead to his political downfall, but because were it not for Kane’s lecherous intentions that night, he would have wound up at the storage unit and likely found Rosebud, the missing piece of his youth that might have kept him grounded.

From here, the downward spiral continues for Kane. He gives a speech at Madison Square Garden just days before the New York gubernatorial race that he is convinced he will win. However, his incumbent opponent Jim Gettys, probably through a combination of playing politics as well as tired of having his name drug through the mud in Kane newspapers, reveals Kane and Susan’s affair to Emily and threatens to go public with it if Kane doesn’t drop out of the race. Kane stubbornly refuses and winds up losing the election.

Back at Kane headquarters/the Inquirer office, Kane and Leland have a very blunt conversation where a drunk Leland finally has the courage to point out many of Kane’s flaws as a caring friend rather than a spiteful enemy. This is the first exchange between the two where it becomes clear that some kind of falling out is in the works for them down the road. During the entire dialogue where Leland dresses down Kane, the camera remains close to the ground, looking up at Leland and Kane, which gives the impression that Kane looks down on the world as Leland describes the way he has always manipulated people and viewed them as property. Leland asks to be transferred to the Chicago Kane paper, showing both a desire to be free of Kane but also still a sense of loyalty to him.

”A toast, Jedediah, to love on my terms. Those are the only terms anybody ever knows. His own.” (Charles Foster Kane, “Citizen Kane”)

With his personal relationships falling apart and his political career all but over, Kane focuses on making Susan a bona fide opera star; considering the headlines announcing their wedding read “Kane marries ‘singer’” it is apparent that this will not be an easy task. This suspicion is all but confirmed in a montage that depicts Susan’s professional debut at the Opera House Kane builds for her in Chicago. Her exasperated vocal coach is clearly not pleased with her progress even as they are getting ready to raise the curtain. As she launches into the opening aria, a very creative upward wipe takes the camera up the length of the set and into the rafters where two stagehands are shown looking at each other in such a pitiful fashion it can only mean that Susan sounds terrible.

Following Susan’s debut, Kane arrives at the office of the Chicago Inquirer where Leland has been transferred. It isn’t until Bernstein tells the other newspapermen that the two men haven’t spoken in years that we realize just how much time has elapsed since Kane decided to pour all his efforts into the hopeless fantasy of Susan’s musical career. Kane finds Leland passed out drunk over his typewriter and discovers that he is writing a brutally honest review of Susan’s performance. Despite the universal understanding that her debut was a flop, everyone else at the paper is willing to delude Kane into believing that she was a huge success besides Leland. Though it is implied that he only wrote the bad review to get it out of his system and planned on writing a dishonest good one (seemingly more out of a strange loyalty to Kane rather than for fear of losing his job) this scene is important because it revisits the concept that Leland is the only one in Kane’s entourage who is willing to be honest with him; albeit only when drunk, which suggest a certain cowardice.

In distinctly un-Kane-like fashion, he completes the review in the same sharp-tongued manner that Leland began it rather than altering it to fit his agenda. Leland speculates to the reporter that he only did so to prove that he was honest, but given his manipulative nature, it seems entirely possible that he is also trying to prove to Leland that he doesn’t need him (especially considering he promptly fires him) or that he is simply trying to spite him.

When the reporter is finally able to get Susan to talk about life with Kane, she tells pretty much the same story, complete with some of the exact same scenes from the montage when Leland told the story, however, Susan’s account includes the aftermath of Leland/Kane’s bad review. She screams at Kane about how bad of a friend Leland is for panning her performance, though she is unfazed by all the other non-Kane papers that did, which means she is not only aware that she is not as gifted a singer as Kane believes her to be, but also that she has similarly warped principles as Kane does by simply expecting a good review from Leland.

While Susan continues her shrill, ignorant sounding tirade, Kane receives a telegram from Leland containing the $25,000 severance check Kane sent him torn to pieces, as well as the original copy of Kane’s Declaration of Principles from when he first took over the Inquirer. This not only reflects Leland’s sentimentality, but also serves as the final time Leland will be honest with Kane by blatantly rubbing his face in the fact that he has violated every one of his principles over the course of his publishing career. Furious over the disintegration of his friendship with Leland, Kane angrily informs Susan that, against her wishes, she will continue her singing career despite her utter humiliation. As he menacingly approaches Susan, who is sitting on the floor, his entire shadow envelopes her, reminding her as well as the viewer that she is literally and figuratively in Kane’s shadow.

As Susan’s singing career continues to fail at gaining momentum, despite all the undeserved glowing reviews in Kane papers, it becomes evident just how concerned with keeping up appearances Kane really is when Susan attempts to commit suicide. Despite the doctor knowing the Susan has attempted to poison herself, Kane pathetically tries to explain it away as an accidental overdose. Though the suicide attempt does convince Kane just how bad Susan doesn’t want to sing anymore, his solution is to move her into the ridiculously extravagant mansion, Xanadu and essentially keep her captive. Much like the breakfast table montage illustrates the demise of his marriage to Emily, a series of scenes depicting Susan doing jigsaw puzzles with different outdoor images on them indicates the passage of time via the corresponding seasons in the puzzles.

Once the puzzle montage is finished, we see a couple brief snippets of Kane and Susan’s life together which make it obvious that their relationship has ran out of gas. When Kane discovers that she has packed her things and is leaving him, rather than express concern about the end of their marriage, Kane is more concerned with the scene it will cause in front of their friends. Though Susan’s narrative of events ends with her leaving, she does encourage the reporter to talk to the butler at Xanadu which leads to the final interview of the film.

The butler recounts the day Susan left and for the first time we get to see a genuine emotional reaction out of Kane, though unfortunately it is visceral anger. Upon Susan’s departure, he violently begins to trash her bedroom, breaking everything in sight including pounding out mounted shelves with his bare hands. As he staggers past the entire gawking servant staff it is clear that he is in ill health. Though the time frame is rather ambiguous, it seems apparent that Kane doesn’t live much more than a few years after Susan leaves. The butler mentions that he heard Kane say “Rosebud” after he trashed Susan’s room and stormed off with a snowglobe, and again the day he died, which, when you flash back to the very beginning, makes sense since he utters the word as he dies, clutching the same snowglobe, which obviously reminds him of the sled.

”That's all he ever wanted out of life... was love. That's the tragedy of Charles Foster Kane. You see, he just didn't have any to give.” (Jedediah Leland, “Citizen Kane”)

There is a certain sketchiness to the butler that leads you to believe that there could be some inaccuracy in his account, especially considering he is the only person interviewed who seems interested in being paid for his information. He says he can explain Rosebud, but then all but admits he has no idea what it means. He also is never seen in close proximity to Kane but purports to have inside information on him. Regardless, he at least doesn’t give a fictional account of what Rosebud means, leaving the mystery as open ended as it was at the beginning- indicating that the reporter’s search has all been in vain.

As the cameras pull back further in the interior of Xanadu, the vastness of Kane’s material possessions becomes apparent. There are crates upon crates full of statues, paintings and other material goods, all of which failed to bring Kane happiness. As it turns out, probably the least expensive thing in his castle, the old sled Rosebud, ends up being the one thing Kane longed for; obviously, an metaphor for youth and innocence. The irony is also not lost on me that people poring over Kane’s belongings and inventorying them for auction are so obsessed with his rare and valuable possessions that they don’t even notice Rosebud, so much so that it is incinerated with the trash. There is so much symbolism in the final shot of Rosebud burning in the fires that it is almost overkill. It is heavy-handed with metaphors of life and death, fantasy and reality, good and evil, pretty much any way you want to interpret it.

At the end of the day, “Citizen Kane” isn’t considered to be the best movie of all time because of a stellar script, particularly remarkable acting or even because of its unique shooting style revolving around deep focus and unorthodox camera angles. It is respected because of the fact that every “great” movie since has borrowed some aspect of the film; be it the interspersing of the actors into real film of historical figures as in “Forrest Gump,” the nonlinear narrative of movies like “Pulp Fiction,” or the ending involving a sought-after relic being lost forever in a warehouse like in “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t think “Citizen Kane” is a technically perfect picture. The characters are pretty much all unlikeable and do not develop at all. The story itself lacks originality considering it is in many ways a biopic, several elements of the film aren’t explained as well as they could be (the death of Kane’s first wife and son are never mentioned other than in the opening newsreel, indicating that it is clearly a device to advance the plot so that Kane can marry Susan Alexander). The narrative isn’t broken up well when you consider that for the entire middle section of the film, Kane is practically in every scene. However, even with all these faults, there is something about this movie that completely justifies the pedestal on which it has been placed. What the movie lacks in substance, it makes up for in balls. It takes great risks both stylistically and content-wise that mostly pay off.

Maybe the best way of putting it would just be to say that nobody ever said it was the greatest story of all time, but it’s hard to argue that it isn’t important and unique enough to be the greatest movie of all time.

#2. Casablanca (1942)

One of the shady things I used to do in my college days to try and appear more sensitive to ladies was tell them one of my favorite movies was “Fried Green Tomatoes” (or if they were kind of white-trashy, “Steel Magnolias”). I never felt guilty about being a liar and a borderline fraud in exchange for the possibility of three and a half minutes of hot lovin’, however I was always conflicted about this ruse because, even back then I liked to think of myself as some kind of movie-hipster. Had I ACTUALLY been a movie-hipster, I would have seen “Casablanca” and known I could be into sensitive movies and not sacrifice my cinematic dignity.

Opening narration is always a roll of the dice. It walks a fine line between lazily moving events along for the convenience of the filmmaker (“It’s a Wonderful Life”) or trying to force us into the minds of characters rather than make our own assertions (“Sin City”) and sparing us hours of tedious backstory (“The Fellowship of the Ring”) or establishing a clearly biased and one-sided perspective (“Goodfellas.”). From a purely selfish standpoint I am eternally grateful to “Casablanca” for streamlining historical information that I am not particularly interested in and establishing the importance of the Moroccan city during World War II in just a few sentences. I’m sure they could just as easily have explained how the city became a sort of limbo for European refugees waiting to get into America in a few exchanges of dialogue, but in this case, the narration eliminates the risk of bogging down the film’s pace.

One of the more unique elements of this picture is the fact that, since Casablanca was ruled by the French, the people asking for papers and hauling away innocents in paddy wagons are the French police rather than S.S. troops. In one particularly symbolic scene, a man with expired papers attempts to flee the French police and is shot dead. His body collapses next to a wall where a portrait of Philippe Petain, the French Chief-of-State who all but handed France over to Hitler, eerily looms over him. A search of the man’s body turns up papers indicating he is part of the French resistance movement against the Nazis, grimly foreshadowing the years to come.

Since Casablanca is considered the layover point, often times for years, for refugees waiting to obtain visas and escape to the Americas, air travel is synonymous with freedom in this film. At one point, a lineup of rounded up refugees are cheered up at the mere sight of a plane flying overhead. However, this is yet another dark prophecy, as the plane is actually carrying a Nazi officer Major Strasser (Conrad Veidt) who is in Casablanca to investigate the murder of two German couriers carrying sensitive documents. Veidt is frighteningly authentic in this role due to his real-life German heritage as well as the fact that my personal knowledge of his work extends to his incredibly frightening roles in expressionist horror films like “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari,” “The Man who Laughs” and “Waxworks.” He is greeted by French police captain Renault (Claude Rains, another horror film alum from movies like “The Wolf Man” and “The Invisible Man”) who assures him the man who killed the couriers will be brought to justice that night at Rick’s Café Americain.

Enter the two most important aspects of the film, Rick’s Café (a setting that is the backdrop of so much of the story that it is just as if not more important than any of the characters) as well as the proprietor himself, Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart). The introductory scenes of the restaurant/bar/casino all help set the stage for how sketchy of a place it is, including dialogues between smugglers, thieves and swindlers. With the rapid cuts between undesirable people, the stucco interior of the café and the ever-present music in the background played by the bandleader Sam (Dooley Wilson), it is evident just how much of an homage the Cantina scene in “Star Wars” is to “Casablanca.” Substitute the varied ethnicities for different types of aliens and it is essentially the exact same scene- all the way down to the “you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy” description.

The actual reveal of the character of Rick is done with such drama and fanfare that it is obvious we will be meeting a significant character. The guests discuss him as if he is some mythical figure, the wait staff keeps him closely guarded and even the camera hesitates to show him, first zooming in only on his hands as he signs a check, then panning upwards to show him for the first time as a surly loner, a point that is exacerbated by the fact that he is playing chess by himself. He has very curt conversations with a series of patrons and hangers-on, however his first in-depth conversation, with Captain Renault, is among one of the finest ever committed to film. Their rapid-fire repartee and snappy one-liners effectively depict a strong mutual respect despite a complete difference of politics.

Though Rick often seems nonplussed at any kind of big news, he finally shows a visible reaction when Renault informs him that a fugitive named Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid) is en-route to Casablanca. Though Rick likes to project himself as an indifferent mercenary, Renault knows his backstory and fears that Rick may be sympathetic to Laszlo’s cause, as he is a French freedom fighter who has escaped from a Nazi concentration camp and Rick himself has a history of being an idealistic crusader. Renault implores Rick not to help Laszlo escape Casablanca, knowing he has access to falsified exit visas, and Rick insists that he will not intervene but that Laszlo will make it out regardless.

After the killer of the two couriers (who has left two visas out of Casablanca in Rick’s care) is arrested, Strasser questions Rick about his loyalties in the war and is not convinced when Rick again repeats his indifference. In the very next scene, Laszlo arrives at Rick’s along with his wife Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman). Though their arrival is rather understated, Sam’s reaction to seeing them underscores not only their importance to the plot, but also a significant and unpleasant history. Moments later they have their first exchange, confirming their implied past. Ilsa pressures a reluctant Sam into playing the Broadway tune “As Time Goes By” which prompts a reemergence of an enraged Rick, who has instructed him to never play that song again. As soon as Rick recognizes Ilsa it is obvious that the song is linked to a romantic history between them.

Later that night, after the bar has closed, Rick drunkenly stews over having had to face Ilsa again. Rick’s memories of Ilsa spill out in the form of a flashback montage documenting their relationship. Despite the fact that the Nazi occupation of Paris is escalating, Rick and Ilsa’s love life is growing more serious, adding an element of lightheartedness to a serious situation, as well as illustrating how deep Rick’s love for Ilsa runs, as what should be dark times are heavily romanticized in his mind. After agreeing to flee together, with loyal sidekick Sam, Rick waits at a train station in Paris for Ilsa. Sam informs him that there is no sign of her but that she left a note. As Rick reads what is essentially a Dear John letter, we see the note from his point-of-view, amidst a heavy rain the ink begins to run off the paper. I get the distinct impression that some of the drops hitting the page are implied to be Rick’s tears. Sam and Rick escape Paris and relocate to Casablanca, thus ending the flashback and bringing the narrative back to present times. Ilsa returns to the deserted bar to explain her actions, as well as her entire life story to Rick but he is too angry and hurt to hear her out and the conversation ends abruptly.

“Ricky, I'm going to miss you. Apparently you're the only one in Casablanca with less scruples than I.” (Captain Renault, “Casablanca”)

The next morning, Laszlo and Ilsa meet with Strasser and Renault to discuss possible terms of their being able to leave Casablanca. Strasser’s attempts to bribe Laszlo into naming names as to who is involved in the resistance movement fall flat, as do his veiled threats on Laszlo’s life, as killing him would be hard to get away with in unoccupied, essentially neutral territory. Laszlo’s defiant and noble attitude complicate the potential love triangle between him, Ilsa and Rick for the viewer, as Laszlo is so honorable that it is hard to root against him, more-so when Ilsa reveals that she was married to him even when her and Rick were wrapped up in their affair.

The latter-middle portion of the film focuses on Laszlo and Ilsa attempting to get the coveted exit visas from Rick, to little avail. Rick maintains that he is not willing to stick his neck out for anyone politically, though it is evident that his resentment for Ilsa runs so deep that he is indifferent to whether or not they escape Casablanca. One incredibly climactic turning point though, gives us glimpses into Rick’s well-hidden loyalty. As the reveling Nazi troops led by Strasser loudly and obnoxiously sing German propaganda songs, Laszlo instructs the band, with the encouragement of Rick, to drown them out with the French National Anthem. A sort of duel erupts between the Nazis and the far numerically superior allies. Angry about being symbolically defeated, Strasser orders Renault to close Rick’s.

In a last-ditch effort to get the visas from Rick, Ilsa resigns herself to having to sleep with him, but even that fails. Desperate, she pulls a gun on him and demands the papers. When Rick responds by pressing his chest right up to the barrel and telling her that killing him would be doing him a favor, Ilsa finally realizes how badly she hurt him and the depth of their feelings for each other. Rick agrees to help Laszlo get out of Casablanca but declares that he is keeping Ilsa for himself.

The final moments of the film are filled with twists and turns; Rick decides Ilsa should leave with Laszlo rather than stay with him, Renault attempts to prevent them from escaping only to have Rick turn the tables again by holding him at gunpoint and ordering him to call the airport to give clearance for their flight to leave. Instead he calls Strasser’s office and tips him off to the attempted escape. Rick then has another change of heart and convinces Ilsa to leave with Laszlo, realizing that their affair will never be anything more than their temporary fling in Paris. Ilsa seems reluctant, almost disappointed to be leaving with her husband but Rick knows that she is too virtuous to leave him for another man. Strasser arrives just as the plane is leaving and is killed in the ensuing gunfight with Rick.

When Renault’s officers arrive seconds later, his respect for Rick wins out, as he informs the men to “round up the usual suspects,” effectively letting Rick off the hook. It is suggested that the two men both realize their love of country/disdain for the Nazis and plan to leave Casablanca in order to take up the cause, or that they will just move on to their next adventure together realizing that they are perfect for each other as they are both fundamentally flawed people but with a mutual admiration. Unlike the stereotypical old movie ending with the hero riding off into the sunset, two questionable heroes walk off into a foggy mist; almost as if to imply a lack of clarity of their own personalities.

It’s almost a shame that “Casablanca” has so many famous quotes in it, because I think those one-liners tend to overshadow the really clever lengthy dialogue. However, besides that, one of the most memorable aspects of this picture is the sets. The crowded street markets, airport tarmacs and interior shots of Rick’s all convey the claustrophobia and desperation of the desert even though they were all shot on sets.

Also, the complex relationship between Rick and Renault is unintentionally timely in today’s ugly political climate as a nice reminder that our ideological differences should not dictate the company we keep.

#3. The Godfather Part II (1974)

If you ask me, “The Godfather Part II” is a movie that didn’t have to be made.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it, because I did. It’s also not to say it wasn’t well made, because it was. I just mean that Francis Ford Coppola didn’t have to spend 3 hours explaining to me why I should sympathize with a title character who comes across as kind of a dick in the original film. I don’t need to hear a tragedy filled back-story explaining why someone became a dirtbag. I kinda like dirtbags. From Tom Cruise to Michael Moore, Judas to LeBron James, I can find myself rooting for the bad guy more often than not, with or without a sob story.

Yet, here we are. In a sequel that is also a prequel we are given the stories of how two men rose to power. Vito Corleone (Robert DeNiro) and his son Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) rose to power in the shady world of organized crime. The constant jumping back and forth between events that proceeded the original film to its immediate aftermath are not ingenious because of the jump edits themselves, but rather the way the movie transitions from one time period to the next. Often times you are watching a Vito segment thinking it is a Michael segment and vice-versa. Employing both a “like-father-like-son” kind of motif but also pointing out their differences in personality and character by showing how the respective characters react to the events in their lives.

The film opens with 9 year old Vito having his father, mother and brother wiped out all within the first 3 minutes. The mafia Don who has whacked all of them wants Vito dead too for fear that he will seek vengeance on him when he is old enough. Vito is practically mute and even implied to be mentally deficient. Despite the obvious hardships he will face, friends of his family harbor him long enough to put him on a ship to America. When he arrives at Ellis Island, the impatience of the in-processing officers as well as his silence leads him to be erroneously renamed after the town he is from rather than his true last name, and thus, Vito Corleone sticks.

At this point the movie transitions to a sequel, showing the communion of Vito’s grandson Anthony several years later after Vito has died and Michael has taken over (as depicted in the first film). As I mentioned earlier, the movie is quick to point out similarities and differences between Vito and Michael, all while homaging the first film. In the original, Vito conducts business during his daughter’s wedding in New York, Michael at his son’s communion in Lake Tahoe. Vito is only seen in his dark, shaded office, Michael is outside in the sunlight. Vito wears a black tux, Michael, a grey suit. The guests in the first film humbly ask Vito for favors while Michael talks to people who flagrantly disrespect him. Indicating how both the times as well as the family business have changed. The party scene also pays tribute to the first film by reintroducing us to the returning characters from the original movie; Honorary Corleone Tom (Robert Duvall), Michael’s siblings Connie (Talia Shire) and Fredo (John Cazale), Michael’s wife Kay (Diane Keaton) and several other thugs and bodyguards.

The various meetings Michael has all lead up to a particularly violent assassination attempt on Michael while his wife and son are in the house. Nobody is hurt and the assassins themselves end up dead, but the parade of people both close to and outside the family who have previously met with Michael that day all have the motivation to put a hit out on him, which creates a sort of mini-mystery that is kind of corny in its “whodunit?” kind of portrayal but also very crucial in terms of illustrating Michael’s state of mind and how real the possibility of betrayal is at every turn.

Meanwhile, back in Vito’s day, his life in New York as a young adult is rough. His wife and their firstborn (Sonny Corleone) and living in a cramped apartment in Little Italy. He works at a friend’s father’s grocery store but loses that job when the mafia syndicate who runs the neighborhood shakes his boss down. It is in these early scenes that Vito learns about such mob rituals as protection money, returning favors and keeping your mouth shut, as he is rewarded with a very expensive decorative carpet in exchange for stashing some guns for a friend.

The jumps become more frequent as only a few moments later we are back in sequel-times. Michael travels first to Florida to meet with Hyman Roth, a business partner with whom he plans to form a monopoly on Nevada hotels and casinos, then to his father’s old home in New York where he meets with Frank Pentangeli, who is running the East Coast portion of the Corleone family business. Michael confides to both men that he suspects the other is responsible for the attempt on his life. In a moment of almost too obvious foreshadowing, Michael declares that he will find out what member of his family has betrayed him, which is immediately followed by a cut to Fredo at home receiving a mysterious and shady phone call. The all around distrust becomes more and more apparent both with Fredo’s vague dealings and what is implied to be an attempt on his own man Pentangeli’s life orchestrated by Michael.

One of the more compelling characters from the first film, Tom, has very little onscreen time early in the film, however he is featured in two key scenes that seem like they are hastily dropped in. In the first, a corrupt Senator who attempts to extort Michael at the beginning of the movie, is shown with a dead prostitute at a brothel owned by Fredo. The Senator is clearly shell-shocked and claims to have no memory of the incident though he does acknowledge that the two had engaged in extreme, INXS-style sex in the past. Tom proceeds to lecture the Senator on how lucky he is that this happened on Corleone property where it can be covered up. The brilliance of this scene is how obviously it conveys the fact that the Senator is being blackmailed, but it is never actually confirmed.

The second, now back at Michael’s Tahoe home, shows Tom keeping Michael’s wife Kay and their children under lockdown, despite her protests. Similar circumstances are depicted in the first film and, though this scene does keep things consistent, it really feels disjointed and out of place. Almost as if Coppola became conscious of the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Kay in awhile so they’d better just sneak in a quick reference to remind us that she exists.

An extensive but symbolic section set in Havana, Cuba dominates the next several scenes. Set against the backdrop of the Cuban Revolution, there is a clear allegory as it relates to power structure, rebellion and trust. Hyman Roth, who earlier appears as a warm and almost father-like mentor to Michael, quickly degenerates into a corrupt and cutthroat businessman. He back-references his friend Moe Greene’s murder as depicted at the end of “The Godfather” and makes it very clear that he knows Michael was the one who ordered the hit. Michel’s distrust of Roth is now well founded. While this is not good for Michael, it end up being REALLY not good for Fredo, as he lets slip that he has been dealing with Roth on the sly. At a crowded party for several corrupt politicians, VIPs and Mafioso, Michael climactically presents Fredo with the Sicilian Kiss of Death. The series of events happening at the party parallel what is going on in Michael’s family enterprise as Cuban President Batista resigns and Castro’s rebels move in; Roth has a stroke, Michael’s bodyguard is killed while trying to take out Roth and his men, another assassination attempt on Michael is in the works and Fredo has a major freakin’ fear meltdown. Batista and simultaneously, Michael, both narrowly escape with their lives.

Michael and Tom have a debriefing session shortly after Michael escapes Cuba where we learn that Hyman Roth is still alive and is back in the states, Fredo is in hiding in New York, all but confirming his guilt in the assassination attempt on Michael and Kay suffered a miscarriage in his absence. The continually dark transformation in Michael’s character escalates further when, rather than expressing any concern for his own wife’s well being, his only question is whether or not the lost baby was a son.

After having left the prequel part of the storyline alone for a very long time, the focus finally goes back to young Vito. Fanucci, the Mafia Don who had previously caused Vito to lose his job catches wind of the fact that Corleone and his friends have been committing some low-level crimes in what he perceives to be his turf and demands a cut. Vito’s friends are intimidated and are prepared to hand over their share no questions asked. However, due to both a lack of respect and the fact that he has never seen Fanucci back up his tough talk, Vito convinces them to let him “reason with” Fanuccci and pay him considerably less than what he is asking. If there are any questions as to how Vito plans to do this, they are eliminated when Vito ominously informs them that he will “Make him an offer he don’t refuse.” Of course not only is this line so effective because of its usage in the original film, but it is also the only line delivered in English at the conclusion of a subtitled conversation in Sicilian. In other words: “Pay attention, people with low mental bandwidth, shits about to get real.”

Vito stalks Fanucci from the rooftops of Little Italy where the entire Italian and Sicilian community is gathered for some sort of Catholic festival I won’t even pretend to understand. Once he has him cornered in a dimly lit hallway inside Fanucci’s apartment Vito violently kills Fanucci with a gun he has hidden inside a rolled up towel. The lighting in this sequence is intense, as the flickering hallway light exposes and conceals Vito from view. Equally intense is the editing, as the focus jumps from the party in the streets to the savage murder in the hallway. This style also indicates just how brilliant and calculated Fanucci’s assassination is as Vito is able to kill him essentially out in the open, knowing that everyone in the neighborhood will be at the parade and not witness it, as well as timing the actual shooting to coincide with the celebratory fireworks, thus suppressing the sound as well.

Fanucci’s death is also filled with graphic symbolism; employing what has since become one of the most clever tactics used by Hollywood to gauge the severity of a shooting death- dressing Fanucci in all white. From the drive-by that kills Ricky in “Boyz n the Hood” to Combo getting blown away by a little kid in “Breaking Bad,” nothing informs the viewer that the victim is not going to survive quite like the contrast of blood stains on crisp white garments. Also, as Vito calmly walks home after having rubbed out Fanucci, he sits on his front step with his wife and, despite the presence of Sonny and Fredo, Vito makes a point of holding Michael, his hands still stained with the black powder from the gun, almost as if to indicate he is figuratively staining Michael with his brutal nature.

“Fredo, you're nothing to me now. You're not a brother, you're not a friend. I don't want to know you or what you do.” (Michael Corleone, “The Godfather Part II)

The second act (?), Post intermission (?). Let’s just call it what it is, the part where I have to go to disc 2, begins with a very short but relevant scene that reflects the state of Michael’s home. It is snowy and dreary, rather than sunny and warm like before. Kay and Michael do not even acknowledge each other’s presence and the entire scene is shown with absolutely no dialogue. The pin-drop silence of Michael’s home transitions to audible chaos when a Senate Committee investigating the business practices of the Corleone family is shown grilling a witness. The Corleone family’s ace in the hole, however, is the presence of the Senator who owes them for what he still believes to be them covering for his David Carradine style sex accident.

Rewind to Vito times; he has now grown the signature mustache from the first film, indicating that he is now The Don. The first of his legendary favors we see him grant is for a friend of his wife’s, a single Italian mother who is being evicted for buying her son a puppy. When Vito first confronts the landlord, he is condescending and even refuses to accept a monetary bribe. Vito implores the landlord to ask around the neighborhood about him, under the guise of claiming that he has a good reputation for repaying favors. The landlord presumably learns about his badassness, because he is soon visiting Vito at his “store” (aka mafia front) very apologetically. Not only does he allow the woman to stay in her apartment, but lowers her rent and gives Vito back his bribe money.

The Senate hearings investigating the Corleone family resume, this time with Michael as the witness. In an attempt to steer the hearings in Michael’s favor, the recurring corrupt Senator gives an impassioned monologue on his love for the Italian people and their importance to the American public, despite having used derogatory racial slurs about them before he owed the Corleone syndicate his life-debt. Regardless, the chairman of the committee insists that he has a witness who can confirm Michael not only runs a mafia ring, but put out the hits against the heads of the Five Families (as shown at the end of Part 1) and plans to indict him after the third hearing, who turns out to be the very much alive Frank Pentangeli. Despite still falsely assuming Michael was the one who put the hit out on him, Pentangeli goes back on his original testimony, double crossing the FBI and the Senate Committee. It is heavily implied that, because Frank’s brother from Sicily arrives at the hearing with Michael, that there will be consequences for Frank’s family if he were to testify against the Corleones.

In strong contrast to his career successes, Michael’s personal life is depicted as being a catastrophic failure. Fredo reveals that he went behind Michael’s back because he resented the fact that he was passed up for the Godfather spot in the family despite being older and more involved in the family business than Michael. Though he denies that there was ever going to be a hit on Michael, he acknowledges that his plan was to get his own share of the family business. Conversely, Kay announces that she is leaving Michael, taking their children and that her supposed miscarriage was actually an abortion because she didn’t want to bring another Corleone into the world.

Naturally, when we see Michael on the downward spiral, it only makes sense for the film to cut back to Vito’s life on the upswing. He returns to his old country a successful Don in his own right. The mood of this sequence is upbeat and festive, with a large outdoor family gathering at an opulent villa. There is no English dialogue, but the extended sequences of chatter and playful interaction with children perfectly camouflages the true intentions of Vito’s visit. He is chauffeured to a very familiar setting- the home of the mafia boss who killed Vito’s family and attempted to kill him. Now an enfeebled old man, the elder Don is easy prey when Vito walks directly up to him and guts him with a butcher knife. Having carried out his revenge, Vito leaves Corleone, seemingly for the last time. Vito is never seen again in the film, implying that he has at last received satisfactory closure for his lost youth.

In a direct homage to the climax of the original film, Michael meets with Tom to discuss plans to have his remaining enemies killed, only this time instead of the Heads of the Five Families, it is Hyman Roth, Frank Pentangeli and Fredo. The largest amount of time is spent on Roth due to his inaccessibility since having gone on the run. He has unsuccessfully attempted to gain asylum in several other countries to no avail and is likely to be arrested well before any of Michael’s people can get to him, though Michael is unwavering in his determination.

One of the most beautiful scenes in the film is also one of the most understated. Tom visits Frank Pentangeli (in custody for changing his story to the Feds and refusing to rat Michael out) and reassures him that he has done the right thing. The two discuss the symbolic Roman act of treasonists committing suicide as a means of redeeming themselves and ensuring their families will be taken care of after their deaths. At first sight, the scene looks like a warm exchange between two longtime friends, but the implications are truly unsettling and a little heartbreaking when you consider Tom is essentially asking Frank to kill himself.

As artistically perfect as the Deaths of the Heads of the Five Families sequence was carried out in the first film, the Eliminating of the Enemies in this one is executed even better (no pun intended). Each death is teased, the action of each scenario cross cuts back and forth; Fredo is taken out on a boat to go fishing with one of Michael’s bodyguards, Hyman Roth arrives at the Miami Airport already in police custody and the agents guarding Frank Pentangeli call to him from another room to come play cards to pass the time. Roth is suddenly shot dead by one of Michael’s goons posing as a member of the media documenting Roth’s arrest- he is subsequently shot and killed by the officers taking Roth into custody. Pentangeli’s guards break into his bathroom to discover that he has slit his wrists in the bathtub and “redeemed” himself through suicide. Michael’s bodyguard quietly executes Fredo in the middle of Lake Tahoe against the backdrop of a gorgeous sunset- the clever juxtaposition being that the sun is setting on Fredo’s life.
Once all the dirty deeds are carried out, Michael sits quietly in his den, surrounded by the symbolically empty chairs of his associates who he has either driven from his life or has killed.

Michael then has a flashback that is particularly tragic. The entire Corleone family is gathered for Vito’s birthday in a scene that is set not long before the events of the first film. Characters from the original who were dead by the time the sequel begins are shown, particularly Sonny (James Caan) and Tessio (Abe Vigoda) discussing the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Michael reveals that he has dropped out of school and enlisted in the Marines to serve in World War II. Everyone in his family is furious and reacts badly, with the exception of Fredo, who congratulates him and shakes his hand with utmost sincerity. The only reprieve from the sheer heart-wrenchingness of this scene is the fact that Vito is supposedly in the next room as the family brings him his birthday cake but it is obvious by the way he isn’t shown that they had to work around not having Marlon Brando in the film- it’s kind of hokey but Coppola makes it work by suggesting that Michael is the loner, as everyone else leaves him to join Vito’s party.

For Michael to have chosen to relive this memory implies that even he knows that killing Fredo was a mistake. When the flashback scene is over, we see Michael sitting conspicuously alone in his garden. It is not unlike the way Vito is sitting in his garden in the first film right before he dies of a heart attack. In contrast though, Vito is surrounded by adoring grandchildren and dies quietly in the sun, while Michael is cold and alone. It is only at this point that it is truly evident that Michael is the true antagonist of the film while Vito is the hero. Also, there is an obvious irony in the realization that Michael, Vito’s “good son” ended up being the worst.

There are many element of this film that are superior to the original. The depth and development of the characters is far beyond what is explored in “The Godfather.” The pacing is also a little faster, and the constant jumps from prequel to sequel keep the plot consistently fresh. However, I will stop short of saying it is better than the original, as many have suggested. The transitions are sometimes not pronounced enough and you might not know which version of the film you are watching right away, and there is also a lot more subplot introduced in this film, which can be a lot of information to digest. Also, there is an understated subtlety to the first film that is not present at all in the sequel, which is much more in your face.

More artistic than its predecessor, yes; better made, probably also true. But I will limit the notion of sequels being better than the originals exclusively to “The Bride of Frankenstein.”

#4. Gone with the Wind (1939)

I’m nothing if not decisive. There are very few things I am “on the fence” about and I am very quick to pick a side and stick with it. I was Team Lauren and not Team Heidi, I love the Maple Leafs and hate the Sabres, and I will always believe that Bret Hart was right by refusing to lose to drop the title in Montreal (a reference I expect nobody to get). Maybe it’s a byproduct of a lifetime of being surrounded by strong, independent women or maybe it is just because Vivien Leigh gives such a fantastic performance, but in the rivalry between Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler (and make no mistake, despite their love-story, this is a rivalry) I am Team Scarlett all the way.

“Gone with the Wind” is set against the backdrop of the Civil War and translates this motif into nearly every interpersonal relationship in the film. Rivalries amongst siblings, lovers and friends are really what drive this film, especially given the lack of any true “antagonist” other than just the blanket concept of the imposing North. This aspect more than any other (besides possibly the amazing cinematography) is what gives people a real connection to “Gone with the Wind” and makes us care about the characters, whether we love them or hate them.

All of the classic symptoms of an opulent-to-the-point-of-pretentious film are present: the introductory overture presented behind a static background, a swollen orchestral arrangement and plenty of self-congratulation in the opening credits. However, in the case of this movie, all of this extravagance is oddly appropriate as it pretty much serves as a representation of the wealthy white slave owners the film revolves around. A scrolling text proclaims that essentially chivalry and civility ended when Lincoln freed the slaves, which lets us know that the events will clearly be presented from the eyes of the South.

In the very first scene of actual dialogue, two overly zealous twins attempt to court a plantation owner’s daughter, Scarlett (Vivien Leigh) by fawning over her and inviting her to a barbecue/social event where it is rumored that another socialite, Ashley Wilkes will be announcing his engagement to his cousin Melanie Hamilton (Olivia De Havilland). This opening sequence reveals a lot of information in a short amount of time. Given Scarlett’s despondent reaction to this news it is clear that she harbors feelings for Ashley. The creepy concept of two brothers trying to get on the same woman makes it clear that Scarlett is a very sought-after bachelorette. The concept that people really do marry their cousins in Georgia is reinforced. The introduction of the “workers” at the O’Hara residence are our first indication that they are slave owners (though this isn’t really a shocking revelation) and the first mention that the plantation is referred to as Tara reminds us all that rednecks were assigning names to inanimate objects long before cars.

Though she is depicted as spoiled and kind of bitchy, the first interactions between Scarlett and her father make it hard to place all the blame on her for the way she would eventually turn out later in the film. While discussing male suitors, Scarlett’s father belabors the point that accumulation of land and owning property are basically the only real measures of success and happiness. Her father also refers to another local girl he views as inferior as “the white-trash Slattery girl” while her sisters complain about how their dresses aren’t extravagant enough, so it is clear that the genetic deck is clearly stacked against Scarlett.

While preparing for the barbecue at the Wilkes plantation, we see the first significant back-and-forth between Scarlett and the O’Hara “housemaid” (aka slave) Mammy (Hattie McDaniel). While not quite as offensive as the blackface characters uses in “The Birth of a Nation,” the minstrel-show-esque portrayal of Mammy still not only plays off the stereotype of the overbearing, sassy “house-nigger” who is treated by her owner as if she is one of their own chill’ens, but also completely downplays the fact that she is still A FUCKING SLAVE! To the film’s credit as well as McDaniel’s, it is commendable that they chose an actual black person to play a black role- and she does play the role incredibly well, but come on.

At the Wilkes’ party, several important events occur, but none more significant than the first meeting between Scarlett and Rhett Butler (Clark Gable). Despite the undercurrent of sexual tension that seems to exist between them almost immediately, it is also very evident that the two are completely incompatible. Though all of the characters’ thoughts and intentions are implied and open for debate, all the classic symptoms of a creeper are evident in Rhett right away. Kicked out of the military- check. Slicked-back guido hair- check. Pencil-thin douchebag mustache- check. Stalker-like staredown with Scarlett- check. Stories of him “damaging” other girls and bailing- check. Seriously, all that is missing with this guy is the #7 Steelers Jersey and a bottle of roofies.

The other important occurrence at the party is Scarlett’s admission of her love for Ashley. Though he rejects her, he does so in such a meek and spineless way that it is no wonder she continues to hold onto hope of a future with him well after he is married. In fact being wishy-washy will wind up being Ashley’s most well-defined trait as the film progresses. Rhett sneakily overhears their conversation by hiding behind a loveseat and uses Scarlett’s humiliation as a means of embarrassing her in some sophomoric attempt at flirting, despite the fact that she has clearly just had her heart broken. Had Rhett not been present for the dialogue between Ashley and Scarlett, I think it would drastically alter the way I perceive his character. Knowing the depth of her feelings for Ashley, Rhett cannot pretend that he is unaware of why she is emotionally unavailable later in life.

The festivities are broken up with the announcement that the Civil War has broken out. All the men scamper to run off and enlist, prompting a hasty marriage proposal from Charles Hamilton, Melanie’s brother. Scarlett accepts for what could be interpreted as a number of reasons, none of them good. In my view, the timing of the proposal is unfortunate due to the fact that Charles has no knowledge of the level of emotional distress she is in. In turn, her frantic state of mind could be the deciding factor in why she agrees to the marriage. However, she does agree to the wedding only after she watches Ashley kiss Melanie before riding off to join the Confederacy- which suggests either spite or a hasty realization that Ashley has made up his mind and that she should move on.

The ensuing revelation, in letter form, that Charles has died of pneumonia is done cleverly from an artistic standpoint but is really just a lazy way of lapsing time. “Taps” plays in the background as the camera focuses on a handwritten letter to Scarlett, with a lighting effect highlighting the important paragraph for the audience to read. And literally just like that, Scarlett is a widow. However unintentional, this edit job also benefits Scarlett’s character in that her detached, coldhearted (make no mistake, it callous) reaction to being a widow at such a young age. When she has only been married for a screen time of 30 seconds to a guy she doesn’t even know, it somehow seems less objectionable that she isn’t properly mourning.

One of Scarlett’s first public appearances after Charles’ death is at a Confederate fundraiser in Atlanta, where she is now staying with Melanie under the guise of looking after her, but the implication is that she wants to be there when Ashley returns from the war. She has another awkward and sexually tense encounter with Rhett, who has since become a mercenary blockade runner/war profiteer. His prior knowledge of Scarlett’s true emotional state gives him the ability to see right through her lack of genuine grief, thus the reason he feels no shame in bidding $150 (in Civil War Era money) to dance with her in an auction as part of the fundraiser. The fact that Rhett is in black formal wear and Scarlett is in dark widow attire makes the two of them stick out like a sore thumb among all the other colorfully dressed, festive revelers. This is also a very clear play on the old west “good guys wear white, bad guys wear black” concept, because let’s face it, they are both terrible people.

A few moments of sentimentality on Rhett’s part are snuck in around this point: his “is-he-serious-or-is-he-not” admission to Scarlett that he wants her to love him instead of Ashley, his refusal to let Melanie donate her wedding ring to the South’s collection plate, randomly gifting Scarlett a green silk hat from Paris. However, his sincerity can never really be taken at face value because then he turns around and says things like “I’m not a marrying man” or implies that Scarlett owes him sexual favors in return for gifts. Whether it is to appear roguish or simply to save face, Rhett is forever the king of mixed signals as he continues his pursuit of Scarlett.

The war drags on and the South’s plight is outlined in several key scenes. One in particular that stands out involves the southerners learning the fates of their loved ones after the battle of Gettysburg. When Ashley’s name does not appear as a casualty Scarlett and Melanie share what seems to be a legitimate moment of mutual closeness as they celebrate their relief. Rhett on the other hand is disgusted at the loss of life and the hopelessness of the war effort- which harkens back to his very earliest scenes in the film where he tries to convinces the overzealous warmongering young slaveholders that they would never be able to win a war against the North.

Despite the relatively intense and subject matter, “Gone with the Wind” is still pretty lighthearted up until this point- however, as Sherman begins his famous March to the Sea, the events in the film take a hard left turn into a very dark place. Scarlett is working at a nurse in a church-turned-hospital when an artillery shell blasts the stained glass windows as a priest administers Last Rites. This scene is shot so deliberately that there is no question as to the statements being made; that there are no limits to the Union’s ruthlessness and that the doctors and priests have become so desensitized to the violence that the priest doesn’t even flinch when the window explodes and the main surgeon has no hesitations about amputating a soldier’s like while he is wide awake and declares beds free as soldiers die in them. The tall, almost monstrous shadows of the doctors cutting limbs off screaming patients is reminiscent of a European horror movie in that the violence in more implied which gives it an eerie effectiveness. One of the other things I noticed in this scene especially is Director Victor Fleming’s remarkable attention to detail. As Scarlett flees in disgust, she passes through an arched doorway which bears the text “Peace be within thy walls.” Ironic of course given the carnage inside.

Despite running away in terror, this is actually an embryonic stage of a transformation in Scarlett where she becomes, if not more independent, at least stronger willed. While rushing back to Melanie’s side, Rhett sweeps her up in a carriage and they have yet another of their typical conversations. Rhett professes love for her- still condescendingly and still always rubbing her unrequited feelings for Ashley in her face and telling her she “wasn’t meant for sick men.” Their conversation ends with Scarlett, for the umpteenth time, telling Rhett that she hates him and him laughing it off for the equally umpteenth time.

Scarlett’s transition continues in what I can only describe as one of the greatest scenes ever shot in any movie I’ve seen. Melanie, pregnant with Ashley’s baby, goes into labor and needs a doctor. Scarlett asks one of Melanie’s slaves, Prissy, to help with the birthing but she refuses and also refuses to go find the town doctor (again, an offensively inaccurate portrayal of the slave/white folk relationship). Scarlett braves the streets of the war-torn city and comes across a stunningly grisly scene: the streets of Atlanta lined with dead and half-dead Rebel soldiers.

At first, she steps in between a couple lying horizontally next to each other- however, as the camera pans back we see that there are hundreds if not more of them, all lining the streets for as far as the eye can see. The camera just keeps pulling back and the body count keeps increasing; for a second time, “Taps” is played, this time a more orchestral version. When the point of view has swept back far and high enough, it stops atop a pole bearing a destroyed Confederate flag, of course symbolizing the state of disrepair the entire South is in. The reactionary shot of Vivien Leigh’s face immediately before all the bodies are revealed harkens back to the masterful expressive acting of the silent movie era.

Scarlett is immediately dismissed by the doctor, who has thousands of more severe cases on his hands. Diligently, and probably more for Ashley’s sake than Melanie’s or the baby’s, she rolls up her sleeves and trudges back to deliver the baby herself. Afterwards, she dispatches Prissy to the local whorehouse where Rhett can assuredly be found, in hopes that he will transport them all out of Atlanta and safely back to Tara. The fact that he does is one of Rhett’s more stand-up moments and his first act of any real substance in proving he really might have feelings for Scarlett- and her taking advantage of his feelings for self-serving purposes shows us that, while Scarlett has matured and toughened, she is still a manipulative diva.

“I believe in Rhett Butler. He’s the only cause I know” (Rhett Butler, “Gone with the Wind”)

While fleeing the burning city, Scarlett and Rhett pass by a group of retreating soldiers. Both have distinctly but equally mature changes of heart. Rhett feels shamed that he chose to profit off the war on the backs of dying, naïve men and Scarlett realizes that the war was not as glamorous as it was depicted at its onset and laments at how the soldiers how basically been conned into joining such a hopeless cause. Scarlett is forced to pilot the wagon herself after Rhett leaves, promising to join the Confederacy. Her character transformation during this montage is depicted very realistically. She is courageous and selfless, at one point even standing in a river under a bridge to guard the wagon during a massive rainstorm in order to ensure the soldiers passing above don’t capture them. Yet at other times is still very much her old self- particularly after passing through Ashley’s family’s destroyed plantation, she only pauses briefly to grieve before concerning herself more with whether or not her own home is still standing.

Though she manages to get everyone safely to Tara, the situation there is no better. Her mother is dead of typhoid, her sisters are both bed-ridden, her father is in the latter stages of a massive nervous breakdown and Tara has been picked clean by Union soldiers. Desperate for any kind of sustenance, Scarlett even attempts to eat an inedible radish she pulls from the ground. Despite the fact that she has, for all intents and purposes, hit rock bottom, she angrily and defiantly vows to survive no matter what it takes. In the now ridiculously famous “With God as my witness…” scene, the recurring effect of silhouetting against a bright orange background is used to its greatest effectiveness here. Despite this directorial tool having been applied twice before (a scene with her father early in the film and again after Scarlett delivers Melanie’s baby) it is not at all stale or played out at this point, but rather dramatic and inspiring.

Are you fucking kidding me? This is only the first half??

Scarlett sets to work restoring Tara back to its old glory. Her and her sisters work as field hands along with the two slaves that remain while Melanie is convalescing and Scarlett’s father is batshit crazy. The level of desperation everyone has sunk to is revealed in a particularly disturbing scene where a Union deserter arrives to burgle the house and (implied) rape Scarlett. She shoots him point-blank in the face with a pistol but the most telling aspect of this scene is the fact that Melanie is waiting just a few feet away with a sword. Implying that they both realize they may be forced to kill somebody and are more than willing to do it. Their level of desperation is amplified even more when Melanie suggests that they rob the dead Northerner before they dispose of his body.

Ashley finally returns home from the war and, in addition to still being wishy-washy, he is now bogged down with self pity. He and Scarlett have another encounter similar to the one they had before the war where she revealed her feelings for him. This time he reciprocates by kissing her and telling her that he loves her, but still affirming that he can’t leave Melanie. In this scene Scarlett is the villain when you consider how much her and Melanie have been through together yet she is still willing to steal Ashley away from her, but Scarlett does grow up in the sense that she finally understands that they will never be together. Rather than spitefully throwing Ashley and Melanie out, she reiterates that they can stay with her family at Tara.

As is the case with every Civil War era movie told from the Southern point of view, the Reconstruction period is pretty much rock bottom for the primary characters. Old Man O’Hara is killed in a freak horse tossing accident, Scarlett is so impoverished she is forced to make garments out of her mother’s drapes and she is faced with the realization that she will have to resort to almost full-blown whoredom in order to keep the plantation in the family. First, she attempts to negotiate money from Rhett, whose heroic transformation as a noble soldier has fallen flat and he is jailed for returning to war profiteering. Since he has no access to his assets he is essentially useless to Scarlett. Her Plan-B involves marring a successful wood/hardware merchant Frank Kennedy.

Scarlett’s second marriage plays out surprisingly similarly to her first; just like that she is married and almost just as soon she is widowed again. I mentioned before how “Gone with the Wind” avoids being as offensive as “The Birth of a Nation” but there is one sequence in particular that is as bad if not worse. Freed slaves are depicted as white-women hungry rape folk and attempt to gangbang Scarlett as she passes through a shantytown. When she arrives back home and tells the men what happened, they heroically ride off to avenge Scarlett’s honor (yeah, it’s totally a KKK type thing). The tension, as well as the passage of time are illustrated nicely in a montage focusing on the wives sewing with images of a clock transposed over their hands and faces.

Seizing the opportunity to capitalize on Scarlett’s conveniently timed single-ness, Rhett proposes to her after Frank’s funeral, finally getting the answer he wants. Needless to say Rhett is incredulous when he realizes that the woman who has carried a torch for the same man for her entire adult life can’t magically turn her feelings off for him just because Rhett throws some money at her. Their marriage only deteriorates further after the birth of their daughter Bonnie, culminating with Rhett announcing that he still plans to sleep with hookers when Scarlett begins holing up in her own bedroom. The true sign that their marriage is dead comes when Rhett symbolically throws a glass at a life-size painting of Scarlett.

Rhett’s insecurity reaches a crescendo when he hears about Scarlett hugging Ashley at the lumber mill where she gave him a job during her marriage to Frank Kennedy. The conversation was the first between the two where Scarlett does not throw herself at him; quite the contrary in fact, as Ashley seems to imply regret that he married Melanie rather than her but Scarlett assures him that he has to let the past go. For once, Scarlett does right by Melanie and her marriage, but Rhett is so consumed with rage that he insists the hug meant more than it did and begins to openly call her a whore.

In what could be the most misogynistic scene ever in the history of cinema, Rhett, drowning in a sea of brandy and self pity, reminds Scarlett of his physical dominance over her, threatening to crush her head like a vice then subsequently raping her. Despite the fact that Scarlett is shown the next morning having perversely enjoyed the events of the night before, make no mistake, the way she struggles as Rhett drags her to the bedroom, the ominous music and the fact that the scenery changes from a lush red carpet to a dark shadow, there is no other way to describe what transpired besides conjugal rape.

The icing on the scumbag cake comes when Scarlett reveals that the rape has yielded a child. Rhett mocks her, insinuating that someone else is the father (despite the fact that Scarlett has never physically cheated on Rhett but he is open about his whoring with his longtime favorite hooker Belle Watling). Rhett snidely wishes a miscarriage on her and when Scarlett swings at him in response, he doesn’t take the hit, he doesn’t block it, instead he sidesteps her knowing it will fling her down a long flight of stairs- thus causing the do-it-yourself abortion Rhett prophesized.

When it rains, it pours. Almost immediately after the miscarriage, Bonnie is killed in a horse riding accident almost identical to the one that killed Scarlett’s father. And, in many ways the most crushing blow Scarlett is forced to suffer, Melanie dies from unspecified complications while pregnant for a second time, much the same way Scarlett was. In a clichéd but still effective deathbed scene, Melanie seems to imply that she knows Scarlett loves Ashley but loved Melanie more by taking care of her for so long. Scarlett finally realizes that in a very platonic way, Melanie, not Rhett or even Ashley, was the person she loved most in the world. As viewers, we are struck with the realization that Melanie is the only truly “good” person in the entire film, which makes her death a very bitter pill to swallow.

For reasons that are left up for interpretation, Scarlett seems to have some awakening that she really has loved Rhett all along. Maybe it’s because she suddenly feels so alone after Melanie’s death, maybe it’s because she sees how hard Ashley takes the loss, maybe it’s because she really does have some kind of emotional awakening- but whatever the reason, Scarlett finally professes her love for Rhett but it is too little too late. He leaves her despite her pleas and walks symbolically into a dense fog; causing him to visually vanish from her life just as he figuratively is.

While the ending is tailor-made to be Rhett’s shining moment, finally gathering the strength to walk away from Scarlett- it actually becomes Scarlett’s. With everyone cut out of her life, she has the choice to either fall to pieces or press on. She decides to return to Tara, literally picks herself off the ground and is shown in the last shot of the film in that almost overused silhouette effect. This time though, she is not the spoiled girl, the loyal friend or the desperate, vulnerable girl. She is as much of a self-made woman as the time period allowed for, her outline is tall and upright and looming over the entire horizon of Tara in a symbolic display of dominance. The final of the four orange background/Scarlett’s silhouette shots almost ties the other together like some sort of “Evolution of Man” chart; we see her go from a girl with no life experience the first time, a girl forced to be independent for the first time after delivering Melanie’s baby, to a resourceful woman vowing to “never be hungry again” to finally a woman who has been put through the ringer but still has the ability to stand tall. Yeah, it is very forced symbolism, but well done nonetheless.

There are many flaws with “Gone with the Wind.” Maybe not flaws so much as nitpicks; I don’t like the way slave life is depicted, I think they skip ahead through several details but focus on other for excruciatingly long bouts, there is really no clearly defined “protagonist” and the viewer’s own way of interpreting the world is what defines the characters and as I have said before, each main character has enough flaws that you could easily be put off by them. But on the other hand, you would be hard-pressed to find a movie with more realistic characters, I can never accuse anyone of being unnaturally likeable and to be honest, it is one of the most compelling studies in feminism you will find. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that, like every male character in the movie, I might have found myself falling in love with Scarlett O’Hara just a little bit.

#5. Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

I think everyone probably has one of those friends. You know the type. Someone you enjoy spending time with, someone who is interesting, someone who has great stories to tell. Someone who takes forfuckingEVER to tell those interesting stories that you know could be told in like a minute or two, but the way they tell it takes from the time you order your drinks until you are done with your appetizers. It is an aggravating trait but one you put up with because you legitimately like the person. This is the relationship I have with the films of David Lean.

I’ve made it abundantly clear in the past that I have no problem sitting through a long movie. Even an unreasonably long movie. Just don’t be needlessly long. For instance, is“Lawrence of Arabia’s” 5 minute musical introduction with no visual to accompany it really necessary? I don’t think being unable to be engaged by a blank screen equates to having a short attention span, but there are doubtless some movie snobs who would be inclined to disagree. It goes on so long I defy anyone to not assume there is something wrong with their TV when watching it. I would equate this opening blackout sim to the surface of Jupiter sequence in “2001: A Space Odyssey” in the sense that it is sustained for so long that it is deliberate in its intention to be Avant-garde that it actually comes out looking less artistic.

The opening credits finally begin to roll over a bird’s eye view of the film’s subject, T.E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole) prepping his luxury motorcycle for a drive. The questionable artistic credibility of the film that arises based on the contemptible beginning is all but erased in these early, dialogue-free moments. It is evident that a major theme of the film and especially the presentation of Lawrence will be duality. He appears to be a stately, well dressed older man but is riding a flashy motorcycle, his face is either lit by the sun or shadowed by overhead tree branches, he flies down a construction road carelessly but ultimately loses his life swerving to avoid hitting others. Lawrence’s death scene is tastefully and symbolically executed so that it does not show the physical result of his crash but rather the camera zooms in slowly on his riding goggles that swing eerily from a low branch.

Once the camera zooms in on the goggles it almost immediately zooms back out after transitioning to a bust of Lawrence bearing his birth and death years. This is one of many signs that this film will not be a traditional biopic: rather than just feed us the factual information, it comes in small doses and is never direct. This leads me to believe that the film has taken a lot of factual liberties like “Amadeus” or that it wants to tell us more of a story about the era and is just using a real people as a primer ala “Mutiny on the Bounty.” Again the concept of duality is explored even more deeply as mourners at Lawrence’s memorial service present sanitized and sentimental accounts of the man, while other speaking to a reporter are more frank and candid in their reflections. Predictably, it is these accounts that frame the flashback mode in which the rest of the film is framed- I guess the classics are classics for a reason.

Young Lawrence is shown as a pencil pusher for the British Army working in Egypt. He is shown as something of a narcissist and grossly insubordinate. Under the guise of toughening him up but probably because of his knowledge about the political climate in the Arabian Peninsula, he is given a special assignment to meet with Prince Fiesal (Alec Guinness – whose appearance gives him the hat trick as far as being in all 3 David Lean films on this list) and assess the likelihood of an Arab uprising against the Turks, with England’s vested interest being the fact that Turkey was essentially an enemy to the Brits at the time due to their allegiance to Germany during World War I, the time in which the bulk of the film is set.

"In thirteen weeks, I can have Arabia in chaos." (T.E. Lawrence, "Lawrence of Arabia")

One of David Lean’s greatest gifts as a director is his ability to present the most unlikely locations as beautifully picturesque, and Lawrence’s arrival in Arabia is no exception. Like he did with a snow-ravaged Russia in “Dr. Zhivago” and a Southeast Asian POW camp in “Bridge on the River Kwai,” Lean captures incredible shots of the Arabian desert at sunrise and sweeping panoramic views of the contrasting sand and crisp blue skies that simply could never be recreated on a set in a studio. While wandering the desert, Lawrence’s Arabian guide is murdered by Sheik Sherif Ali (Omar Sharif) which perfectly depicts without having to go into detail the volatile relations between differing Arabian tribes. Though the two have a relatively brief first encounter, Sherif shows signs of respecting Lawrence because of his arrogance which comes across as fearlessness. Later on, when they have met again, Lawrence’s stubborn insistence on risking his own life to save one of the Arab tribesmen from certain death in the desert cements Sherif’s admiration for Lawrence.

In a display of grit reminiscent of the Scots vs. the English or the battle of the Alamo, Lawrence convinces Sherif, Fiesal and 50 other tribesmen to retaliate against the vastly superior and more technologically advanced Turkish army guerilla style. Lawrence pushes the skeptical group through the supposedly impassible Arabian Desert, which is used to both lapse time and accelerate character development. Slowly but very visibly we witness a shift between Sherif and Lawrence’s personalities. Lawrence, who was previously outraged at Sherif’s display of violence upon their first encounter has himself become so militant that he not only drives the Arab tribesmen into battle, but even kills one of their own in an almost identical fashion. All the while, Sherif expresses doubt about the violent approach towards the Turkish oppressors. Also, Lawrence begins to exude an undeniable charisma as he progressively builds up a stronger alliance, including members of rival tribes.

Intermission

(I didn’t want to insult your intelligence by actually describing that they inserted an intermission, so I figured just putting the word intermission up was good enough for the movie so it was good enough for me.)

As Lawrence’s campaign against the Turks becomes more aggressive and ruthless, worldwide attention begins to focus on his exploits. An American reporter embeds himself with Lawrence’s army (despite the fact that it is still Fiesal’s army technically but he is no longer the focus) and captures a particularly brutal assault on a train. Passengers are slaughtered and the train is looted. Lawrence is shot non-fatally in the arm, which is exaggerated by contrast of the bright blood on his crisp, white robes. Though his wound is superficial, the image that is projected to the rest of the world is that Lawrence is a beloved warrior willing to put himself in harm’s way for the sake of his cause. The more worldwide attention Lawrence garners, the more reckless he becomes. When one assault goes horribly awry from the beginning, Lawrence refuses to surrender and winds up a prisoner. In addition to being tortured and beaten, it is heavily implied, both in dialogue and in the way one guard in particular touches him after he is disrobed, that he is raped by his captors.

As is the case is countless other films, Lawrence’s time in captivity all but destroys his spirit. He is no longer conflicted in his loyalties between the Arabs and the British Army as he requests to go back to his old assignment with his tail between his legs. However, he ultimately decides to participate in one last hurrah- the conquering of Damascus. Lawrence is so hell-bent on revenge for his treatment while in captivity that he leads a band of mercenary Arab tribesmen into a full-on massacre before the British troops coordinating the attack even arrive. The complete transformation in Lawrence is complete when he is show again clad in blindingly white robes, but this time rather than a modest amount of his own blood, they are covered in obscene amounts of Turks’ blood. The blood on Lawrence’s robes seems to act as a metaphor for his intentions in the war and the figurative slaughtering of any semblance of good intent or moral cleanliness Lawrence possessed.

The Arabs relinquish control of the city to the British Army and both parties’ leaders agree that Lawrence is a liability. He is given a virtually ceremonial promotion before being sent back home. Knowing his days of being just short of a deity are behind him, Lawrence has the same defeated look he had when he was recalling his days of receiving human booster shots at the hands of his deviant Turkish tormentors. Knowing he is about to fade into nothingness, he begrudgingly gets into the car that is going to take him back home. The eerily foreshadowed and darkly ironic ending shows Lawrence emoting once more, albeit subdued compared to earlier in the film, as he watches a motorcycle speed past his car. His obsessive interest will eventually cost him his life, just as his obsessive tendencies cost him the respect of his peers and admirers.

All in all, “Lawrence of Arabia” seems to be the best balance of the David Lean films on this list. It is gritty and barbaric like “Bridge on the River Kwai” but also flawlessly shot and shows the true depth of the characters like “Dr. Zhivago.” What it lacks in biographically informative content, it more than makes up for in its ability to engage. Though it was interesting, I was clockwatching a lot during “Dr. Zhivago,” however the 3-plus hours of “Lawrence of Arabia” really do fly right by.

6. The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Because I know you all want to hear a story about my circumcision…

I’m too young to remember it so I have had to rely on the accounts of people who were there to authenticate this story. When I was a baby, lying down on a table, the doctor performing the procedure clumsily dropped his hemostats which came centimeters away from gouging out my eye. This was in the days before lawsuits and settlement offers, so the doctor simply finished the procedure, apologized profusely and sent me on my way. The result was a tiny but deep scar under my right eye: I love that scar because it is from my childhood and is a part of me. “The Wizard of Oz” is America’s foreskin-cutting-tool-inflicted-under-eye-scar. Now, for me to say that people only like this movie for sentimental reasons would be grossly unfair to such a well crafted film, However, there was definitely a “style over substance” approach taken with this movie and why the hell not? It was clearly meant to be a kid’s movie anyway, so any major depth would have been lost on the initially intended audience.

The opening credits roll over a dreamlike clouded background, both foreshadowing the events of the film (a storm and a dream sequence) as well as further invoking the concept of a child’s boundless imagination. The sepia tint of the film perfectly captures the dreary, colorless Kansas farm where the story is set, especially combined with sets that depict a horizon of nothingness. Rural life is depicted as especially unappealing to the chief character Dorothy (Judy Garland). She is ignored by her adoptive Aunt Em and Uncle Henry, constantly harassed and threatened by her cranky, spinster neighbor Ms. Gulch and her closest peers are the hired hands on the farm and her dog Toto.

As Dorothy daydreams about leaving her home while singing “Over the Rainbow” (this is where the grim realization sinks in that we are dealing with a musical) the wind begins to kick up and her song is interrupted by ominous music as Ms. Gulch approaches on her bike in an attempt to take and kill Toto, prompting Dorothy to eventually run away from home to keep him safe. Upon watching this scene, it is impossible to ignore the fact that this sequence was stolen, almost verbatim, to create one of my favorite scenes “Star Wars” where Luke, also an orphan living with his aunt and uncle on a farm in a desolate place, yearns for a more exciting life elsewhere while music expresses his sadness.

Not long into her journey, Dorothy encounters a kind-hearted trickster who calls himself Professor Marvel who performs a phony fortune telling for her, convincing her to return home. All the dark imagery leading up to this point (the cloudy, almost murky sky, the dark, gloomy music the wind blowing the cloth on Marvel’s covered wagon) finally culminates in the big dramatic tornado which in many ways serves as more than just an event in the film, but also a plot device and an antagonist. As Em. Henry and the farmhands scurry for the storm shelter, but Dorothy just misses them and is forced to seek refuge in the storm-battered house. The bridge between 1939 and the silent era 10 years prior is very evident as many of the older actors really enhance the believability of this otherwise cheesy scene with their physical acting.

Dorothy is hit on the head with a pane of glass and knocked unconscious, setting up what would one day become one of the most convenient plot tricks in cinema- the dream sequence. Of course it was less obvious at the time, but this is the point where the plot is allowed to get as outrageous as possible because it is occurring in a fantasy world. The images that swirl around outside the window of the house as it is lifted by the storm and hurled across the sky indicate that Dorothy’s real life and fantasy life are going to have many parallels, the most obvious being Ms. Gulch and her weird bicycle transforming into a witch riding a broom.

If “The Wizard of Oz” had achieved nothing else in terms of revolutionizing the film industry, the scene where Dorothy emerges from the farmhouse to the Land of Oz and the scenery transitions from the drab sepia tone to full blown color. Now, the amazing part here is not the use of color, as this was by no means a new technology, but the integration of the two as well as the contrast. The scope of colors and the boldness the green in the grass, the blue in the water and the yellow of the road make the film almost appear 3-dimensional. The importance of the colors is stressed in much of the dialogue at this point- Dorothy learns about the ruby slippers owned by the wicked witch her falling house accidentally kills, the Emerald City where the Wizard of Oz lives and the yellow brick road leading to it.

In a short amount of time the framework for the remainder of the film is set. Glinda the Good Witch explains to Dorothy that she is a hero among the residents of Oz for killing the Wicked Witch of the East- however it doesn’t win her any favor with her sister, the Wicked Witch of the West (Margaret Hamilton- in the other half of her dual role as Ms. Gulch and the Witch). There is a very rushed feeling to this middle section, introducing Dorothy’s travel companions the Scarecrow, The Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion (all played by the respective farmhands they represent) are brought into the fold in rapid succession, like literally seconds in some cases.

“A heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others” (The Wizard of Oz, “The Wizard of Oz”)

Silly little songs like “We’re Off to See The Wizard,” “Courage” and “If I Were King of the Forest” are used to endear the flawed characters to the audience in lieu of character development, as is the case for musicals in general. To the film’s credit though, it does manage to remain visually stimulating throughout the extended song-and-dance numbers and at one point when the Wicked Witch dispatches her flying monkeys to attack Dorothy, manages to be legitimately intimidating. Midgets are used to great effect to play the Munchkins in the early Oz scenes, but when dressed as flying monkeys they are downright frightening. I can’t imagine watching this as a child and not getting scared.

Despite the Witch gaining the upper hand on Dorothy and her sidekicks, good ultimately prevails over evil when Dorothy kills her by throwing a bucket of water on her. The Wizard, who it turns out is no wizard at all, just a conjurer of cheap tricks (just like Professor Marvel) explains to Dorothy and her friends that the things they want most (a brain for the Scarecrow, a heart for the Tin Man, courage for the Lion and the ability to go home for Dorothy) have all been within reach the whole time. Dorothy wakes up back home in Kansas with all her loved ones holding a bedside vigil and she recognizes all the farmhands as the characters they were in Oz, doubtless to take the sting off the sad goodbye they all have prior to Dorothy’s awakening.

Though it is never mentioned, I have to assume Ms. Gulch is killed in the tornado, since she died in Oz and one of the last things we see is her being swept up in the twister (in Dorothy’s hallucination but nonetheless she was obviously out riding her bike when the storm hit). Also, it would just be a major hole in the storyline if she was alive since she would probably just come and take Toto away again. However, I’m not sure what the moral or lesson would be other than maybe bad people get what is coming to them, though this fate seems a bit extreme, though the Munchkins do sing a song celebrating someone’s death so apparently the value of human life is lesser in Oz- which REALLY reinforces the theme that it is a parallel of Kansas. Also, I sense perhaps there is a bit of Biblical symbolism implied as well but I can’t really finger any other than perhaps following the yellow brick road being a metaphor for a path of righteousness. However, since the yellow brick road leads to a false prophet that may not be the case after all.

People adore this film because of the fact that it represents youth, fantasy and escapism. I freely admit I am probably the only person who didn’t watch it is a child, but I acknowledge that everyone else did and that this movie is an important part of their childhoods. I do not personally enjoy the movie but I also do not fault it or take anything away from it in terms of artistry and legacy. As I said earlier, this is by no means the first color picture, the first musical or the first literary adaptation to a movie. But in some odd way I actually think these facts help this movie’s legacy more than hurt it. It’s easy to be the first feature length animated movie (“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs”) or the first X-Rated Best Picture Winner (“Midnight Cowboy”) and make this list- it is another to take already existing elements of movie-making and still be able to stand out.