Like most activities with my kids, watching old movies together wasn’t planned. Our first, “The Wizard of Oz,” was the result of my daughter’s obsession with the “Wicked” soundtrack. I was playing the album in the car when I missed my mother (she loved musicals), and my daughter eventually started singing along, stopping occasionally to ask questions about Elphaba and her character, the likeable outcast to the talented witch to the evil scapegoat. She was drawn to Elphaba’s complexity, to the way a person can be seen as one thing while striving to be another.
My daughter’s fascination with Elphaba has sparked many questions: “Why is Elphaba green?” Is Elphaba evil? Is she good? But how is she doing well? And Glinda? Answering these questions required weaving together the narratives of “Wicked” and “The Wizard of Oz.” Together, the musical and the film paint a larger picture in which the Wicked Witch of the West can be a sympathetic villain, can be someone my daughter can understand and even root for, or, at least, not have fear.
That’s why, even though both of my kids are very sensitive and always want me to fast-forward the scary, mean, and confrontational parts of a movie, they wanted to watch the nearly two-hour “The Wizard of Oz.” They believed that there was more to Margaret Hamilton’s character than just her nastiness, which allowed them to put up with her malicious cackling, flying monkeys, and screaming as she melted into a puddle.
As a child, I remember being terrified of the evil witch but loving the movie. I would watch it with my mother and brother and imagine myself as Dorothy. I envied her ruby red slippers, pretending to wear them, clicking my heels together and saying, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. »
At the time, I was obsessed with the glittering, transformative magic of shoes. I didn’t think much about the house part. Instead, I loved the journey, marveling at the journey through the magical world that culminates with the realization that the characters are searching for something they already possess: courage, heart, ‘intelligence. At the time, Dorothy’s return home, her shift from feeling trapped to feeling grateful, contained a lesson.
As a child, I could relate to Dorothy because home always existed in this duality of expectation and comfort. It’s also where, like my kids now, I would curl up on the couch next to my mom and brother and watch classic movies. Sitting next to my mother, I never imagined that I would become someone’s Aunt Em or Uncle Henry, a person who stays put, makes the rules, and lives up to society’s expectations.
This shift in perspective followed me through the marathon of old movies my kids and I watched this year. After “The Wizard of Oz”, it was “The Sound of Music”. While my children were captivated by the music and transformative power of Julie Andrews’ Maria, I watched Christopher Plummer’s Captain Von Trapp with a knot in my stomach. I don’t call my children with a whistle, but I set the rules. Are there too many? Am I trying to control my home in a way that is silly and over-the-top and leaves too little room for spontaneity, play, and art?
This worry continued to gnaw at me during “Mary Poppins.” As my daughter watched the iconic moment of Mary Poppins sliding down the ramp, she turned to me and said, “I love Julie Andrews.” » I smiled, thinking about how awesome it was that she was finally old enough to appreciate elements of culture I’ve long loved, but unable to forget why Mary Poppins happened in the first place; the father, Mr. Banks, is too busy with “adult” concerns to play with his children and enjoy life.
This is a common theme in children’s entertainment. Many adults, especially parents, have a bad reputation. Adults just don’t understand, they have forgotten the wonder of being a child, the need to take life with a spoonful of sugar. Instead, they perpetuate a boring status quo and spend too much time worrying about things that are clearly unimportant.
Now, as a parent, I understand why. You have to earn money, clean the house, fold laundry, pay taxes, plan events and share them on the family calendar. There’s less time for impulsiveness and joy, and the bar Andrews sets as Maria or Mary Poppins can seem unattainable when you’re forced to check your child’s head for lice or try to Don’t forget the item you are supposed to bring to the class party.
I thought watching “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” would recapture some of the joy I clearly lost as an adult. My children certainly enjoyed the magic: the candy man, the golden ticket, the chocolate river, the eternal gobstopper, the glass elevator. But I couldn’t help but think about the burden and weight of being Willy Wonka, not only creating magic, but also ensuring that everything you’ve built is passed on to the next generation.
For my children, these films are about magical places – Oz, Cherry Tree Lane, the Austrian hills and the chocolate factory – and the characters who give these places fuller, brighter colors – Glinda (and/or Elphaba depending). your interpretation), Mary Poppins, Maria and Willy Wonka. They watch these classic films and see children whose lives have been improved by a charm so powerful that it ripples outward, impacting the adult characters as well, reminding them of that joy they lost as adults.
Now, as an adult (at least in my children’s eyes), I wonder if that’s what these films do for me, too. Are they a reminder of the child I was and the magic I saw in the world? Is this realization a magic in itself that will finally get me out of my rut?
Perhaps this is why we often refer to classic films as “timeless.” Maybe Oz, Maria, Mary Poppins, and Willy Wonka have power because these films connect us to our childhoods, breaking us out of our restrictive routines and reminding us that there is still goodness and hope in the world. Perspectives can change and adults can change for the better. Aunt Em can stand up to Miss Gulch, Captain von Trapp can sing, Mr. Banks can fly a kite, and Grandpa Joe can get out of bed and fly through the sky in a glass elevator. Maybe, metaphorically, I can do all these things too.
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I love watching old movies with my kids because I love observing the possibilities of what the world can become, and I want to believe that the same thing can happen to me again. In the same way that my daughter struggles with the duality of the wicked witch, I want to understand what it means to be an adult in a world that seems decidedly less magical, but perhaps, hopefully, still enchanted.