Skies are Blue

At some point in my childhood, I caught myself in the unthinkable act of enjoying The Wizard of Oz.

Today, of course, I’m proud to say that I love this magical film with all my heart and that the 1939 classic takes me over the rainbow every time I watch it.

It was a much different story when I was a kid.

Back then I absolutely hated this flick. I couldn’t stand Dorothy and her nitwit friends: the Tin Woodsman, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow.

Every time the movie was broadcast--usually on a holiday--I would sit and sulk in front of our old Motorola while these losers followed the freaking Yellow Brick Road.

My mother adored Judy Garland and I was stunned to learn a few years ago that The Wizard of Oz made its debut on August 15--my mother's birthday.

The flying monkeys were pretty cool, but I still had to put up with all those stupid songs and the dancing midgets. I kept hoping that Godzilla will wander in from another movie and stomp them all to death.

My biggest problem with the film, however, was that it was about…a girl and back in the early Sixties when I was growing up, boys simply had nothing to do with girls.

We wanted cowboys, cops, and spacemen; we wanted stories about monsters, wars, and UFOs. We had no interest in wicked witches and farm girls from Kansas.

I didn’t even listen to female singers—or “girl” singers as I said back then. Leslie Gore could cry at her party all she wanted, my radio was only set to the Beatles, the Stones, the Four Seasons and other male voices.

It was a very unhealthy time where stereotypes determined who did what with whom. If you crossed the boundary over to what was considered girl territory, you were a sissy, a fag, or a homo.

But then there was this one particular year in my life —I have no idea how old I was—when I found to my horror that I was actually getting into the story.

The exact moment happened late in the movie, when Dorothy is locked up in the Wicked Witch’s castle and a huge hour glass is draining out the last moments of her life.

Her friends outside hear her cries for help and the Tin Woodsman starts bashing down the door with his ax.

Skies are Blue

And that’s when my pulse started to speed up.

I forgot all about that line separating the girls from the boys, I forgot that I was supposed to hate this movie, I just wanted the tin guy to smash that goddamn door before it was too late.

I stopped, surprised at my reaction. Wait a minute--was I actually enjoying a movie about a girl? Good God, what would my friends think if they found out?

Fortunately, time and good sense began to slowly chop down that particular emotional door, and I finally reached a point where I could openly enjoy the movie with my mother and the rest of my family and not care what anyone thought.

I watched the movie again on Thanksgiving Day as I sat on my sister’s couch, stuffed with turkey, apple pie, and, well, stuffing.

I’m older now, and my parents are gone, so now the film has a melancholy side to it.

I knew I’d get all weepy when Dorothy said goodbye to her friends before returning to Kansas, but I got a surprise head start on the tears when the Wizard gives the Tin Woodsman his heart.

“A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others,” he says.

I have to confess that this line hit a nerve. I have a reclusive streak in me and far too often I choose to avoid the outside world in favor of the safety and deceptive comfort of my home and widescreen.

To be loved by others, you have to walk among them, you have to get out there and put your heart on the line, and I haven’t been doing enough of that.

As a film lover, I’m fascinated by the creative process behind The Wizard of Oz, but there’s part of me who doesn’t really want to know how the film was made.

I still want to believe that Oz is real and that a tornado can carry us away to fantastic new worlds.

I want to believe that I have all I need inside me and I always want to believe that there’s no place like home.