Step Across This Line Part 1

Step Across This Line.

Collected Nonfiction 1992-2002.

by Salman Rushdie.

TO CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS.

PART I

Essays

Out of Kansas

I wrote my first short story in Bombay at the age of ten. Its t.i.tle was "Over the Rainbow." It amounted to a dozen or so pages, was dutifully typed up by my father's secretary on flimsy paper, and was eventually lost somewhere along my family's mazy journeyings between India, England, and Pakistan. Shortly before my father's death in 1987, he claimed to have found a copy moldering in an old file, but despite my pleadings he never produced it. I've often wondered about this incident. Maybe he never really found the story, in which case he had succ.u.mbed to the lure of fantasy, and this was the last of the many fairy tales he told me. Or else he did find it, and hugged it to himself as a talisman and a reminder of simpler times, thinking of it as his treasure, not mine-his pot of nostalgic, parental gold.

I don't remember much about the story. It was about a ten-year-old Bombay boy who one day happens upon the beginning of a rainbow, a place as elusive as any pot-of-gold end zone, and as rich in promise. The rainbow is broad, as wide as the sidewalk, and constructed like a grand staircase. Naturally, the boy begins to climb. I have forgotten almost everything about his adventures, except for an encounter with a talking pianola whose personality is an improbable hybrid of Judy Garland, Elvis Presley, and the "playback singers" of the Hindi movies, many of which made The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz look like kitchen-sink realism. look like kitchen-sink realism.

My bad memory-what my mother would call a "forgettery"-is probably a blessing. Anyway, I remember what matters. I remember that The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz (the film, not the book, which I didn't read as a child) was my very first literary influence. More than that: I remember that when the possibility of my going to school in England was mentioned, it felt as exciting as any voyage over rainbows. England felt as wonderful a prospect as Oz. (the film, not the book, which I didn't read as a child) was my very first literary influence. More than that: I remember that when the possibility of my going to school in England was mentioned, it felt as exciting as any voyage over rainbows. England felt as wonderful a prospect as Oz.

The wizard, however, was right there in Bombay. My father, Anis Ahmed Rushdie, was a magical parent of young children, but he was also p.r.o.ne to explosions, thunderous rages, bolts of emotional lightning, puffs of dragon smoke, and other menaces of the type also practiced by Oz, the great and terrible, the first Wizard Deluxe. And when the curtain fell away and we, his growing offspring, discovered (like Dorothy) the truth about adult humbug, it was easy for us to think, as she did, that our wizard must be a very bad man indeed. It took me half a lifetime to discover that the Great Oz's apologia pro vita sua apologia pro vita sua fitted my father equally well; that he too was a good man but a very bad wizard. fitted my father equally well; that he too was a good man but a very bad wizard.

I have begun with these personal reminiscences because The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is a film whose driving force is the inadequacy of adults, even of good adults. At its beginning, the weaknesses of grown-ups force a child to take control of her own destiny (and her dog's). Thus, ironically, she begins the process of becoming a grown-up herself. The journey from Kansas to Oz is a rite of pa.s.sage from a world in which Dorothy's parent-subst.i.tutes, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry, are powerless to help her save her dog, Toto, from the marauding Miss Gulch, into a world where the people are her own size, and in which she is never treated as a child but always treated as a heroine. She gains this status by accident, it's true, having played no part in her house's decision to squash the Wicked Witch of the East; but by the end of her adventure she has certainly grown to fill those shoes-or, rather, those famous ruby slippers. "Who'd have thought a girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?" laments the Wicked Witch of the West as she melts-an adult becoming smaller than, and giving way to, a child. As the Wicked Witch of the West "grows down," so Dorothy is seen to have grown up. In my view, this is a much more satisfactory explanation for Dorothy's newfound power over the ruby slippers than the sentimental reasons offered by the ineffably soppy Good Witch Glinda, and then by Dorothy herself, in a cloying ending that I find untrue to the film's anarchic spirit. (More about this later.) is a film whose driving force is the inadequacy of adults, even of good adults. At its beginning, the weaknesses of grown-ups force a child to take control of her own destiny (and her dog's). Thus, ironically, she begins the process of becoming a grown-up herself. The journey from Kansas to Oz is a rite of pa.s.sage from a world in which Dorothy's parent-subst.i.tutes, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry, are powerless to help her save her dog, Toto, from the marauding Miss Gulch, into a world where the people are her own size, and in which she is never treated as a child but always treated as a heroine. She gains this status by accident, it's true, having played no part in her house's decision to squash the Wicked Witch of the East; but by the end of her adventure she has certainly grown to fill those shoes-or, rather, those famous ruby slippers. "Who'd have thought a girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?" laments the Wicked Witch of the West as she melts-an adult becoming smaller than, and giving way to, a child. As the Wicked Witch of the West "grows down," so Dorothy is seen to have grown up. In my view, this is a much more satisfactory explanation for Dorothy's newfound power over the ruby slippers than the sentimental reasons offered by the ineffably soppy Good Witch Glinda, and then by Dorothy herself, in a cloying ending that I find untrue to the film's anarchic spirit. (More about this later.) The helplessness of Auntie Em and Uncle Henry in the face of Miss Gulch's desire to annihilate Toto the dog leads Dorothy to think, childishly, of running away from home-of escape. And that's why, when the tornado hits, she isn't with the others in the storm shelter, and as a result is whirled away to an escape beyond her wildest dreams. Later, however, when she is confronted by the weakness of the Wizard of Oz, she doesn't run away but goes into battle-first against the Witch and then against the Wizard himself. The Wizard's ineffectuality is one of the film's many symmetries, rhyming with the feebleness of Dorothy's folks; but the difference in the way Dorothy reacts is the point.

The ten-year-old boy who watched The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz in Bombay's Metro cinema knew very little about foreign parts and even less about growing up. He did, however, know a great deal more about the cinema of the fantastic than any Western child of the same age. In the West, in Bombay's Metro cinema knew very little about foreign parts and even less about growing up. He did, however, know a great deal more about the cinema of the fantastic than any Western child of the same age. In the West, The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz was an oddball, an attempt to make a live-action version of a Disney cartoon feature despite the industry's received wisdom (how times change!) that fantasy movies usually flopped. There's little doubt that the excitement engendered by was an oddball, an attempt to make a live-action version of a Disney cartoon feature despite the industry's received wisdom (how times change!) that fantasy movies usually flopped. There's little doubt that the excitement engendered by Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs accounts for MGM's decision to give the full, all-stops-out treatment to a thirty-nine-year-old book. This was not, however, the first screen version. I haven't seen the silent film of 1925, but its reputation is poor. It did, however, star Oliver Hardy as the Tin Man. accounts for MGM's decision to give the full, all-stops-out treatment to a thirty-nine-year-old book. This was not, however, the first screen version. I haven't seen the silent film of 1925, but its reputation is poor. It did, however, star Oliver Hardy as the Tin Man.

The Wizard of Oz never really made money until it became a television standard years after its original theatrical release, though it should be said in mitigation that coming out two weeks before the start of World War II can't have helped its chances. In India, however, it fitted into what was then, and remains today, one of the mainstreams of "Bollywood" film production. never really made money until it became a television standard years after its original theatrical release, though it should be said in mitigation that coming out two weeks before the start of World War II can't have helped its chances. In India, however, it fitted into what was then, and remains today, one of the mainstreams of "Bollywood" film production.

It's easy to satirize the Indian commercial cinema industry. In James Ivory's film Bombay Talkie, Bombay Talkie, a journalist (the touching Jennifer Kendal, who died in 1984) visits a studio soundstage and watches an amazing dance number featuring scantily clad nautch girls prancing on the keys of a giant typewriter. The director explains that this is no less than the Typewriter of Life, and we are all dancing out "the story of our Fate" upon that mighty machine. "It's very symbolic," the journalist suggests. The director, simpering, replies: "Thank you." a journalist (the touching Jennifer Kendal, who died in 1984) visits a studio soundstage and watches an amazing dance number featuring scantily clad nautch girls prancing on the keys of a giant typewriter. The director explains that this is no less than the Typewriter of Life, and we are all dancing out "the story of our Fate" upon that mighty machine. "It's very symbolic," the journalist suggests. The director, simpering, replies: "Thank you."

Typewriters of Life, s.e.x G.o.ddesses in wet saris (the Indian equivalent of wet T-shirts), G.o.ds descending from the heavens to meddle in human affairs, magic potions, superheroes, demonic villains, and so on have always been the staple diet of the Indian filmgoer. Blond Glinda arriving in Munchkinland in her magic bubble might cause Dorothy to comment on the high speed and oddity of local transport operating in Oz, but to an Indian audience Glinda was arriving exactly as a G.o.d should arrive: ex machina, ex machina, out of her divine machine. The Wicked Witch of the West's orange puffs of smoke were equally appropriate to her super-bad status. But in spite of all the similarities, there are important differences between the Bombay cinema and a film like out of her divine machine. The Wicked Witch of the West's orange puffs of smoke were equally appropriate to her super-bad status. But in spite of all the similarities, there are important differences between the Bombay cinema and a film like The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz. Good fairies and bad witches might superficially resemble the deities and demons of the Hindu pantheon, but in reality one of the most striking aspects of the worldview of Good fairies and bad witches might superficially resemble the deities and demons of the Hindu pantheon, but in reality one of the most striking aspects of the worldview of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is its joyful and almost complete secularism. Religion is mentioned only once in the film. Auntie Em, sputtering with anger at the gruesome Miss Gulch, reveals that she's waited years to tell her what she thinks of her, "and now, because I'm a good Christian woman, I can't do so." Apart from this moment, in which Christian charity prevents some old-fashioned plain speaking, the film is breezily G.o.dless. There's not a trace of religion in Oz itself. Bad witches are feared, good ones liked, but none are sanctified; and while the Wizard of Oz is thought to be something very close to all-powerful, n.o.body thinks to worship him. This absence of higher values greatly increases the film's charm and is an important aspect of its success in creating a world in which nothing is deemed more important than the loves, cares, and needs of human beings (and, of course, tin beings, straw beings, lions, and dogs). is its joyful and almost complete secularism. Religion is mentioned only once in the film. Auntie Em, sputtering with anger at the gruesome Miss Gulch, reveals that she's waited years to tell her what she thinks of her, "and now, because I'm a good Christian woman, I can't do so." Apart from this moment, in which Christian charity prevents some old-fashioned plain speaking, the film is breezily G.o.dless. There's not a trace of religion in Oz itself. Bad witches are feared, good ones liked, but none are sanctified; and while the Wizard of Oz is thought to be something very close to all-powerful, n.o.body thinks to worship him. This absence of higher values greatly increases the film's charm and is an important aspect of its success in creating a world in which nothing is deemed more important than the loves, cares, and needs of human beings (and, of course, tin beings, straw beings, lions, and dogs).

The other major difference is harder to define, because it is, finally, a matter of quality. Most Hindi movies were then and are now what can only be called trashy. The pleasure to be had from such films (and some of them are extremely enjoyable) is something like the fun of eating junk food. The cla.s.sic Bombay talkie uses scripts of dreadful corniness, looks tawdry and garish, and relies on the ma.s.s appeal of its star performers and musical numbers to provide a little zing. The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz also has movie stars and musical numbers, but it is also very definitely a Good Film. It takes the fantasy of Bombay and adds high production values and something more. Call it imaginative truth. Call it (reach for your revolvers now) art. also has movie stars and musical numbers, but it is also very definitely a Good Film. It takes the fantasy of Bombay and adds high production values and something more. Call it imaginative truth. Call it (reach for your revolvers now) art.

But if The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is a work of art, it's extremely difficult to say who the artist was. The birth of Oz itself has already pa.s.sed into legend: the author, L. Frank Baum, named his magic world after the letters OZ on the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Baum had an odd, roller-coaster life. Born rich, he inherited a string of little theaters from his father and lost them all through mismanagement. He wrote one successful play and several flops. The Oz books made him one of the leading children's writers of his day, but all his other fantasy novels bombed. is a work of art, it's extremely difficult to say who the artist was. The birth of Oz itself has already pa.s.sed into legend: the author, L. Frank Baum, named his magic world after the letters OZ on the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Baum had an odd, roller-coaster life. Born rich, he inherited a string of little theaters from his father and lost them all through mismanagement. He wrote one successful play and several flops. The Oz books made him one of the leading children's writers of his day, but all his other fantasy novels bombed. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and a musical adaptation of it for the stage, restored Baum's finances, but a financially disastrous attempt to tour America promoting his books with a "fairylogue" of slides and films led him to file for bankruptcy in 1911. He became a slightly shabby, if still frock-coated, figure, living on his wife's money at "Ozcot" in Hollywood, where he raised chickens and won prizes at flower shows. The small success of another musical, and a musical adaptation of it for the stage, restored Baum's finances, but a financially disastrous attempt to tour America promoting his books with a "fairylogue" of slides and films led him to file for bankruptcy in 1911. He became a slightly shabby, if still frock-coated, figure, living on his wife's money at "Ozcot" in Hollywood, where he raised chickens and won prizes at flower shows. The small success of another musical, The Tik-Tok Man of Oz, The Tik-Tok Man of Oz, improved his finances, but he ruined them again by setting up his own movie company, the Oz Film Company, and trying unsuccessfully to film and distribute the Oz books. After two bedridden years, and still, we are told, optimistic, he died in May 1919. However, as we shall see, his frock coat lived on into a strange immortality. improved his finances, but he ruined them again by setting up his own movie company, the Oz Film Company, and trying unsuccessfully to film and distribute the Oz books. After two bedridden years, and still, we are told, optimistic, he died in May 1919. However, as we shall see, his frock coat lived on into a strange immortality.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, published in 1900, contains many of the ingredients of the magic potion-all the major characters and events are here, as well as the most important locations, the Yellow Brick Road, the Deadly Poppy Field, the Emerald City. But published in 1900, contains many of the ingredients of the magic potion-all the major characters and events are here, as well as the most important locations, the Yellow Brick Road, the Deadly Poppy Field, the Emerald City. But The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is that great rarity, a film that improves on the good book from which it came. One of the changes is the expansion of the Kansas section, which in the novel takes up precisely two pages before the tornado arrives, and just nine lines at the end. The story line in the Oz section is also simplified, by jettisoning several sub-plots, such as the visits to the Fighting Trees, the Dainty China Country, and the Quadlings that come, in the novel, just after the dramatic high point of the Witch's destruction and fritter away the story's narrative drive. And there are two even more important alterations: to the colors of the Wizard's city and of Dorothy's shoes. is that great rarity, a film that improves on the good book from which it came. One of the changes is the expansion of the Kansas section, which in the novel takes up precisely two pages before the tornado arrives, and just nine lines at the end. The story line in the Oz section is also simplified, by jettisoning several sub-plots, such as the visits to the Fighting Trees, the Dainty China Country, and the Quadlings that come, in the novel, just after the dramatic high point of the Witch's destruction and fritter away the story's narrative drive. And there are two even more important alterations: to the colors of the Wizard's city and of Dorothy's shoes.

Frank Baum's Emerald City was green only because everyone in it had to wear emerald-tinted gla.s.ses, whereas in the movie it really is a futuristic, chlorophyll green-except, that is, for the Horse of a Different Color You've Heard Tell Of. The Horse changes color in each successive shot, a change brought about by covering it in a variety of shades of powdered Jell-O. *1 *1 Frank Baum did not make up the ruby slippers. He called them Silver Shoes. Baum believed that America's stability required a switch from the gold to the silver standard, and the Shoes were a metaphor of the magical advantages of Silver. Noel Langley, the first of the film's three credited screenwriters, originally went along with Baum's idea. But in his fourth script, the script of May 14, 1938, known as the DO NOT MAKE CHANGES script, the clunky, metallic, and non-mythic footwear is jettisoned and the immortal jewel shoes are introduced for the first time, probably in response to the demand for color. (In Shot 114, "the ruby shoes appear on Dorothy's feet, glittering and sparkling in the sun.") Other writers contributed important details to the finished screenplay. Florence Ryerson and Edgar Allan Woolf were probably responsible for "There's no place like home," which, to me, is the least convincing idea in the film (it's one thing for Dorothy to want to get home, quite another that she can do so only by eulogizing the ideal state, which Kansas so obviously is not). *2 *2 But there's some dispute about this, too. A studio memo implies that it could have been the a.s.sociate producer Arthur Freed who came up with the cutesy slogan. And, after much quarreling between Langley and RyersonWoolf, it was the film's lyricist, Yip Harburg, who pulled the final script together and added the crucial scene in which the Wizard, unable to give the companions what they demand, hands out emblems instead, and to our satisfaction these symbols do the job. The name of the rose turns out to be the rose, after all. But there's some dispute about this, too. A studio memo implies that it could have been the a.s.sociate producer Arthur Freed who came up with the cutesy slogan. And, after much quarreling between Langley and RyersonWoolf, it was the film's lyricist, Yip Harburg, who pulled the final script together and added the crucial scene in which the Wizard, unable to give the companions what they demand, hands out emblems instead, and to our satisfaction these symbols do the job. The name of the rose turns out to be the rose, after all.

Who, then, was the auteur of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz? No single writer can claim that honor, not even the author of the original book. The producers, Mervyn LeRoy and Arthur Freed, both have their champions. At least four directors worked on the picture, most notably Victor Fleming; but he left before shooting ended (King Vidor was his uncredited replacement) to make Gone With the Wind, Gone With the Wind, ironically enough the movie that dominated the Oscars while ironically enough the movie that dominated the Oscars while The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz won just three: Best Song ("Over the Rainbow"), Best Musical Score, and a Special Award for Judy Garland. The truth is that this great movie, in which the quarrels, sackings, and bungles of all concerned produced what seems like pure, effortless, and somehow inevitable felicity, is as near as dammit to that will-o'-the-wisp of modern critical theory: the authorless text. won just three: Best Song ("Over the Rainbow"), Best Musical Score, and a Special Award for Judy Garland. The truth is that this great movie, in which the quarrels, sackings, and bungles of all concerned produced what seems like pure, effortless, and somehow inevitable felicity, is as near as dammit to that will-o'-the-wisp of modern critical theory: the authorless text.

Kansas as described by L. Frank Baum is a depressing place, in which everything is gray as far as the eye can see-the prairie is gray and so is the house in which Dorothy lives. As for Auntie Em, "The sun and wind . . . had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now." Whereas: "Uncle Henry never laughed. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots." And the sky? "It was even grayer than usual." Toto, though, was spared grayness. He "saved Dorothy from growing as gray as her surroundings." He was not exactly colorful, though his eyes twinkled and his hair was silky. Toto was black.

It is out of this grayness-the gathering, c.u.mulative grayness of that bleak world-that calamity comes. The tornado is the grayness gathered together and whirled about and unleashed, so to speak, against itself. And to all this the film is astonishingly faithful, shooting the Kansas scenes in what we call black-and-white but what is in reality a multiplicity of shades of gray, and darkening its images until the whirlwind sucks them up and rips them into pieces.

There is, however, another way of understanding the tornado. Dorothy has a surname: Gale. And in many ways Dorothy is the gale blowing through this little corner of nowhere. She demands justice for her little dog while the adults give in meekly to the powerful Miss Gulch. She is prepared to interrupt the gray inevitability of her life by running away but is so tenderhearted that she runs back again when Professor Marvel tells her that Auntie Em is distraught that she has fled. Dorothy is the life-force of this Kansas, just as Miss Gulch is the force of death; and perhaps it is Dorothy's turmoil, the cyclone of feeling unleashed by the conflict between Dorothy and Miss Gulch, that is made actual in the great dark snake of cloud that wriggles across the prairie, eating the world.

The Kansas of the film is a little less unremittingly bleak than that of the book, if only because of the introduction of the three farmhands and of Professor Marvel, four characters who will find their rhymes, their counterparts, in the Three Companions of Oz and the Wizard himself. Then again, the movie Kansas is also more terrifying, because it adds a presence of real evil: the angular Miss Gulch, with a profile that could carve a turkey, riding stiffly on her bicycle with a hat on her head like a plum pudding or a bomb, and claiming the protection of the Law for her campaign against Toto. Thanks to Miss Gulch, this cinematic Kansas is informed not only by the sadness of dirt-poverty but also by the badness of would-be dog murderers.

And this this is the home that there's no place like? This is the lost Eden that we are asked to prefer (as Dorothy does) to Oz? is the home that there's no place like? This is the lost Eden that we are asked to prefer (as Dorothy does) to Oz?

I remember (or I imagine I remember) that when I first saw this film, Dorothy's place struck me as being pretty much a dump. I was lucky, and had a good, comfortable home, and so, I reasoned to myself, if I'd I'd been whisked off to Oz, I'd naturally want to get home again. But Dorothy? Maybe we should invite her over to stay. Anywhere looks better than been whisked off to Oz, I'd naturally want to get home again. But Dorothy? Maybe we should invite her over to stay. Anywhere looks better than that. that.

I thought one further thought, which I had better confess now, as it gave me a sneaking regard for Miss Gulch and her fantasy counterpart, the Wicked Witch, and, some might say, a secret sympathy for all persons of her witchy disposition, which has remained with me ever since: I couldn't stand Toto. I still can't. As Gollum says of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins in another great fantasy: "Baggins: we hates it to pieces." we hates it to pieces."

Toto, that little yapping hairpiece of a creature, that meddlesome rug! L. Frank Baum, excellent fellow, gave the dog a distinctly minor role: it kept Dorothy happy, and when she was not, it had a tendency to "whine dismally"-not an endearing trait. Its only significant contribution to Baum's story came when it accidentally knocked over the screen behind which the Wizard of Oz was concealed. The film-Toto rather more deliberately pulls aside a curtain to reveal the Great Humbug, and in spite of everything I found this an irritating piece of mischief-making. I was not surprised to learn that the pooch playing Toto was possessed of a star's temperament, and even brought the shoot to a standstill at one point by staging a nervous breakdown. That Toto should be the film's one true object of love has always rankled. But such protest is useless, if satisfying. n.o.body, now, can rid me of this turbulent toupee.

When I first saw The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz it made a writer of me. Many years later, I began to devise the yarn that eventually became it made a writer of me. Many years later, I began to devise the yarn that eventually became Haroun and the Sea of Stories. Haroun and the Sea of Stories. I felt strongly that-if I could only strike the right note-it must be possible to write the tale in such a way as to make it of interest to adults as well as children. The world of books has become a severely categorized and demarcated place, in which children's fiction is not only a kind of ghetto but one subdivided into writing for a number of different age-groups. The movies, however, have regularly risen above such categorizing. From Spielberg to Schwarzenegger, from Disney to Gilliam, the cinema has often come up with offerings before which kids and adults sit happily side by side. I watched I felt strongly that-if I could only strike the right note-it must be possible to write the tale in such a way as to make it of interest to adults as well as children. The world of books has become a severely categorized and demarcated place, in which children's fiction is not only a kind of ghetto but one subdivided into writing for a number of different age-groups. The movies, however, have regularly risen above such categorizing. From Spielberg to Schwarzenegger, from Disney to Gilliam, the cinema has often come up with offerings before which kids and adults sit happily side by side. I watched Who Framed Roger Rabbit Who Framed Roger Rabbit in an afternoon movie theater full of excited, rowdy children and went back to see it the next evening, at an hour too late for the kids, so that I could hear all the gags properly, enjoy the movie in-jokes, and marvel at the brilliance of the Toontown concept. But of all movies, the one that helped me most as I tried to find the right voice for in an afternoon movie theater full of excited, rowdy children and went back to see it the next evening, at an hour too late for the kids, so that I could hear all the gags properly, enjoy the movie in-jokes, and marvel at the brilliance of the Toontown concept. But of all movies, the one that helped me most as I tried to find the right voice for Haroun Haroun was was The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz. The film's influence is there in the text, plain to see. In Haroun's companions there are clear echoes of the friends who danced with Dorothy down the Yellow Brick Road. The film's influence is there in the text, plain to see. In Haroun's companions there are clear echoes of the friends who danced with Dorothy down the Yellow Brick Road.

And now I'm doing something strange, something that ought to destroy my love for the movie but doesn't: I'm watching a videotape with a notebook on my lap, a pen in one hand and a remote-control zapper in the other, subjecting The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz to the indignities of slow-motion, fast-forward, and freeze-frame, trying to learn the secret of the magic trick; and, yes, seeing things I'd never noticed before . . . to the indignities of slow-motion, fast-forward, and freeze-frame, trying to learn the secret of the magic trick; and, yes, seeing things I'd never noticed before . . .

The film begins. We are in the monochrome "real" world of Kansas. A girl and her dog run down a country lane. She isn't coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you? She tried to, didn't she? She isn't coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you? She tried to, didn't she? A real girl, a real dog, and the beginning, with the very first line of dialogue, of real drama. Kansas, however, is not real, no more real than Oz. Kansas is a painting. Dorothy and Toto have been running down a short stretch of "road" in the MGM studios, and this shot has been matted into a picture of emptiness. "Real" emptiness would probably not look empty enough. It's as close as makes no difference to the universal gray of Frank Baum's story, the void broken only by a couple of fences and the vertical lines of telegraph poles. If Oz is A real girl, a real dog, and the beginning, with the very first line of dialogue, of real drama. Kansas, however, is not real, no more real than Oz. Kansas is a painting. Dorothy and Toto have been running down a short stretch of "road" in the MGM studios, and this shot has been matted into a picture of emptiness. "Real" emptiness would probably not look empty enough. It's as close as makes no difference to the universal gray of Frank Baum's story, the void broken only by a couple of fences and the vertical lines of telegraph poles. If Oz is nowhere, nowhere, then the studio setting of the Kansas scenes suggests that then the studio setting of the Kansas scenes suggests that so is Kansas. so is Kansas. This is necessary. A realistic depiction of the extreme poverty of Dorothy Gale's circ.u.mstances would have created a burden, a heaviness, that would have rendered impossible the imaginative leap into Storyland, the soaring flight into Oz. The Grimms' fairy tales, it's true, were often realistic. In "The Fisherman and His Wife," the eponymous couple live, until they meet the magic flounder, in what is tersely described as "a p.i.s.spot." But in many children's versions of the Grimms, the p.i.s.spot is bowdlerized into a "hovel" or some even gentler word. Hollywood's vision has always been of this soft-focus variety. Dorothy looks extremely well fed, and she is not really, but This is necessary. A realistic depiction of the extreme poverty of Dorothy Gale's circ.u.mstances would have created a burden, a heaviness, that would have rendered impossible the imaginative leap into Storyland, the soaring flight into Oz. The Grimms' fairy tales, it's true, were often realistic. In "The Fisherman and His Wife," the eponymous couple live, until they meet the magic flounder, in what is tersely described as "a p.i.s.spot." But in many children's versions of the Grimms, the p.i.s.spot is bowdlerized into a "hovel" or some even gentler word. Hollywood's vision has always been of this soft-focus variety. Dorothy looks extremely well fed, and she is not really, but unreally, unreally, poor. poor.

She arrives at the farmyard, and here (freezing the frame) we see the beginning of what will be a recurring visual motif. In the scene we have frozen, Dorothy and Toto are in the background, heading for a gate. To the left of the screen is a tree trunk, a vertical line echoing the telegraph poles of the scene before. Hanging from an approximately horizontal branch are a triangle (for calling farmhands to dinner) and a circle (actually a rubber tire). In mid-shot are further geometric elements: the parallel lines of the wooden fence, the bisecting diagonal wooden bar at the gate. Later, when we see the house, the theme of simple geometry is present once again; it is all right angles and triangles. The world of Kansas, that great void, is shaped into "home" by the use of simple, uncomplicated shapes; none of your citified complexity here. Throughout The Wizard of Oz, The Wizard of Oz, home and safety are represented by such geometrical simplicity, whereas danger and evil are invariably twisty, irregular, and misshapen. home and safety are represented by such geometrical simplicity, whereas danger and evil are invariably twisty, irregular, and misshapen.

The tornado is just such an untrustworthy, sinuous, shifting shape. Random, unfixed, it wrecks the plain shapes of that no-frills life.

The Kansas sequence invokes not only geometry but mathematics too. When Dorothy, like the chaotic force she is, bursts upon Auntie Em and Uncle Henry with her fears about Toto, what are they doing? Why do they shoo her away? "We're trying to count," they admonish her, as they take a census of the eggs, counting their metaphorical chickens, their small hopes of income, which the tornado will shortly blow away. So, with simple shapes and numbers, Dorothy's family erects its defenses against the immense, maddening emptiness; and these defenses are useless, of course.

Leap ahead to Oz and it becomes obvious that this opposition between the geometric and the twisty is no accident. Look at the beginning of the Yellow Brick Road: it's a perfect spiral. Look again at Glinda's carriage, that perfect, luminous sphere. Look at the regimented routines of the Munchkins as they greet Dorothy and thank her for squashing the Wicked Witch of the East. Move on to the Emerald City: see it in the distance, its straight lines soaring into the sky! And now, by contrast, observe the Wicked Witch of the West: her bent figure, her misshapen hat. How does she depart? In a puff of shapeless smoke . . . "Only bad witches are ugly," Glinda tells Dorothy, a remark of high political incorrectness that emphasizes the film's animosity toward whatever is tangled, claw-crooked, and weird. Woods are invariably frightening-the gnarled branches of trees are capable of coming to life-and the one moment when the Yellow Brick Road itself bewilders Dorothy is the moment when it ceases to be geometric (first spiral, then rectilinear) and splits and forks every which way.

Back in Kansas, Auntie Em is delivering the scolding that is the prelude to one of the cinema's immortal moments. You always get yourself into a fret about nothing . . . find yourself a place where you won't get into any trouble! You always get yourself into a fret about nothing . . . find yourself a place where you won't get into any trouble!

Some place where there isn't any trouble. Do you suppose there is such a place, Toto? There must be. Anybody who has swallowed the scriptwriters' notion that this is a film about the superiority of "home" over "away," that the "moral" of Anybody who has swallowed the scriptwriters' notion that this is a film about the superiority of "home" over "away," that the "moral" of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is as sickly-sweet as an embroidered sampler-"East, West, home's best"-would do well to listen to the yearning in Judy Garland's voice as her face tilts up toward the skies. What she expresses here, what she embodies with the purity of an archetype, is the human dream of is as sickly-sweet as an embroidered sampler-"East, West, home's best"-would do well to listen to the yearning in Judy Garland's voice as her face tilts up toward the skies. What she expresses here, what she embodies with the purity of an archetype, is the human dream of leaving, leaving, a dream at least as powerful as its countervailing dream of roots. At the heart of a dream at least as powerful as its countervailing dream of roots. At the heart of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is the tension between these two dreams; but as the music swells and that big, clean voice flies into the anguished longings of the song, can anyone doubt which message is the stronger? In its most potent emotional moment, this is unarguably a film about the joys of going away, of leaving the grayness and entering the color, of making a new life in the "place where there isn't any trouble." "Over the Rainbow" is, or ought to be, the anthem of all the world's migrants, all those who go in search of the place where "the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true." It is a celebration of Escape, a grand paean to the uprooted self, a hymn- is the tension between these two dreams; but as the music swells and that big, clean voice flies into the anguished longings of the song, can anyone doubt which message is the stronger? In its most potent emotional moment, this is unarguably a film about the joys of going away, of leaving the grayness and entering the color, of making a new life in the "place where there isn't any trouble." "Over the Rainbow" is, or ought to be, the anthem of all the world's migrants, all those who go in search of the place where "the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true." It is a celebration of Escape, a grand paean to the uprooted self, a hymn-the hymn-to Elsewhere. hymn-to Elsewhere.

E. Y. Harburg, the lyricist of "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" and Harold Arlen, who had written "It's Only a Paper Moon" with Harburg, made the songs for The Wizard of Oz, The Wizard of Oz, and Arlen actually did think of the melody line outside Schwab's drugstore in Hollywood. Aljean Harmetz records Harburg's disappointment with the music: too complex for a sixteen-year-old to sing, too advanced by comparison with Disney hits like "Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It's Off to Work We Go." Harmetz adds: "To please Harburg, Arlen wrote the melody for the tinkling middle section of the song." and Arlen actually did think of the melody line outside Schwab's drugstore in Hollywood. Aljean Harmetz records Harburg's disappointment with the music: too complex for a sixteen-year-old to sing, too advanced by comparison with Disney hits like "Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It's Off to Work We Go." Harmetz adds: "To please Harburg, Arlen wrote the melody for the tinkling middle section of the song." Where troubles melt like lemon drops / Away above the chimney tops / That's where you'll find me . . . Where troubles melt like lemon drops / Away above the chimney tops / That's where you'll find me . . . A little higher up, in short, than the protagonist of that other great ode to flight, "Up on the Roof." A little higher up, in short, than the protagonist of that other great ode to flight, "Up on the Roof."

That "Over the Rainbow" came close to being cut out of the movie is well known, and proof that Hollywood makes its masterpieces by accident, because it doesn't really know what it is doing. Other songs were dropped: "The Jitter Bug," after five weeks' filming, and almost all of "Lions and Tigers and Bears," which survives only as the chant of the Companions as they pa.s.s through the forest along the Yellow Brick Road: Lions and Tigers and Bears-oh, my! Lions and Tigers and Bears-oh, my! It's impossible to say if the film would have been improved or damaged by the addition of these songs; would It's impossible to say if the film would have been improved or damaged by the addition of these songs; would Catch-22 Catch-22 be be Catch-22 Catch-22 if it had been published under its original t.i.tle of if it had been published under its original t.i.tle of Catch-18 Catch-18? What we can say, however, is that Yip Harburg (no admirer of Judy) was wrong about Garland's voice.

The princ.i.p.al actors in the cast complained that there was "no acting" in the movie, and in the conventional sense they were right. But Garland singing "Over the Rainbow" did something extraordinary. In that moment she gave the film its heart. The force of her rendition is strong and sweet and deep enough to carry us through all the tomfoolery that follows, even to bestow a touching quality upon it, a vulnerable charm that is matched only by Bert Lahr's equally extraordinary interpretation of the role of the Cowardly Lion.

What is left to say about Garland's Dorothy? The conventional wisdom is that the performance gains in ironic force because its innocence contrasts so starkly with what we know of the actress's difficult later life. I'm not sure this is right, though it's the kind of remark movie buffs like making. It seems to me that Garland's performance succeeds on its own terms, and on the film's. She is required to pull off what sounds like an impossible trick. On the one hand she is to be the film's tabula rasa, the blank slate upon which the action of the story gradually writes itself-or rather, because this is a movie, after all, the blank screen upon which the action plays. Armed only with her look of wide-eyed innocence, she must be the object of the film as well as its subject, must allow herself to be the empty vessel that the movie slowly fills. And yet, on the other hand, she must-with a little help from the Cowardly Lion-carry the entire emotional weight, the whole cyclonic force of the film. That she achieves this is due not only to the mature depths of her singing voice but also to the odd stockiness, the physical gaucherie that endears us precisely because it is half unbeautiful, jolie-laide, jolie-laide, instead of the posturing prettiness Shirley Temple would have brought to the role-and Temple was seriously considered for the part. The scrubbed, ever so slightly lumpy uns.e.xiness of Garland's playing is what makes the movie work. One can only imagine the catastrophic flirtatiousness young Shirley would have insisted on employing, and be grateful that the MGM executives were persuaded to go with Judy. instead of the posturing prettiness Shirley Temple would have brought to the role-and Temple was seriously considered for the part. The scrubbed, ever so slightly lumpy uns.e.xiness of Garland's playing is what makes the movie work. One can only imagine the catastrophic flirtatiousness young Shirley would have insisted on employing, and be grateful that the MGM executives were persuaded to go with Judy.

The tornado that I've suggested is the product of the Gale in Dorothy's name was actually made of muslin stiffened with wire. A props man had to lower himself into the muslin tunnel to help pull the needles through and push them out again. "It was pretty uncomfortable when we reached the narrow end," he confessed. The discomfort was worth it, because that tornado, swooping down on Dorothy's home, creates the second genuinely mythic image of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz: the archetypal myth, one might say, of moving house.

In this, the transitional sequence of the movie, when the unreal reality of Kansas gives way to the realistic surreality of the world of wizardry, there is, as befits a threshold moment, much business involving windows and doors. First, the farmhands open up the doors of the storm shelter, and Uncle Henry, heroic as ever, persuades Auntie Em that they can't afford to wait for Dorothy. Second, Dorothy, returning with Toto from her attempt at running away, struggles against the wind to open the screen door of the main house; this outer door is instantly ripped from its hinges and blows away. Third, we see the others closing the doors of the storm shelter. Fourth, Dorothy, inside the house, opens and shuts the doors of various rooms, calling out frantically for Auntie Em. Fifth, Dorothy goes to the storm shelter, but its doors are locked against her. Sixth, Dorothy retreats back inside the main house, her cries for Auntie Em now weak and fearful; whereupon a window, echoing the screen door, blows off its hinges and knocks her cold. She falls upon the bed, and from now on magic reigns. We have pa.s.sed through the film's most important gateway.

This device-the knocking out of Dorothy-is the most radical and in some ways the worst of all the changes wrought to Frank Baum's original conception. For in the book there is no question that Oz is real, that it is a place of the same order, though not of the same type, as Kansas. The film, like the TV soap opera Dallas, Dallas, introduces an element of bad faith when it permits the possibility that everything that follows is a dream. This type of bad faith cost introduces an element of bad faith when it permits the possibility that everything that follows is a dream. This type of bad faith cost Dallas Dallas its audience and eventually killed it off. That its audience and eventually killed it off. That The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz avoided the soap opera's fate is a testament to the general integrity of the film, which enabled it to transcend this h.o.a.ry cliche. avoided the soap opera's fate is a testament to the general integrity of the film, which enabled it to transcend this h.o.a.ry cliche.

While the house flies through the air, looking in longshot like a tiny toy, Dorothy "awakes." What she sees through the window is a sort of movie-the window acts as a cinema screen, a frame within the frame-which prepares her for the new sort of movie she is about to step into. The effect shots, sophisticated for their time, include a lady knitting in her rocking chair as the tornado whirls her by, a cow standing placidly in the eye of the storm, two men rowing a boat through the twisting air, and, most important of all, the figure of Miss Gulch on her bicycle, which transforms, as we watch it, into the figure of the Wicked Witch of the West on her broomstick, her cape flying out behind her, and her huge cackling laugh rising above the noise of the storm.

The house lands. Dorothy emerges from her bedroom with Toto in her arms. We have reached the moment of color.

The first color shot, in which Dorothy walks away from the camera toward the front door, is deliberately dull, to match the preceding monochrome. But once the door is open, color floods the screen. In these color-glutted days it's hard to imagine a time when color films were still relatively new. Thinking back once again to my Bombay childhood in the 1950s, when Hindi movies were all in black-and-white, I can recall the excitement of the advent of color. In an epic about the Grand Mughal, the emperor Akbar, ent.i.tled Mughal-e-Azam, Mughal-e-Azam, there was only one reel of color cinematography, featuring a dance at court by the fabled Anarkali. Yet this reel alone guaranteed the film's success, drawing in the crowds by the million. there was only one reel of color cinematography, featuring a dance at court by the fabled Anarkali. Yet this reel alone guaranteed the film's success, drawing in the crowds by the million.

The makers of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz clearly decided they were going to make their color as colorful as possible, much as Michelangelo Antonioni, a very different sort of filmmaker, did years later in his first color feature, clearly decided they were going to make their color as colorful as possible, much as Michelangelo Antonioni, a very different sort of filmmaker, did years later in his first color feature, Red Desert. Red Desert. In the Antonioni film, color is used to create heightened, often surrealistic effects. In the Antonioni film, color is used to create heightened, often surrealistic effects. The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz likewise goes for bold, expressionist splashes-the yellow of the Brick Road, the red of the Poppy Field, the green of the Emerald City and of the witch's skin. So striking were these colors that, soon after seeing the film as a child, I began to dream of green-skinned witches. Years afterward, I gave these dreams to the narrator of likewise goes for bold, expressionist splashes-the yellow of the Brick Road, the red of the Poppy Field, the green of the Emerald City and of the witch's skin. So striking were these colors that, soon after seeing the film as a child, I began to dream of green-skinned witches. Years afterward, I gave these dreams to the narrator of Midnight's Children, Midnight's Children, having completely forgotten their source: "No colors except green and black the walls are green the sky is black . . . the Widow is green but her hair is black as black." In this stream-of-consciousness dream sequence a nightmare of Indira Gandhi is fused with the equally nightmarish figure of Margaret Hamilton: a coming together of the Wicked Witches of the East and West. having completely forgotten their source: "No colors except green and black the walls are green the sky is black . . . the Widow is green but her hair is black as black." In this stream-of-consciousness dream sequence a nightmare of Indira Gandhi is fused with the equally nightmarish figure of Margaret Hamilton: a coming together of the Wicked Witches of the East and West.

Dorothy, stepping into color, framed by exotic foliage with a cl.u.s.ter of dwarfy cottages behind her and looking like a blue-smocked Snow White, no princess but a good demotic American gal, is clearly struck by the absence of her familiar homey gray. Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. That camp cla.s.sic of a line has detached itself from the movie to become a great American catchphrase, endlessly recycled, even turning up as an epigraph to Thomas Pynchon's mammoth paranoid fantasy of World War II, That camp cla.s.sic of a line has detached itself from the movie to become a great American catchphrase, endlessly recycled, even turning up as an epigraph to Thomas Pynchon's mammoth paranoid fantasy of World War II, Gravity's Rainbow, Gravity's Rainbow, whose characters' destiny lies not "behind the moon, beyond the rain" but "beyond the zero" of consciousness, where lies a land at least as odd as Oz. whose characters' destiny lies not "behind the moon, beyond the rain" but "beyond the zero" of consciousness, where lies a land at least as odd as Oz.

Dorothy has done more than step out of grayness into Technicolor. She has been unhoused, unhoused, and her homelessness is underlined by the fact that, after all the door-play of the transitional sequence, she will not enter any interior at all until she reaches the Emerald City. From tornado to Oz, Dorothy never has a roof over her head. and her homelessness is underlined by the fact that, after all the door-play of the transitional sequence, she will not enter any interior at all until she reaches the Emerald City. From tornado to Oz, Dorothy never has a roof over her head.

Out there amid the giant hollyhocks, whose blooms look like old His-Master's-Voice gramophone trumpets; out there in the vulnerability of open s.p.a.ce, albeit open s.p.a.ce that isn't at all like the prairie, Dorothy is about to outdo Snow White by a factor of nearly fifty. You can almost hear the MGM studio chiefs plotting to put the Disney hit in the shade, not just by providing in live action almost as many miraculous effects as the Disney cartoonists created, but also in the matter of little people. If Snow White had seven dwarfs, then Dorothy Gale, from the star called Kansas, would have three hundred and fifty. There's some disagreement about how this many Munchkins were brought to Hollywood and signed up. The official version is that they were provided by an impresario named Leo Singer. John Lahr's biography of his father, Bert, tells a different tale, which I prefer for reasons Roger Rabbit would understand-i.e., because it is funny. Lahr quotes the film's casting director, Bill Grady: Leo [Singer] could only give me 150. I went to a midget monologist called Major Doyle. . . . I said I had 150 from Singer. "I'll not give you one if you do business with that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h." "What am I gonna do?" I said. "I'll get you the 350." . . . So I called up Leo and explained the situation. . . . When I told the Major that I'd called off Singer, he danced a jig right on the street in front of Dinty Moore's.The Major gets these midgets for me. . . . I bring them out West in buses. . . . Major Doyle took the [first three] buses and arrived at Singer's house. The Major went to the doorman. "Phone upstairs and tell Leo Singer to look out the window." It took about ten minutes. Then Singer looked from his fifth-floor window. And there were all those midgets in those buses in front of his house with their bare behinds sticking out the window.

This incident became known as Major Doyle's Revenge. *3 *3 What began with a strip continued cartoonishly. The Munchkins were made up and costumed exactly like 3-D cartoon figures. The Mayor of Munchkinland is quite implausibly rotund, the Coroner (and she's not only merely dead / She's really most sincerely dead) reads the Witch of the East's death notice from a scroll while wearing a hat with an absurdly scroll-like brim; *4 *4 the quiffs of the Lollipop Kids, who appear to have arrived in Oz by way of Bash Street and Dead End, stand up more stiffly than Tintin's. But what might have been a grotesque and unappetizing sequence-it is, after all, a celebration of death-instead becomes the scene in which the quiffs of the Lollipop Kids, who appear to have arrived in Oz by way of Bash Street and Dead End, stand up more stiffly than Tintin's. But what might have been a grotesque and unappetizing sequence-it is, after all, a celebration of death-instead becomes the scene in which The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz captures its audience once and for all, allying the natural charm of the story to brilliant MGM ch.o.r.eography, which punctuates large-scale routines with neat little set-pieces like the dance of the Lullaby League, or the Sleepy Heads awaking mobcapped and benightied out of cracked blue eggsh.e.l.ls set in a giant nest. And of course there's also the infectious gaiety of Arlen and Harburg's exceptionally witty ensemble number, "Ding, Dong, the Witch Is Dead." captures its audience once and for all, allying the natural charm of the story to brilliant MGM ch.o.r.eography, which punctuates large-scale routines with neat little set-pieces like the dance of the Lullaby League, or the Sleepy Heads awaking mobcapped and benightied out of cracked blue eggsh.e.l.ls set in a giant nest. And of course there's also the infectious gaiety of Arlen and Harburg's exceptionally witty ensemble number, "Ding, Dong, the Witch Is Dead."

Arlen was a little contemptuous of this song and the equally memorable "We're Off to See the Wizard," calling them his "lemon-drop songs"-perhaps because in both cases the real inventiveness lies in Harburg's lyrics. In Dorothy's intro to "Ding, Dong," Harburg embarks on a pyrotechnic display of A-A-A rhyming (the wind began to switch / the house to pitch; until at length we meet the until at length we meet the witch, to satisfy an itch / Went flying on her broomstick thumbing for a hitch; witch, to satisfy an itch / Went flying on her broomstick thumbing for a hitch; and and what happened then was rich . . . what happened then was rich . . .). As with a vaudeville barker's alliterations, we cheer each new rhyme as a sort of gymnastic triumph. Verbal play continues to characterize both songs. In "Ding, Dong," Harburg invents punning word-concertinas: Ding, Dong, the witch is dead!-Whicholwitch?-The wicked witch!

This technique found much fuller expression in "We're Off to See the Wizard," becoming the real "hook" of the song: We're off to see the Wizard,The wonderful Wizzardavoz, Wizzardavoz,We hear he is a Whizzavawiz, Whizzavawiz,If ever a whizztherwoz. whizztherwoz.If everoever a whizztherwoz everoever a whizztherwozThe Wizzardavoz Wizzardavoz is one because . . . is one because . . .

Is it too fanciful to suggest that Harburg's use throughout the film of internal rhymes and a.s.sonances is a conscious echo of the "rhyming" of the plot itself, the paralleling of characters in Kansas with those in Oz, the echoes of themes bouncing back and forth between the monochrome and Technicolor worlds?

Few of the Munchkins could actually sing their lines, as they mostly didn't speak English. They weren't required to do much in the movie, but they made up for this by their activities off-camera. Some film historians try to play down the stories of s.e.xual shenanigans, knife-play, and general mayhem, but the legend of the Munchkin hordes cutting a swathe through Hollywood is not easily dispelled. In Angela Carter's novel Wise Children Wise Children there is an account of a fict.i.tious version of there is an account of a fict.i.tious version of A Midsummer Night's Dream A Midsummer Night's Dream that owes much to the Munchkins' antics and, indeed, to Munchkinland: that owes much to the Munchkins' antics and, indeed, to Munchkinland: The concept of this wood was scaled to the size of fairy folk, so all was twice as large as life. Larger. Daisies big as your head and white as spooks, foxgloves as tall as the tower of Pisa that chimed like bells if shook. . . . Even the wee folk were real; the studio scoured the country for dwarfs. Soon, true or not, wild tales began to circulate-how one poor chap fell into the toilet and splashed around for half an hour before someone dashed in for a p.i.s.s and fished him out of the bowl; another one got offered a high chair in the Brown Derby when he went out for a hamburger.

Amidst all this Munchkining we are given two very different portraits of grown-ups. The Good Witch Glinda is pretty in pink (well, prettyish, even if Dorothy is moved to call her "beautiful"). She has a high, cooing voice, and a smile that seems to have jammed. She has one excellent gag-line. After Dorothy disclaims witchy status, Glinda inquires, pointing at Toto: Well, then, is Well, then, is that that the witch? the witch? This joke apart, she spends the scene simpering and looking vaguely benevolent and loving and rather too heavily powdered. It is interesting that though she is the Good Witch, the goodness of Oz does not inhere in her. The people of Oz are naturally good, unless they are under the power of the Wicked Witch (as is shown by the improved behavior of her soldiers after she melts). In the moral universe of the film, only evil is external, dwelling solely in the dual devil-figure of Miss Gulch / Wicked Witch. This joke apart, she spends the scene simpering and looking vaguely benevolent and loving and rather too heavily powdered. It is interesting that though she is the Good Witch, the goodness of Oz does not inhere in her. The people of Oz are naturally good, unless they are under the power of the Wicked Witch (as is shown by the improved behavior of her soldiers after she melts). In the moral universe of the film, only evil is external, dwelling solely in the dual devil-figure of Miss Gulch / Wicked Witch.

(A parenthetical worry about Munchkinland: is it not altogether too pretty, too kempt, too sweetly sweet for a place that was, until Dorothy's arrival, under the absolute power of the Wicked Witch of the East? How is it that this squashed Witch had no castle? How could her despotism have left so little mark upon the land? Why are the Munchkins so relatively unafraid, hiding only briefly before they emerge, and giggling while they hide? The heretical thought occurs: maybe the Witch of the East wasn't as bad as all that wasn't as bad as all that-she certainly kept the streets clean, the houses painted and in good repair, and, no doubt, such trains as there might have been running on time. Moreover, and again unlike her sister, she seems to have ruled without the aid of soldiers, policemen, or other regiments of oppression. Why, then, was she so hated? I only ask.) Glinda and the Witch of the West are the only two symbols of power in a film which is largely about the powerless, and it's instructive to "unpack" them. They are both women, and a striking aspect of The Wizard of Oz The Wizard of Oz is its lack of a male hero-because for all their brains, heart, and courage, it's impossible to see the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion as cla.s.sic Hollywood leading men. The power center of the film is a triangle at whose corners are Dorothy, Glinda, and the Witch. The fourth point, at which the Wizard is thought for most of the film to stand, turns out to be an illusion. The power of men is illusory, the film suggests. The power of women is real. is its lack of a male hero-because for all their brains, heart, and courage, it's impossible to see the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion as cla.s.sic Hollywood leading men. The power center of the film is a triangle at whose corners are Dorothy, Glinda, and the Witch. The fourth point, at which the Wizard is thought for most of the film to stand, turns out to be an illusion. The power of men is illusory, the film suggests. The power of women is real.

Of the two witches, good and bad, can there be anyone who'd choose to spend five minutes with Glinda? The actress who played her, Billie Burke, the ex-wife of Flo Ziegfeld, sounds every bit as wimpy as her role (she was p.r.o.ne to react to criticism with a trembling lip and a faltering cry of "Oh, you're browbeating browbeating me!"). By contrast, Margaret Hamilton's Wicked Witch of the West seizes hold of the movie from her very first green-faced snarl. Of course Glinda is "good" and the Wicked Witch "bad," but Glinda is a trilling pain in the neck, while the Wicked Witch is lean and mean. Check out their clothes: frilly pink versus slimline black. me!"). By contrast, Margaret Hamilton's Wicked Witch of the West seizes hold of the movie from her very first green-faced snarl. Of course Glinda is "good" and the Wicked Witch "bad," but Glinda is a trilling pain in the neck, while the Wicked Witch is lean and mean. Check out their clothes: frilly pink versus slimline black. No contest. No contest. Consider their att.i.tudes to their fellow-women: Glinda simpers upon being called beautiful, and denigrates her unbeautiful sisters; whereas the Wicked Witch is in a rage because of her sister's death, demonstrating, one might say, a commendable sense of solidarity. We may hiss at her, and she may terrify us as children, but at least she doesn't embarra.s.s us the way Glinda does. True, Glinda exudes a sort of raddled motherly safeness, while the Witch of the West looks, in this scene anyhow, curiously frail and impotent, obliged to mouth empty-sounding threats- Consider their att.i.tudes to their fellow-women: Glinda simpers upon being called beautiful, and denigrates her unbeautiful sisters; whereas the Wicked Witch is in a rage because of her sister's death, demonstrating, one might say, a commendable sense of solidarity. We may hiss at her, and she may terrify us as children, but at least she doesn't embarra.s.s us the way Glinda does. True, Glinda exudes a sort of raddled mo