Follow the Yellow Brick Road

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"There's no place like home; there's no place like home; there's no place like home."

Dorothy (Judy Garland)
(#23 on the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 movie quotes)

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(1939 is widely regarded as the greatest year ever for the motion picture. Ten movies were nominated for Best Picture that year, and today I take a look at the sixth of those 10 movies to hit the theaters.)

I don't know how old I was the first time I saw "The Wizard of Oz." Probably 5 or 6. I do know that it was long after it made its general theatrical debut on this date in 1939. My mother and father might have seen it at the theater — they were children then — but maybe not. It wasn't a blockbuster in 1939. That came later.

I don't remember much about that experience — except that the winged monkeys scared me enough to give me bad dreams for several nights.

I still think of that whenever I sit down to watch "The Wizard of Oz." I thought about it back in February when I watched it during Turner Classic Movies' annual salute to the Academy Awards, "31 Days of Oscar."

And I concluded that there are some movies that are so closely linked to childhood that every time we see them, we feel almost as if we are children again. "The Wizard of Oz" is such a movie — for me, anyway.

See, there are parts of that movie that I appreciate as an adult that escaped me as a child; even so, I always feel like a child when I watch it — at least a little bit and for a little while. I suppose that is part of the movie's enduring magic.

I'm sure I don't have to recite the plot for you. Surely, everyone has seen "The Wizard of Oz" at least once — probably more than that — so I may simply refer to specific scenes. Warning: This will not, in any way, be written sequentially. I probably will jump around a lot. (So hang on. It's apt to be a bumpy ride.)

Anyway, when I watched it most recently, I found myself questioning some parts of the story — and I had to remind myself that it is, after all, a children's story. It would help if everything made perfect sense — but this is a fantasy. By definition, a fantasy doesn't make sense. Things happen in fantasies that simply do not happen in real life — like monkeys with wings.

The movie version of "The Wizard of Oz" is so familiar that the characters need no introduction, do they?

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"You are under the unfortunate delusion that simply because you run away from danger, you have no courage. You're confusing courage with wisdom."

Wizard of Oz (Frank Morgan)

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Oh, and before I forget ...

Dorothy said, "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

She did not say, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," which is how people have been misquoting it for decades.

(Wow, it feels good to get that off my chest. Kind of like knowing that Bogart actually said, "Play it, Sam," not "Play it again, Sam," in "Casablanca" but not saying anything about it.)

While we're on the subject of "The Wizard of Oz" trivia, as I said earlier, the movie wasn't successful in its first theatrical run, earning about what it cost to make. But it got in the black about 10 years later when it was brought back to theaters, and its annual airings on TV, which began in the 1950s, were moneymakers.

And this doesn't qualify as trivia, exactly, but I'd like to mention Billie Burke, who played Glinda the Good Witch of the North, Dorothy's defender in Oz. Her role didn't require her to speak many lines, but it is the role for which she is remembered — even though she is hardly ever mentioned.

She was 55 the day "The Wizard of Oz" premiered. I would never have guessed that.

For awhile, I worked in an office that encouraged employees to wear costumes for Halloween. It became a competitive thing, and groups of employees would come up with themes. Sometimes the costumes were very elaborate, very detailed. It was quite entertaining.

One year, a group came dressed like the protagonists from "The Wizard of Oz" — the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and Dorothy (carrying a basket with a little stuffed dog doll in it). Everyone knew who they were, and they were the unanimous winners of the office contest.

As universal as those characters are, it's hard to believe that "The Wizard of Oz" was a big disappointment at the box office. And that iconic foursome might have been quite different.

Judy Garland is so closely associated with the role of Dorothy that most people probably can't imagine anyone else playing it. But it is my understanding that she was the second choice. The first choice was Shirley Temple, but she dropped out of the project. In hindsight, it's hard for me to imagine Shirley Temple singing "Over the Rainbow" as well as Garland — although it would be a mistake to assume that whoever played Dorothy would sing "Over the Rainbow." It was almost dropped several times.

She wasn't the first actress to play Dorothy, either. There were three other versions made before hers.

Buddy Ebsen was slated to play the Tin Woodman, but he had an allergic reaction to the metallic makeup he had to wear to play the part, and he was replaced by Jack Haley.

W.C. Fields was the first choice to play the wizard, but MGM couldn't meet his demands. He was replaced by Frank Morgan.

(An interesting piece of trivia about Morgan: The somewhat shabby coat he wore in the movie was a thrift–store discovery. It was later determined that the coat actually did belong at one time to L. Frank Baum, the author of "The Wizard of Oz."

(Apparently, his name was stitched inside it, and his widow confirmed that it did, indeed, belong to him.)

I notice little details now that I didn't notice when I was younger. Strangely, I never really noticed the winged monkeys flying away after grabbing Dorothy and Toto. Maybe I blocked that part out. Maybe I was too traumatized by my first glimpse of the winged monkeys to process their departure.

In general, though, I am impressed with the movie every time I see it. Color was still rare in the movies in 1939. Out of 10 Best Picture nominees that year, only two — "The Wizard of Oz" and "Gone With the Wind" — used it. And "The Wizard of Oz" only used it part of the time, bookending the color segment with two black–and–white segments.

That was a creative way to draw the line between the real world and the dream world. Dorothy's real world really was varying shades of gray as nearly as I could tell. Her dream world came alive with vibrant colors — the Yellow Brick Road, the Emerald City, ruby slippers — even though I've heard it said that we don't dream in color.

To be able to imagine the color scheme of a world that is not your own is a rare gift, it seems to me — whether in dreams or conscious thought.

I don't know if that's true. I honestly don't know if I dream in color or not.

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Economically, the decision to use color is fairly easy to comprehend. Because of my experience working for newspapers, I know that the color process was — and, to an extent, still is — more expensive than black and white in print, and I'm sure that was the case when movies were being made in the 1930s and 1940s. It became more commonplace in both pursuits when it became more feasible.

In 1939, though, its very rarity made it an effective way to differentiate between the real and the fantasy.

I was unaware of the color part of it when I saw it the first time. My parents had just bought our family's very first TV. It was a black–and–white portable, and it was our only TV for many years so the color part of the movie looked black and white to me. I probably didn't see the color part in color until we got our first color TV.

The first few times I saw the movie, the Yellow Brick Road looked gray. So did the Emerald City and Dorothy's ruby slippers.

And I completely missed out on what has come to be one of my favorite sequences in the movie, the Horse of a Different Color that drew the coach carrying Dorothy and her friends into the city.

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It's a subtle thing, really. The horse is a different color with each shift in the camera angle, but no fuss is made over it. It is hardly mentioned, except for a point when the coachman tells Dorothy, "That's the horse of a different color you've 'eard tell of."

The last time I watched "The Wizard of Oz," I counted the horse's color changes. There were six.

When I first saw the movie, those color changes probably appeared as varying shades of gray on our black–and–white set. I wonder what I must have thought ... if, indeed, I thought anything ... about that.

I never felt that I got the full effect of "The Wizard of Oz" the first time I saw it. People who first saw it in movie theaters in 1939 saw that horse changing color, witnessed the brilliance of the Emerald City and the Yellow Brick Road.

It was all black and white to me, and it wasn't the same. By the time I saw the horse of a different color — in color — it was anticlimactic to me.

In all, "The Wizard of Oz" was nominated for six Oscars and won two — Best Original Score and Best Song ("Over the Rainbow").

It's a Wonderful Life

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Earlier this month, I observed — in passing — that the Christmas season isn't complete for some people until they have seen "It's a Wonderful Life."

I've been writing a lot about Christmas lately — and, as a warning to my regular readers, I plan to post a Christmas message at my Freedom Writing blog on Friday.

But today, I feel moved to write about "It's a Wonderful Life" — because tomorrow is the 63rd anniversary of its theatrical release.

I don't know if it is Frank Capra's best–known, best–loved or just plain best movie. In Capra's life — which even a casual observer would have to concede was pretty wonderful — he directed many movies that are considered classics today. Several were recognized at the time, and three, including "It's a Wonderful Life," are on the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 movies of all time.

I think it is safe to say, though, that it would be hard for anyone to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and not feel moved or inspired.

The story is about something that many people have contemplated at some point. George Bailey (memorably played by James Stewart), who has repeatedly sacrificed his dreams and goals for the benefit of others, is at his lowest point on Christmas Eve and is thinking about ending his life. He believes everyone would have been better off if he had never been born.

Unknown to him, though, all those people whose lives have been affected by his presence are begging God to intervene on his behalf, and an angel named Clarence is sent to earth to convince George that he has made a real difference in the lives of his friends and family and his hometown.

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In the end, George is persuaded that it is true, which has always kind of reminded me of a line from another classic motion picture, "The Wizard of Oz." Near the end of that movie, the wizard is talking to the Tin Woodman, who has been looking for a heart. The wizard tells his lovelorn friend that one's heart "is not judged by how much you love — but by how much you are loved by others."

And George realizes that, with the exception of his nemesis, Henry Potter, he is, indeed, loved by many — and that he is, in the words of his brother, "the richest man in town."

Christmas never comes at a time when life is great for everyone on the planet. Even in the best, most prosperous times, there are always people who have no job, no home, only the clothes they are wearing to protect them from the elements, only the food scraps they find in garbage bins to satisfy their gnawing hunger.

And these aren't the best of times.

In what remains of this Christmas season, if you've been blessed enough to have things that others can only dream of, I urge you to share some of your bounty with the less fortunate.

And, if you haven't seen "It's a Wonderful Life" this holiday season, you can see it this Thursday at 7 p.m. (Central) on your NBC station.

Summer of '39 Was a Season of Speculation

In the summer of 1939, Carly Simon hadn't been born yet, but if her hit single "Anticipation" had existed at that time, it would have made a good theme song.

It was not quite summer when the grand opening was held for the New York World's Fair, but the fair became one of the largest of all time, attracting more than 44 million people in 1939 and 1940, many of whom came to the fair in the summer months.

The timing of the opening was deliberate — April 30, 1939, was the 150th anniversary of George Washington's inauguration as president in New York City. But apparently it was also a little too early — many pavilions and facilities were not finished by April 30 — but that didn't keep President Roosevelt and almost a quarter of a million people from taking part in the grand opening ceremonies.

Television, still in its infancy, broadcast Roosevelt's speech, which was watched by roughly 1,000 people on TV sets throughout the New York area.

The world's fair promised visitors a glimpse at "the world of tomorrow," but none of the exhibits went so far as to explore the possibilities of nuclear fission. The leading scientists of the day, however, including Albert Einstein who fled Europe in the 1930s, did not ignore it.

In early August, Einstein signed his name to a letter to President Roosevelt, urging him to press for the development of the atomic bomb. Like many scientists, Einstein believed Germany also was pursuing a nuclear weapon, and he believed it was essential for America to build it first. The seeds of the Manhattan Project were in that letter.

In entertainment, 1939 has often been mentioned as a milestone year in motion pictures, with many classic films being released theatrically for the first time, but much of the story of that year can be told in the tales of two movies — "The Wizard of Oz" and "Gone With The Wind."

"The Wizard of Oz" was the recipient of plenty of media hype when it was released in August; although the film made a profit, received mostly positive reviews and was nominated for several Oscars, it was not generally regarded as a success when compared to its budget of nearly $2.8 million.

In fact, the film only began to earn its place among the classic movies after some re-releases and its first television broadcast in the mid-1950s.

"Gone With The Wind," meanwhile, opened in Atlanta in December, accompanied by a three-day festival.

It turned out to be a rare example of a film exceeding its hype. For two years, the public heard tales about the casting and filming of the sprawling adaptation of the 1936 novel. It premiered amid much hoopla and went on to live up to it, winning 10 Academy Awards.

As the summer of 1939 neared its end, World War II was beginning — the Nazis invaded Poland about five months after Britain's Neville Chamberlain made his famous "guarantee" of Poland's independence in a speech to the House of Commons.

Before September was over, many countries were forced to take sides, but the United States confirmed it wished to remain neutral.

As the winds of war continued to blow across the European continent, Americans promoted peace — in no small way through the rising popularity of "God Bless America," a song written by Irving Berlin near the end of World War I and then revised 20 years later. Kate Smith introduced the song on Armistice Day in November 1938, and the song was a popular hit in the summer of 1939.

Ultimately, the song did not keep the United States out of war, but it became Smith's signature song and it continues to inspire patriotism today.

It was, perhaps, fitting that, even with all the other things that were going on in the world in the summer of 1939, baseball and the "boys of summer" were in the news.

In June, baseball dedicated its Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. The inaugural class of inductees came in 1936 and featured five of the legends of the game — but eight people, including the legendary Cy Young, were inducted when the Hall of Fame opened its doors in Cooperstown.

The day the 1939 inductees were announced, Lou Gehrig's streak of 2,130 consecutive major league games came to an end. The record stood for more than half a century.

On July 4, the recently retired and terminally ill Gehrig said goodbye to the fans in Yankee Stadium. "[T]oday I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth," he said.

Fittingly, baseball was one of the first sports to be shown on television when TV began putting sports events on the schedule in 1939. A college baseball game was televised in May and a major league game between Brooklyn and Cincinnati was broadcast in late August. In between, Max Baer beat Lou Nova in the first televised heavyweight fight. Later that autumn, college and pro football made their debuts.

And Little League Baseball was founded in Pennsylvania, making organized summer baseball a reality for generations of young boys to come.