Being Film #27 for Hooptober 2025
I don’t need to re-watch The Wizard Of Oz to recall with perfect clarity the impact of the flying monkeys had on my six-year-old psyche. I suspect for a large group of people my age watching the film was an annual tradition: VCRs and cable television were still uncommon where I lived in the late 70s/early 80s, and the springtime showing of the film on my local CBS station was the only time a lot of people could see the film. One day. One time. I’m nostalgic for the time though admit the convenience of what you want when you want it is hard to resist. So while I didn’t have to watch the film again, I did. Because it’s 2025 and I can literally bring up the film in 4K on my phone (I didn’t, but I could have…). So no, I didn’t need to watch The Wizard Of Oz again. But I did.
THE QUICK SUMMARY: Dorothy Gale wants something more. Something her small Kansas town can’t give her, stuck on her farm with her dog and her family. But change is coming in form of a tornado, and suddenly we’re all syncing our copies of Dark Side Of The Moon and looking for the shadow of the Munchkin who hung himself and rolling some joints for a psychedelic trip that’s not half as alive as Dorothy’s trip through the Technicolor land of Oz, where her entire life shifts into a new reality…one that’s perhaps closer to her own life than she knows…
Before getting into the more horrific aspects of the film, let’s get this out of the way first: The Wizard Of Oz is fantastic, and people who think it’s out of date or overrated are insane. It’s a wonderful example of being a children’s story without being a story for children. Fleming has a deft touch, and I really can’t think of anyone who did the transition thing between color and B&W better than he did in this film. Judy Garland is a treasure, but then so is Ray Bolger, always my favorite part of the film. Top to bottom it’s a gorgeous, dazzling film that doesn’t diminish an iota as we close in on 90 years since it was released.
But that’s not what we’re here to discuss. This is about the film’s association with horror, and at the heart of it is Margaret Hamilton’s captivating performance as the Wicked Witch of the West. Sure, we were all frightened of the flying monkeys, but the real threat, the real horror for me was the Witch, and what she represented. Because as a six-year old the primal, adrenalized fear of monsters and creatures fantastic was like a drug I could inject forever. It was scary, but scary in a way that was delightful and fun. The dread and fear that dripped off of Hamilton’s witch was harder to shake. Here was a fearsome representation of authority who was cruel and hurtful, and I was terrified because in her green scowl I saw the frustration, anger, and disappointment I found in the faces of my parents and every other person who frightened me with their expectations of me.
It’s weird what kids are afraid of, right? A few hours ago I would have swore it was the grostesque way the monkeys moved, and the dark colors that contrasted so sharply with the greens and yellows of a nicer, brighter Oz.
Turns out I was afraid of the same things then I am now, as a 52-year old husband and father.
And The Wizard Of Oz still works on me like it did all those years ago.
Cinema Dual 
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