“If ever, oh ever, a wiz there was…”

Since my expectations were so low, I decided to delay seeing this past spring’s blockbuster, Oz the Great and Powerful, until it arrived on DVD.  Netflix sent it last week, and so I coincidentally watched it 74 years after the August release of The Wizard of Oz.  This new prequel, which offers an explanation of just how the wizard made his way to Oz, is responsible for one good thing, giving me a nudge to sit myself down and watch the ’39 classic for the first time in about three decades.  It’s always a little daunting to revisit a beloved film, setting yourself up for disappointment, allowing for the possibility of noticing flaws that will forever alter your opinion, potentially leaving you with a feeling of abandonment by a presumably dependable work of art.  Of course, the movie hasn’t changed.  But maybe you have.  Not many films carry the baggage of adoration that The Wizard of Oz does, which almost made me feel that it was perhaps best left in my memory, where it could never be diminished.  Looking back on my childhood, on Oz‘s annual pre-video television airings, I remember my sense, even then, of time passing much too quickly, that—before I knew it—the movie would be over and I’d have to wait a whole year to see it again.  During the commercial breaks, I’d run into the kitchen to check the clock, increasingly mourning the fact that the film was getting closer and closer to being over.

Well, the magic and the power of The Wizard of Oz proved to be intact, undiminished by time (including my middle age).  But what is the essential component of this classic’s timeless appeal?  Sure, the indelibly cast performers are all splendid, the score is beyond sublime, and the production design offers tangible dreamscapes—like a sepia Kansas or a spotless, gleaming yellow-brick road—which have been seared into our collective memory.  (The exception is the tacky, plastic-looking Munchkinland.)  The costumes are iconic, and the special effects remain wondrous.  Still, what is the key ingredient responsible for the film’s ability to touch so many generations?  I got choked up at the end of the movie, even though I’m now 52 and had seen the movie countless times (with most of it still memorized).  No surprise, no big revelation:  the durability of The Wizard of Oz, its core, comes from the character of Dorothy and her relationships with the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion.

The Dorothy of Judy Garland (for which she received a juvenile Oscar) is a lesson in simplicity.  There’s such purity in her acting, a directness as plain and unembellished as Dorothy’s Kansas homestead.  Unaffected, and free of any trace of self-consciousness, Garland simply is.  The unforced radiance of her famous rendition of “Over the Rainbow” (which is as good a character-establishing song as has ever been written) qualifies the sequence as one of the screen’s moments of perfection.  But there’s more to her effectiveness than just beguiling sincerity.  There’s also her strength.  She stands up for herself, and she also defends her new friends in Oz whenever they need her protection.  How can you not love her for that?  Her big heart and loving nature, combined with her no-nonsense sense of right and wrong, make Dorothy a key heroine of American movies.  As she and her trio of Oz pals come together, The Wizard of Oz becomes a heartfelt depiction of both friendship and teamwork, as four strangers form their indestructible bond.  It’s a palpable force in the movie, and it’s the reason why Dorothy’s goodbyes prove to be so poignant.  The internal rewards of this movie surpass its external wonders, and, in this case, that’s really saying something.

You can certainly debate the merits of its “no place like home” conclusion, but I’m more struck by one of its earlier points, the one about learning to accept those attributes we carry unacknowledged within ourselves.  That diploma, handed to the Scarecrow by the Wizard, convinces the Scarecrow that he does in fact have a brain, even though he’s been using his head rather well throughout the story.  The Lion’s new medal of courage may be just a prop, but it will serve him well, bolstering his confidence.  These wizard-endorsed boosts—inanimate objects endowed with positive psychological impact, including the Tin Man’s new ticking heart—are perhaps all that’s required to maintain these fellows’ self-esteem, especially whenever subsequent bouts of insecurity or inadequacy threaten to overtake them.  Back in Kansas, as Dorothy recounts her dream and we begin to accept (unwillingly) that she won’t be seeing her pals in Oz anymore, in walks their Kansas counterparts:  “Hunk,” “Zeke,” and “Hickory.”  And so the trio will continue to be in her life (though in decidedly less extravagant outerwear and without four-hour makeup jobs).  This reunion is a comfort, especially for those who refuse to accept Oz as merely the result of a random hit on the head.

Does Oz the Great and Powerful really need one more pan for its scrapbook?  Oh well, here goes.  James Franco is capable of fine work (127 Hours) but he’s hopeless as the fledgling wizard.  (It would seem to be a role right up Johnny Depp’s oddball alley.)  As played by Franco, the wizard is a con man without panache.  And who wants to look at that?  His performance is reminiscent of his misguided Oscar-hosting gig:  amiable, floundering, clueless.  Any three seconds of Frank Morgan’s 1939 performance told us more about this bamboozling character than Franco is able to convey in two hours.  It’s Frank over Franco anyday.

Despite the advanced technology, the film’s special effects are a snooze.  It’s obvious that almost nothing is actually there, with everything added at a much later date, meaning there’s nothing to be awed by, nothing comparable to the right-before-your-eyes magic of the earlier film.  And it was a sore mistake to try to duplicate the original film’s plot whenever possible, which simply reminds viewers what a bad idea it is to rub so close against a classic.  The film’s generic fake-inspirational message about “believing,” and its attempt to duplicate the emotional intimacy of Garland’s goodbye scene, are empty and futile.  This is a consistently ugly, unimaginative movie, with no one to care about.  And why does only one of the wicked sisters have a British accent?

Though this Oz was a financial success, it is destined to be forgotten, as if it never happened at all.  However, it will always be a good time to revisit Margaret Hamilton’s brilliantly horrid Wicked Witch, Billie Burke’s casually shimmering Glinda, not to mention the ever-dazzling turns of Ray Bolger’s Scarecrow, Jack Haley’s Tin Man, and Bert Lahr’s ingeniously hilarious Cowardly Lion.  Add Frank Morgan’s witty humbuggery and Judy Garland’s inimitable depth of feeling, and there’s no doubt where you’ll find “the great and powerful.”