Skip to main content

Casablanca—A National Treasure

Last weekend, a friend texted and asked if I wanted to go out for dinner and a movie with some other women—our husbands, it seems, were going to be playing poker, so let’s go. We saw a Reese Witherspoon flick that was unremarkable, as all Reese Witherspoon flicks are, but I did find something remarkable in the previews.

Next Wednesday, March 21, theaters around the country will be showing Casablanca, the original classic from 1942 in honor of its 70th anniversary. Everything is about marketing, though, so I have to acknowledge this one-day screening is also about promoting the release of the digitized DVD coming out from Turner Classic Movies.

I was so excited, I pulled out my silenced cell phone to make note of the event. The woman sitting beside me laughed at me for doing that, but that’s just because she doesn’t understand my connection with classic movies. They aren’t just films. They’re living, breathing things that are woven into my very being. If you cut me, I bleed cellulose. No, that’s not right. I bleed celluloid.

When I was a kid in middle school and high school, I literally scheduled my life around which films would be airing on WGN in Chicago every weekday at 9 a.m. We’d get the TV guide in the Sunday paper, and I would read through the schedule to note which movies I would be sure to sit for. It was easy in the summer because I could see them all—I’d get up just in time to make an egg salad sandwich with a slice of gov’ment cheese, and I’d sit cross-legged on the couch and be transported.

During the school year, though, I often had scheduling conflicts. I’d be expected to go to school, but I would want to stay home for The Philadelphia Story or Psycho or The Heiress. So, I would occasionally find myself ill on certain days, too ill for school. On Borrowed Time or Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, for example, would cause a sore throat. And The Rainmaker, Meet John Doe or The Grapes of Wrath would cause a terrible stomach virus.

I fantasized about being able to own these movies personally, thinking there must be some way to allow people to have access to them whenever they liked. Why couldn’t we own movies the same way we owned cassette tapes, I questioned? You can imagine how excited I was at the release of the first VCRs. I ran right out and bought Gone With the Wind and held it close to my heart, dreamily saying, “Finally, my very own movie to watch whenever I wish.”

Well, of course I own a DVD of Casablanca and can watch it anytime I like, but seeing it on the big screen will be a real treat. If you find yourself sitting by me in the theater next Wednesday, please forgive me if I start to say the lines with the characters. I’ll try to keep it down.

While I wait for the screening, here is my column for today's edition of Small Town Newspaper. For those who live near Small Town, the theater in New Towne Mall will not be playing Casablanca, but Tinseltown in North Canton will air it at 2:00 and at 7:00. Let's go.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Birthday...

to me! Update: Since you have asked, I only got one actual packaged gift, a beautiful hand-made bracelet from a friend, but both girls were home for the weekend, and we had dinner at the lake and a relaxing weekend. Thanks to all of you for your lovely wishes!

My Sitemeter is All Bloated and Not Quite Itself

I'm tempted to let it sit on the couch with its feet curled up under a blanket, a hot cup of coffee in hand, a block of cherry almond bark Chocolove within reach, and An Affair to Remember spinning in the DVD player. I'm one of those obsessive bloggers, the kind who checks her sitemeter as often as possible throughout the day, the kind who gauges the quality of her writing by the number of readers who regularly stop by. I've become less interested in the overall number of hits and more interested in the number of repeat hits. The return visitors are the ones I long for. When my sitemeter reads forty at the end of the day, and the majority of those hits are webpals who have conversed, I'm happy. Forty may seem low to many of you, but I've only been at this since August. To me, forty is a jackpot. A few days ago, I sat down at my laptop and discovered a number somewhere in the eighties. Eighties! Yippee! Yeeha ! Hoo-rah ! I've been discovered by the webworld , o...

Ish People

Tell an Ish person to show up around 9 a.m., and you'll see them somewhere around 9 a.m. Tell them to show up at 9ish, and you'll see them anywhere from 9:05 to 9:20. You have given them license to dilly dally, and who wouldn't take advantage of that? The other night at the big shindig dinner party, one of the drummers said the rehearsal the next morning would begin at 9ish. "I am an ish person," he says. Immediately the clanker goes off in my head--oh, good, I thought. I can deliver my daughter a little late. No Ish person is early, so if you say 9ish, that does not mean give or take 5, 10, 15 minutes. It's exclusively a taking phrase. Take an extra 10 minutes to drink your cup of coffee. We won't mind. We're Ish people. Sunday's rehearsal started at 2:00. Because it was conducted by the same people who conducted the Saturday rehearsal, my understanding was 2-ISH. My daughter is worse than I am about taking liberties with Ish time frames, so she d...