Victor Fleming’s The Wizard of Oz deserves its place in family viewing: Judy Garland makes the homesickness hurt, and the songs repay close attention. Some comic business outstays its welcome, but we recommend it warmly.
The Wizard of Oz is a family fantasy we would put in front of almost anyone, including those who think they have had their fill of it. Victor Fleming gives the songs and the make-believe plenty of room, while Judy Garland keeps Dorothy’s need to get home clear and immediate. The film takes a child’s fear of being stranded seriously enough to make the journey matter. We can enjoy the company without forgetting why she wants to leave.
Harold Arlen’s melody in Over the Rainbow gives Garland room to sound wistful without becoming precious. We were moved by the plainness of her singing: she makes wanting to be somewhere else feel like an immediate need. She never appears to be offering the adults a charming imitation of childhood. That seriousness is useful preparation for a fantasy which will ask us to worry about a girl surrounded by elaborately dressed comedians.
Harold Rosson’s Technicolor photography lets the ruby slippers stand out even among colours that make no attempt to resemble everyday life. The brightness is part of the attraction, and the film would lose something by trying to look more natural. The sets give the performers room to be theatrical without seeming to have wandered into the wrong picture. Adrian’s costumes make the companions readable at a glance, leaving the actors to supply the particular foolishness and affection.
Ray Bolger gives the Scarecrow a loose, amiable physicality, while Jack Haley brings a welcome gentleness to the Tin Man. Their pleasure in being part of the group helps the journey avoid becoming a succession of separate turns. Bert Lahr’s Cowardly Lion is broader, fussier company, and there are stretches when a little less of him would help. Garland is good at listening to all three, and her direct interest gives the friendship some substance.
Margaret Hamilton gives the Wicked Witch of the West a severity the comedy needs. Her anger is played straight enough to make Dorothy’s vulnerability count, even with all that costume and colour around them. Billie Burke’s Glinda offers a gentler kind of authority, but Hamilton is the one who makes the dangers feel worth worrying about. For a U-certificate film, it has little interest in reassuring a nervous child every few minutes.
The chief weakness is an occasional reluctance to let a routine finish. Blanche Sewell’s editing gives the musical numbers space, but the Munchkin sequence keeps going after we have had time to enjoy the place. The crowded presentation is amusing at first, then begins to delay the person we came to watch. Fleming is more persuasive when he lets Garland hold our attention than when he surrounds her with another elaborate bit of business.
A family fantasy can afford to frighten its audience when it has made us care this much about the company. Fleming understands that the songs need not make the dangers harmless, and the mixture is livelier than relentless cheerfulness would be. The 102 minutes contain more comic fuss than they need, though not enough to put us off another visit. Watch it with a child if possible, but leave them room to be frightened.
