Apparently there is a new maximum height restriction for Jedi knights: three feet. Once more, this new breed feels it’s necessary to brandish their neon lightsabers all over the place. Constantly.
At least, that’s how it appeared Saturday night on the beach during the free showing of The Wizard of Oz in Manhattan Beach. Don’t Jedi Knights know that lightsabers are very distracting? I mean, grow up, for cryin’ out loud.
In spite of that, it was a perfect night for a Beach Film. (Can we agree to call them Beach Films ™ KIRK MILLER, INC.?) A pleasant mist wafted off the Pacific, cool sand nestled between our toes, and an eerie orange moon backdropped the blood-curdling cackle of the Wicked Witch of the West. Hundreds of locals and…those others…eased back on blankets and view-blocking beach chairs (uh, hello, is it stadium seating or THE BEACH?), and watched Dorothy struggle to find her way back to Kansas. Kansas! The girl is in a magical land full of fascinating people, and she wants to go back to freakin’ Kansas. Seriously? Fine, Farmer D. Later. We’ll just be here flying and getting wishes granted and stuff. And by the way, the dog stays.
While we’re on the subject, the movie has changed a lot since I was a boy. Back then it was tremendously impressive. The Lion didn’t dress in pajamas, for one thing. Nor was the Tin Man’s face covered in discount silver spray paint. And the scarecrow didn’t have an inappropriate thing for Dorothy. Okay, let’s not go there.
I have other issues, as well. Ding-dong the Wicked Witch is dead? Isn’t it a little morose to be so chirpy after murdering someone? Sure, go ahead and be glad she’s dead—secretly. She was wicked; I get it. But singing and dancing seems a bit…detached. Exhibit two: the Scarecrow gets severed into pieces by evil flying monkeys. Perfect time for one-liners? “Well, that's you all over,” and “They sure knocked the stuffings out of you, didn't they?” Dude, that’s my torso over there. My torso! Think we could can the stupid jokes for a few seconds, Hannibal Lecter? Then there’s the sage advice from the Wiz himself: “…a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” Talk about flying in the face of every spiritual teacher who has ever walked the earth. Basically a formula for neurotic approval seeking and brown nosing. Really enlightened. On the other hand, he’s a short guy with a Napoleon complex trying to pass himself off as a giant, all-powerful, smoking head. That might have been a clueski right there.
All that aside, the Beach Movie ™ KIRK MILLER, INC. made for a terrific night. My unfortunate friends from unmentionable non-South Bay cities had a blast. I basked in memories of childhood (positive ones, for a change). The crowd laughed and applauded—there was no alcohol, so it was quite possibly genuine. And afterward the Mini-Jedi, most of whom were probably seeing the film for the first time, turned off their bright green and orange lightsabers, nestled into their mommies’ arms, and dreamed of yellow brick roads, fuzzy dogs, and true-blue, warmhearted friends somewhere over the rainbow.
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