Brilliant: Salman Rushdie on The Wizard of Oz

“There’s no place home; there’s no place like home.” It’s an iconic line – and sentiment – from The Wizard of Oz, and certainly from the classic 1939 film version. But what does it actually mean?

Back in 1992, the British Film Institute launched the first four in an ongoing series of slender volumes about specific films – BFI Film Classics. That initial quartet were Double Indemnity, Went the Day Well, Stagecoach … and The Wizard of Oz.

 

The last of those was penned by Salman Rushdie, with an updated edition published in 2012.

 

Since starting a deep(er) dive into film than at any stage previously in my life, I have been getting some of these and reading them. Well … in the first case, trying to read. That was Michael Atkinson’s monograph on Blue Velvet, which I gave up on, not least because – in my opinion – it’s appallingly badly written.

 

The next one was by Dirk Bogarde biographer extraordinaire John Coldstream, on that star’s career-changing and social-challenging film Victim, which was eminently readable and informative.

 

And so to Rushdie’s contribution. Rolling in at 69 pages – without a few more including the full film credits, which all the books have – it is very, very good indeed and packed with philosophical insights in two sections. First, in an essay about the film and second, in a short story, which is effectively a very clever, and funny futuristic fantasy tale/satire about an auction for the ruby slippers. Both are centred on the concept of home.

 

If there is “no place like home”, what does that actually mean?

 

The essay starts with fascinating autobiographical insights, including some making links between the film and the cinema of India, where Rushdie grew up, and how it influenced him from early in his life.

 

He is detailed. He notes, for instance, a mention in the later stages of the film by the Wicked Witch of the West of “an insect” that she has sent on to take on our heroes. But there’s nothing else about that in the film.

 

As he points out, it relates to a cut musical number, The Jitter Bug. Bad editing! Though you can find grainy footage of said cut number here.

 

Now here I am going to go off piste a tad. I know that song.

 

I had loved The Wizard of Oz since being taken to the cinema to see a re-release of it as a child.

In the mid 1970s, at Fairfield High School for Girls, I played the Munchkin mayor in a school production.

 

Then, in late 1981, a couple of years after my family had moved to Lancaster, I was encouraged by Noel McKee, my wonderful music teacher at Lancaster Girls’ Grammar School, to audition for the annual Lancaster Footlights’ Christmas show – that year, to be The Wizard of Oz. So, with blesséd parental permission (it was the first time for a non-school production), I went along, prepared to audition for Gloria (she doesn’t appear in the film, but gets to sing Evening Star in the stage version – perfect for a mezzo like me).

 

I was 18, going on 19.

 

But something unexpected happened. While at packed auditions, I was asked if I’d read in the Wicked Witch of the West’s lines in an exchange with the Good Witch of the North, for auditions for the latter part. With no pressure on me – I wasn’t auditioning, after all – I thoroughly enjoyed doing full panto cackles and ‘witchy’ voice.

I landed the role (pictured left, centre) – without even trying for it! The Christmas production was always staged for a week, with the Saturday having a matinee as well as an evening production (often punctuated by dinner at Pizza Margherita on nearby Moor Lane). It was an utter joy.

 

I remember descending the steps from the stage to the stalls, in full costume and green face paint, with children backing up into their seats as I did so.

 

Weeks later, I was in Lancaster’s department store with my mother, when a young lad came up to and said, in awe: “You’re the witch!”. I played along, hissing back at him: “Tell nobody!” His mother, just behind, was at first embarrassed and then tickled pink. The power of theatre. The power of The Wizard of Oz.

 

So that’s my personal connection. Now, back to Rushdie’s own monograph.

 

He gets pissed off at the sentimentalised ending: why would Dorothy need to flee home only to be told, at the end, that the lesson is that she should never have wanted to. Is that really the only concept of home – that is limited to where you initially come from?

 

Contextually, bear in mind that, for Rushdie himself, this was written after the fatwa against the author for writing the Satanic Verses (published in 1988) was announced in early 1989 – effectively driving him away from ‘home’.

 

A number of things occurred to me.

 

First, Rushdie shows, in many ways, that The Wizard of Oz is a rebellion against simplistic ideas of ‘home’. Dorothy flees home to protect what is most important to her – Toto. It occurs to me, what happens to Toto when she returns? Is Miss Gulch still there to demand his death? If so, what are her values?

 

Rushdie points out that, in the series of books by Frank L Baum, Oz eventually becomes home – not just to Dorothy, but also to Aunt Em and Uncle Henry.

 

I did some checking: is this less a British/US understanding of ‘home’ and more a German one? ‘Heimat’ is one of those German words that holds within it layers of meaning. At its very simplest, it could be said to mean that home is ‘wherever you hang your hat’. Not ‘where you originate from geographically or in any other way’.

And then look at Baum’s name – and yes, he did have German heritage: ‘Baum’ is ‘tree’ in German.

 

To go further on the subject of home: given that ‘the friends of Dorothy’ is a euphemism for gay men, can we also, at this time, see that ‘home’ can refer to any community of which we choose/feel ourselves to be a part? Again, a sort of riff on heimat.

And finally, after re-watching the film, it struck me that the move from monochrome to colour is like a move from binary to non-binary. Indeed, the land of Oz is a vastly more diverse place than Kansas. Further, the Cowardly Lion is effeminate, though we learn that he is also not a coward.

Of the central four characters, Dorothy is the least camp, while many of the Munchkins are quite androgynous.

 

There are few books – let alone ones with so few pages – that can set readers thinking like this, but this is superb. And of course, it’s also superbly written.

 

Evil Does Not Exist – or perhaps it does, in Hamaguchi's enigmatic eco-parable

Single father Takumi – we’re led to believe he’s a widower – lives with his eight-year-old daughter Hana in the peaceful village of Mizubiki, not far from Tokyo. Takumi is an odd-job man, who primarily acts as a woodcutter, and as the collector of water from a pristine stream for a local restaurant to cook its noodles in. He also spends time teaching Hana about the environment – how to identify trees, plants and animal tracks.

But his life – and those of the rest of his community – is suddenly disrupted when a Tokyo company plans to create a glamping site in the area, for Tokyoites to chill.

 

The company is racing against time to get construction started, so that it can claim a post-pandemic financial grant, and it sends two members of a talent agency that has branched out into PR to go and address a meeting in the village and smooth the way and be able to claim, in a totally perfunctory way, that it has undertaken a consultation.

 

But the villagers are not impressed. Top of their list of concerns is that the planned sceptic tank is not remotely adequate and will, given where it is to be sited, pollute the water for the village itself and for villages further downstream.

 

The two company apologists are taken aback both by the level of objection to the scheme and the sophistication of those objections, but essentially deflect the questions.

 

However, we learn that, while their direct bosses fit the bill of rapacious capitalism, they are both deeply discomfited by it – and their roles within it. But when they head back to Mizubiki, ostensibly to offer Takumi the job of caretaker at the glamping site, events take a series of unexpected turns.

 

Writer and director Ryusuke Hamaguchi has produced an absorbing, meditative film that both engages and, ultimately, confuses. The ending is an enigma squared and then squared again.

 

The lengthy opening has the camera looking upward toward the trees as it moves through a winter woodland. Yoshio Kitagawa’s cinematography is superb: wonderful, lingering shots of nature are beautiful and make clear what we are (ultimately) looking at, while Eiko Ishibashi's score adds to the sense of something haunting.

After this opening, the film focuses on Takumi’s work and routine. In many ways, this is reminiscent of the first part of Wim Wenders’s Perfect Days. There is something almost hypnotic about it.

 

It’s a slow film, but that is not bad, because it has meditative qualities. The cast is excellent. Hitoshi Omika as Takumi manages to combine gentle and dark. Ryo Nishikawa as Hana gives a remarkable performance.

 

Ryuji Kosaka as Takahashi and Ayaka Shibutani as Mayuzumi the corporate employees, are very good.

 

Hamaguchi does not provide easy solutions. But this is an eco-parable that will live long in the mind – whatever the ending means and however you personally interpret it.

Just who is the Monster?

Saori Mugino is a widow, raising her young son Minato and working in a laundry in a small city in the Nagarno region of contemporary Japan. When the boy starts behaving oddly – and returns home from school one day with an injury – she grills him until he says that his new teacher, Mr Hori, had inflicted it.

Saori goes to the school, demanding action against the teacher, but only receives overly deferential apologies, particularly from the principal, who herself seems oddly distant.

But when Hori himself claims that Minato is bullying sensitive classmate Yori, she becomes ever more determined to get at the truth and the situation escalates.

Written by Yuji Sakamoto and directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda, the story is told three times. First from Saori’s perspective, then from Hori’s and finally, from that of the two boys.

It is subtle, affecting and very sensitive. Kore-eda himself has denied that it’s an example of the Rashomon effect – storytelling centred on the unreliability of witnesses – and certainly it’s more of a jigsaw than an enigma.

There are manifold themes here: respect, acceptance – not least of self-acceptance – bullying, grief and loss, the concept of rebirth in Japanese Buddhism, and the problems that can be caused by overly strict structures.

Kore-eda’s direction is excellent – not least of his child actors. He coaxes an extraordinary performance in particular from Soya Kurokawa as Minato, who won the best newcomer at Japan’s Blue Ribbon Awards, as well as from Hinata Hiiragi as Yori.

Sakura Ando as Saori, Eita Nagayama as Hori and Yuko Tanaka as the school principal also produce fine turns.

The film includes the last music for film written by legendary composer Ryuichi Sakamoto – delicate piano pieces that add to the poignant atmosphere.

Monster’s world premiere was at Cannes last year, where it competed in the Palme d’Or. It won the Queer Palm and the award for best screenplay. It’s not difficult to see why. It is a very special film.

Robot Dreams is a an absolute charm

Dog is a lonely hound living on his own in a third-floor New York apartment in the 1980s. In the evenings, he plays Pong on his own. But one night, flicking through channels on TV while eating his usual meal of microwaved macaroni cheese for one, he spots an ad for a build-your-own-robot as a friend, and immediately orders one.

When he’s completed the build – hilariously watched by pigeons on his windowsill – and worked out how to activate his new buddy, their life together begins as they set out to explore the city.

Robot is fascinated and thrilled by everything, and passes on that zest for life to Dog. The pair roller-skate in Central Park, dance together, watch The Wizard of Oz together and, after Robot learns not to squeeze Dog’s paw too tightly, hold hands.

But on a trip to Long Beach at the end of summer, the pair are separated after too much enthusiastic play in the water from Robot. Try as he might, Dog can’t help his friend and, when he returns the following day with tools and manuals to do so, he finds that the beach is now locked until 1 June the following year.

How they cope without each other and learn to live again is the core of the film.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Who knows. But Robot certainly dreams – not of sheep, but of finding his way back to Dog; dreams that are worked and re-worked from his time-limited experience of life. One in particular is gorgeous – he finds himself in The Wizard of Oz, surrounded by tap-dancing flowers doing a routine straight out of Busby Berkeley, as New York shimmers in green – seen like the city of Oz – on the horizon.

Between the Oz references, the trope of the gay love of musicals – here, Oz (don’t forget ‘friends of Dorothy’) and the Berkeleyesque routine – plus the holding hands, it’s little wonder that there is online speculation that this is a subtle and tender gay love story.

To be clear, there’s no mention of the gender of either Dog or Robot, but female characters in this anthropomorphic New York are pretty easy to spot. And the beach scenes clearly show Dog is male – watch out for a very funny swimming costume change gag.

Robot Dreams is Pablo Berger’s first animated feature and is based on Sara Varon’s comic of the same name. Entirely hand-drawn in 2D style, it has won plenty of plaudits – and rightly so. It’s a sweet, charming story, which depends on the visual, as there is no dialogue. It also references Isaac Asimov’s collection of short stories – and specific short story – of the same name. There’s a lot going on here. It’s not remotely a ‘kid’s movie’.

Don’t be misled by the animation being ‘old-fashioned’. It is fabulously done and gorgeous to watch – 1980s New York itself has been so lovingly created, while the cast of thousands has been given such wonderful attention to detail. There are couple of scenes where Dog is on a scooter with another character, riding into the countryside, where the trees coming over the horizon is simply stunningly done.

And while the comedy is gentle rather than LOLZ, it is certainly there. There’s a lovely scene about photo booths that will take those of us of a certain vintage back!

The ending is perhaps not what you’d expect, but shows a nice sophistication. The ’80s soundtrack is great.

Robot Dreams is a gentle, charming, really well-paced joy. My only personal surprise (disappointment?) as I came out of the cinema was that so many reviews have said: ‘Bring tissues – you will cry as well as laugh’, yet I didn’t.

Given how easily I blub at films (though I hate it when I feel my tear ducts are being deliberately tweaked), I walked home wondering if the absence of even a pricking meant it was not quite of the calibre so many have stated. Writing this, thinking back over the film itself, I have realised that it not bringing forth an instant deluge does not mean it’s not very good indeed.

I took lots of tissues to The Zone of Interest, expecting to find that would set me off, but it didn’t, yet it is one of the best (and most important) films I’ve seen thus far this year.

Robot Dreams is a wonderful film that I suspect is going to stay in my mind for a long time. And of course it’s gay!