Well,
hell! Even Casablanca isn’t Casablanca anymore!
For years I
have been using Casablanca as an
upper asymptote for movie quality – a standard that might be approached, but
never exceeded. Then last night I
watched it again, and I was disappointed.
Without question it is a towering work of real cinema art. Bogart, as Rick, is the epitome of cool;
nobody ever lit a cigarette with nearly so much style! Bergman, as the always misty eyed, tragic heroine,
is simply stunning; she puts me in mind of a girl from my high school who I
always wanted to ask for a date, but lacked the courage. Every other player in the movie ranges from good to
outstanding. The backdrop is
stunning. And, for heaven’s sake – who among
you, watching the scene where La
Marseillaise drowns out De Wacht am
Rhein doesn’t feel compelled to stand up and punch some Nazi bastard in the snoot?
Many lines
from Casablanca will live forever: Play it
Sam. Play it again; Here’s looking at
you, babe; We’ll always have Paris; Of all the gin joints in all the world, why
did she have to walk into mine?; Round up the usual suspects; Louie, I think this
is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Hell, I would not be surprised if there is a large bunch of movie nuts who can recite the whole stinking movie with their eyes shut.
And so, obviously,
Casablanca is a wonderful movie, and
yet…. Last night I didn’t feel it. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I’ve seen it too often. But, anyway, Casablanca is hereby officially degraded to. A
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