November 14, 2018 – The charm of the movie Casablanca

         There are two camps – those that know the movie Casablanca, and those that don’t know the movie or even that there is a movie called Casablanca.

         I remember I once mentioned “Casablanca” in the course of a business lunch conversation with a young man [not really young – he was 40 or so, married with two children] and he didn’t know who I was alluding to when I mentioned Sidney Greenstreet – “The fat gent” . . . as Humphrey Bogart called him in the movie Casablanca.  What was I alluding to?  Greenstreet on two separate occasions in the movie, picks up a fly swatter and snaps at a fly . . .  I had been doing the same thing at the outdoor venue using a manila folder – unsuccessfully I’ll have you know.

         First, he didn’t know who Sidney Greenstreet was and secondly, he didn’t even know there was a movie entitled Casablanca.  And, even if he had, I now doubt that he or many other casual movie goers notice the fly swat incidents.

         I later asked if he knew about the movie “Gone with the Wind” and he admitted he had heard the name, but never saw the movie. Two for Two.

         That cemented the facts. I realized there was a great gulf between the business people I communicated with and myself. Another time, I used the phrase, “Rose colored glasses” that fell flat as a reference point and I knew I’d fallen into a bottomless pit for old dinosaurs.

         On the flip side, several weeks ago I went to a writer’s workshop on dialogue and us participants all seemed to know what we were alluding to – genre, writers, or ideas.  In the middle of a discussion about dialogue style, several in the group tossed out a movie to clarify a writing style.

         The author running the class asked those who hadn’t spoken up what their favorite old movie was and why.

         When he got to me, I wistfully said,  “Casablanca – black and white – there is everything you need to know about life in that movie.”  I watched his face as I said it. He was a great “eye contact” teacher – or maybe it was just that he was a man who hadn’t witnessed my vivacious self before or meet anyone like me.

         He nodded and said, “One of my favorites, too.”  He had a warm smile on his face and asked me as if we were completely alone in a street café in Paris having coffee, “What is your favorite scene?”

         “Every time you watch it, you see different things. . .” my mouth still open I was not ready to finish my thought. I paused for the longest moment and debated if I should finish my sentence. Our eyes were locked. He was waiting for it; he was looking at my lips. He could “read people” and his knowing eyes coaxed me on.

         “It’s like the changing afternoon light,” I finished in a breathy voice which sounded like it was meant only for a lover’s ears.

         Everyone around the table fell into a hushed silence – staring at me or staring at him looking at me as his head nodded in soul mate understanding. They had noticed it too – had I been flirting with him all afternoon – or had he been flirting with me. Had everyone noticed it but me? Or us?

         I was surprised how attentively he had listened.  He looked around the table at the others in attendance, and commented, “Did you hear what she said?”  He re-quoted me, “Like the changing afternoon light,” in a soft lingering voice sounding much like a lover’s reply.  He left that line floating in the air among the dust motes of the library conference room for all to savor for a few moments.

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         A few hours later, my spouse asked me how the writer’s “thing” was.

Enlightening.

A surprise.

A lovely respite.