As of this writing, on Feb. 16, you have the opportunity to see two of the greatest films of all time, The Third Man, which I gushed about yesterday, and Casablanca, nothing less than my favorite movie of all time, and a perfect companion piece to the other.
Casablanca is at the Living Room Theaters right now, and in HD, yet.
I have seen “Casablanca” about 25 times. I still find new things to admire about it. It was one of about 50 movies that Warner Bros. produced in 1942, and was not considered a work of art by the studio.
Indeed, despite the machinations involved to get the services of Ingrid Bergman and Paul Henreid, both of whom were under contract to other studios, it was regular studio product. The character actors in the large cast were WB stock players, director Michael Curtiz and composer Max Steiner were employees.
Bogart was not even the first choice for the part of Rick. George Raft and Ronald Reagan (!) were among those considered. One shudders now at the thought.
The story came from an unproduced play entitled “Everyone Comes to Rick’s,” by Murray Burnett. It had all of the major plot points in place, except for the ending.
The screenwriters were another story. The Epstein Brothers, twins, were known for their witty dialog and good ideas. Howard Koch was brought in to punch up and add to the script, because the Epsteins were called to work on another picture. They returned in time to come up with the brilliant ending, with a little help from Jack Warner.
The first time I saw it, on TV and in my early teens, I liked it because it had Bogie and Bergman, among my faves. The second time I saw it, I began to notice things: the witty dialog, the delicious cynicism, the nobility of the sacrifices. I was impressionable, and this hit me in the heart.
About 1965, I saw it again. By this time, there had been Paths of Glory and Dr. Strangelove and Manchurian Candidate. I knew that Rick’s history, told once by Renault (Claude Rains) and repeated by Maj. Strasser (Conrad Veidt) meant something: he ran guns to Ethiopia, and fought on the loyalist side in Spain.
A little research, and I learned that both were anti-fascist causes, resisting Mussolini and Franco, and the latter a world-shattering event to the left. Rick’s exploits suddenly became more than just the adventures of a romantic hero; they were a political statement.
Then, I learned that the Epsteins were ratted out to the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) as “subversives,” by none other than that smug bastard, Jack Warner. When asked to respond on a questionnaire as to whether they had ever belonged to a subversive organization, the twins wrote, “Yes. Warner Brothers.”
Howard Koch was also blacklisted for failure to cooperate with HUAC. Bogart lent his name to left causes, and became identified with the Hollywood Anti-fascist League, but backed down under pressure.
Rick, alas, was only a role.
All this information helped form my political consciousness in the 60s. I had no understanding of the traditions of the left at the time, and of its accomplishments and failures, like the Spanish Civil War. I wondered why the aging survivors of something called the Abraham Lincoln Brigade were cheered at peace marches.
Casablanca helped to teach me. It embodied so much of the spirit of my youth in the civil rights and peace movements: giddy idealism, nobility of thought, personal responsibility, faith in the moral power of the cause. It was the perfect metaphor for our struggle.
I still cry at the “Marseillaise” scene.
And, it was the opening parenthesis to World War II, as The Third Man was the closer. Harry Lime, after all, was a soured idealist, Rick Blaine's polar opposite. I wonder how Rick turned out?
War is hell, my friends.