I love old movies. So sue me. I have pondered over this for quite a while and my family laughs when I jump up and down as I slip the Netflix out, waiting breathlessly for the newest old movie I’ve ordered while they aren’t looking. In fact, I consider Netflix my primary property though I pay no bill every month. In fact, that is why I sprang for good Internet, the beautiful watch online for free feature. I’m always happy to let someone else put something in the queue, but if it’s a dud, I yell loudly that it wasn’t my fault. Truth to be told, with my using Netflix almost as much as Facebook, it’s normally my fault.
When I say “old movie” this is not “Breakfast Club” or “Driving Miss Daisy” or even, as a few of my younger friends would suggest, “Miss Congeniality” old. Last night I watched a 61-minute movie from 1936, (o.k. – it was too old.) The preferred range is from about 1938 to about 1965.
Violence was in the lines and the pathos, men and women knew they were different, (wonderfully different,) swear words were save for moments of great drama (can you imagine Clark Gable being famous now?) and the sex was greater, not because we saw body parts, but because, at least in the movies, there was a deeper attraction being shown and the dark tunnel was there for a reason.
I puzzle over my fascination with old movies. It makes my friends and family groan and my siblings are in the habit of saying “Anything – anything but black and white”. I have no problem with modern or new movies, I like watching comedy, romantic comedy, action, and drama, sometimes, but why is it that my heart sings after watching “The Best Years of Our Lives”, “The Trouble With Harry”, “The Great Escape”, “How to Marry a Millionaire” or even “Twelve O’Clock High”? Yes, my preferred decade is the 40’s and I would give a lot of
money to make my hair look like Lauren Bacall’s in “Key Largo”. And yes, all of my lasting loves are on movie stars that have had their Special TIME magazine cover or full tribute addition and kicked the bucket a while ago.I am pretty sure that there is something about the subtlety that does it. Happiness that doesn’t scream, pain that is hidden, and a lot less sin on screen. Clever comedy doesn’t have to resort to potty or bedroom humor and there are more motives for suspense than Republican financiers ruining the lives of every immigrant fugitive on the run. Of course the old movies had their agendas too, and perhaps because I’m not worried about red scares popping up in every McDonald’s they don’t bother me as much. In fact, some of those agendas were moral ones, but we’ve forgotten about those, and if we haven’t, we get upset when someone reminds us of them.
It’s true, I would rather hear Bing Crosby sing and Gene Kelly dance then walk out of more theaters being disgusted that I just paid $9 for 2 hours in a stinky seat to watch brightly colored undergarments or learn new swear words.
