I Am Not Afraid of Flying Monkeys!

There was a time, long before DVR’s and VCR’s, when the arrival of the TV Guide was must-reading. I’d begin my survey with their list of televised sports for the week to see if I might watch the A’s or Packers play. Remember, if you wanted to watch a game then, you had to plan ahead and make sure you had access to a television. If you missed the game, you missed the game (pretty deep thought).

After plotting my strategy for sports, I’d figure out the best movies for the week. Before Netflix (and their streaming brethren) offered everything on demand, before DVD’s and even before treks to Blockbuster, movies were the same as sports. Be there or be square. Seasonal ones were predictable–It’s a Wonderful Life, Ten Commandments, The Greatest Story Ever Told, Gone with the Wind, to name a few. But it was big news any time a popular movie showed up on a network schedule.

My must-see list was topped by The Wizard of Oz, for al the reasons you might suppose. The songs were iconic, Garland’s pure voice narrating the story. Usually a family affair, we awaited the Cowardly Lion’s entrance, laughing at the same lines we all knew so well. The music juxtaposed with humor in a sweet and salty blend. You also had the clever shift from black and white to color and then back to black and white. There was Elvira Gulch pedaling furiously, a foreshadow of the Wicked Witch streaking across the sky on her broom.

Honest to Baum, I was never scared of Miss Gulch or the Witch. An awful villain to be sure (she kidnaps a dog and fires up the Scarecrow!), but I know she’ll get hers in the end. A wayward stream of water from a wooden bucket will melt her like ice cream on a summer Texas sidewalk. Goodbye, pistachio faced queen of evil!

But the monkeys. Oh my, the flying monkeys. Their appearances compelled me to hide under a coffee table. Or maybe behind the couch. Or both. Pretty well dressed in grey jackets with red trim, they plot with the Witch in her shadowy castle turret.Their squadron darkens the sky right before they swoop to abduct Dorothy and Toto. Bouncing and clapping with evil glee, they delight in all things wicked.

Here’s the kicker. At the end of Dorothy’s time in Oz, the Witch is dead (Ding Dong!), the soldiers have confessed they never really liked the broom-riding vile queen. But the winged monkeys, what about them? My eight-year old brain imagined an unholy flock of wicked primates roaming the clouds. Or maybe they would perch on sagging telephone wires. Nikko, their leader, could have gone rogue to further pursue ill-gotten spoils from other wayward travelers. And they don’t need a balloon to get to Atwater, CA. They have wings, they swoop down, and I would be easy prey.

Sure, I’m grown up now. Gone are the silly ideas about an attack by Nikko and friends. The special effects, ground-breaking in 1939, have lost their luster. I’ve read the accounts of the Munchkin party crew when they weren’t singing about the Lollipop Guild and the Lullaby League. At the studio’s urging, Garland abused drugs to keep her weight down. Lo and behold, Margaret Hamilton, far from being wicked in any way, appeared with Mr. Rogers and discussed her role. She’s a dear and wonderful woman, and obviously a fine actress.

But I gotta be honest. Even now, I quake a bit when the movie shows up on TNT or some other cable station. In the midst of a sweet story of a Kansas farmgirl who finds the value of home, when those winged monkeys come on the screen, my stomach churns and I break a small sweat. I shiver and chew a fingernail or two. For sure, they aren’t out there, right? Right?