“It’s not surprising,” Roloff put in. “Short people, midgets especially, are sometimes inclined to be highly aggressive toward normal size people. They’re also inclined to use obscenity more than the average to assert their adultness, to overcompensate. I had one midget as a patient who knew he was overcompensating with big cigars and sexual overtures to full-sized women. He knew he looked ridiculous and obscene to others, but he couldn’t stop. It was a kind of self hate, a punishment for himself. It’s hard to live your life knowing that whenever you go out on the street people will stare at you. Exhibitionism may result, or the person may become a shy and bitter recluse.”
“Just like movie stars,” I added.
“Sure,” said Roloff.
“Sorry I can’t help you, Peters,” Fleming joined in. “I can give you a lot of stories about Munchkins, but I don’t think it will help. It just supports what Dr. Roloff has been saying. I’ll give you an example. One of them got drunk one day and almost drowned in a toilet. Another time one of them pulled down his drawers in a crowd scene. We didn’t even notice that the first time through the rushes. As for the fight this morning, when I saw it was two little people in Munchkin suits, I paid no attention. I stepped in between them a few times when we were shooting the picture, and I had no desire to take the abuse again. When I saw those two this morning, I didn’t know why they were wearing costumes from the movie and I didn’t give a Hungarian crap.”
He paused to look around the room and regain his composure. The thought of the Munchkins had sent his temper flying.
“I like what we did on that picture,” he continued, patting down his hair. “I came in on it late after a couple of other directors, and I was pulled off it early to take over Gone With The Wind. Still, I spent more than a year on Oz and it was the toughest damn thing I’ve ever done. Those two pictures have been damn good for me, but I wouldn’t want to make either one of them again. Even if no one remembers Oz, I will, and with mixed memories.”
“I like it,” I said.
“It’s a strange movie,” said Roloff, pushing his cup away and fiddling with his pipe. “Depending on who views it and what’s going on in his or her life, it can be a lot of things.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“It’s a child’s dream of accepting the adult world. A girl at puberty dreams of seeking the aid of a magical wizard, aided by three male figures, each not quite a man. Her jealous rival is an old witch who wants the slippers the girl wears. The ruby red slippers can be seen as a menstrual sign. In the book they were silver. The girl in the movie learns to accept power of the ruby slippers-her womanhood-with the help of three flawed male admirers and a mysterious, frightening father figure. The slippers are given to her by a mother figure, a beautiful witch. Did you ever think of having her wake up and find she’s had her first period, Victor?”
Fleming laughed.
“I had no such interpretation in mind when I made the movie, and neither did anyone else who worked on it,” Fleming said.
Roloff lit his pipe and puffed a few times. Then he raised his hand.
“That’s just the point I was making about the Jekyll film,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it is consciously in your mind. A dream doesn’t necessarily have a conscious meaning. You simply tell the story because you find it interesting and others do, too. My job is to find out why you find it interesting and what it means.”
“You said there were other interpretations,” I said.
“Well,” Roloff said, “how about this one? A lot of people may be reacting to the film as a kind of parallel to the current world situation. If we see the Munchkins as the Europeans-foreign, different, in need of help-and the witch as Hitler, we have a situation in which an All-American girl is forced to take up arms against evil, to help the innocent foreigners, to destroy the well guarded militant Hitler-Witch and to be rewarded in her effort by the human-father-God, the Wizard of Oz.”
“But it turns out to be only a dream,” Fleming said shaking his head and motioning to the waiter for more coffee. This time I took some.
“Right,” said Roloff. “It’s just a dream, to a great extent a nightmare with a happy ending. The film says if we have to enter the war, we will, and we will triumph to return from it as if from a dream. Perhaps we will have to face the fear of death in a colorful and far off place before we can return to the dull security of Kansas. In any case, the message might simply be, if we have to handle it, we can. Would you like another possible meaning?”
I smiled and said two were quite enough, and Fleming said if we weren’t careful, colleges would start teaching courses about the “meaning” of movies. What Roloff said was interesting, but I didn’t see any way I could use it. I was wrong, but I wouldn’t find out till it, was almost too late. As far as I was concerned, the meeting with Fleming provided nothing.
“Sorry again I couldn’t be of more help, Peters,” Fleming said. “Clark paid some attention to the incident, and he has a hell of a memory. He might be able to give you more.”
I said good-bye to Roloff and Fleming and left the Derby. It was after nine. I stopped at a stand for two tacos and a chocolate shake.
A year, several thousand memories, and a dozen broken bones ago I had seen The Wizard of Oz. It had been on one of those nights when I was feeling sorry for myself. There had been nothing on the radio and nothing to read. I decided to see the movie again. I wanted to try to pick out Cash and Grundy, wanted to look at Judy Garland and see if she had changed as much as I thought.
I stopped at a newsstand and got a Times. The picture wasn’t playing anywhere. I was going to give up, and head home, but I didn’t want to think about what or who might be looking for me at home. I had to see The Wizard of Oz.
I called Warren Hoff at home. He answered and told me I didn’t need to see the picture. I suggested that he handle the publicity business and I’d handle the detective business, and both of us would probably meet at the funny farm. He said he’d set up a screening in the morning. I pushed, for the moon was high, my blood was up, and I had no lead to follow.
“Wait,” said Hoff. “I’ve got an idea.” He put the phone down, and I looked out of the booth at a thin blonde woman in a grey suit. She caught me looking and stared me down. I pretended to start talking even before Hoff came back.
“Right,” I said.
“What’s right?” said Hoff.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What did you find?”
“There’s a charity screening of the picture tonight.” I could hear him crunching through some papers. “I’ve got a list of extra screenings on… here it is. Holy Name Church of God’s Friends in Van Nuys, on Van Nuys just South of Victory.”
“I know the place,” I said. “What time?”
“Nine-thirty. Enjoy yourself.” He hung up.
I drove in the dark, listening to the end of the San Jose-Loyola game. San Jose won 27 to 12, and a back named Gene Grady ran ninety-seven yards for a touchdown.
The church was where I remembered it. A few years before, I had waited for a bus outside of that church for an hour, listening to a skinny woman with a red wig tell me her life story. It was a hell of a sad life. I remember her face when the rain came down in the middle of her tale about a draining liver.
“See?” she had said, shaking her head knowingly. The rain had been another proof of the hell of her life. She didn’t seem to notice that the rain was falling on me, too.
The Holy Name Church of God’s Friends was a four-story red brick building with a big sign. When I stepped through the thick wooden doors I could tell what kind of church it was. The ceiling went up about ten feet and I didn’t see any second floor. The front of the church was a facade, a store front, a prop to make it look as if the church went up four stories, three closer to God than the truth. I wondered who the people of the church were trying to fool, God or the street trade. I didn’t much care.