Sixty seven years

I grew up on Casablanca, as child trying to tease out the meaning of the words from a black and white TV set and later, as a young man listening to the lines again at the Brattle Street Theater. It belongs to genre that might be called “macho sentimental”. Men aren’t supposed to cry. But they are allowed to see things flitting through the bottom of a glass of whiskey in a darkened bar; or gaze at castles in the clouds glimpsed from the bottom of a gutter. The fundamental things survive, as time goes by.

At the bottom of every macho sentimental movie there’s always a woman. Fleeting, magical and worth giving eveything in the world for. Something you had to love enough to make life not worth living for without. And there always had to be something for which you would give it up.

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