gone with the wind
Gone With the Wind has been an obsession within an obsession since I was twelve years old. I did read the book first. It seemed like a Harlequin Romance on 'roids, and I was quite a fan of that achingly formulaic series of books in my early adolescence, gorging myself on sad fantasies of romantic rescue. GWTW turned out to be something more than a bit of fluff; it was a grand, sweeping historical romance with a compelling cast of characters and a backdrop of societal upheaval.
Then I saw the film. I was a goner. Transfixed for nearly four hours, I felt as though the filmmakers had projected the images from my head directly to the screen. Producer David O. Selznick may have been a manic micro-manager, but it cannot be denied that he oversaw the creation of an immortal piece of film art. It was, ultimately, his vision and drive that guided the production through three directors, endless script changes, unhappy actors and a dangerously overblown budget.
So fascinated was I by GWTW that I needed to get beneath the surface and beyond the artifice. I wanted to smell the stale smoke and sour alcohol of the scriptwriter's room. I wanted to see the original sketches for set design. I wanted to read some of Selznick's legendarily voluminous memos. And I did. I scraped together babysitting money to buy books, and more books. They were a gift to myself not only because I learned nearly everything there was to know about GWTW - from the purchase of the book rights all the way through subsequent re-releases and restorations - but also because I gained an appreciation of every aspect of the filmmaker's art. I now understood that a film was the product of many fertile minds, many dextrous hands.
After I had thoroughly blown the lid off Pandora's Box, after I had learned the unlovely truths and seen the egotism and madness involved in the creation of Gone With the Wind, I treasured the sublime illusion of it all the more. What ended up on the screen was - and is - magical in spite of the fact that there's nothing magical about making movies.
Then I saw the film. I was a goner. Transfixed for nearly four hours, I felt as though the filmmakers had projected the images from my head directly to the screen. Producer David O. Selznick may have been a manic micro-manager, but it cannot be denied that he oversaw the creation of an immortal piece of film art. It was, ultimately, his vision and drive that guided the production through three directors, endless script changes, unhappy actors and a dangerously overblown budget.
So fascinated was I by GWTW that I needed to get beneath the surface and beyond the artifice. I wanted to smell the stale smoke and sour alcohol of the scriptwriter's room. I wanted to see the original sketches for set design. I wanted to read some of Selznick's legendarily voluminous memos. And I did. I scraped together babysitting money to buy books, and more books. They were a gift to myself not only because I learned nearly everything there was to know about GWTW - from the purchase of the book rights all the way through subsequent re-releases and restorations - but also because I gained an appreciation of every aspect of the filmmaker's art. I now understood that a film was the product of many fertile minds, many dextrous hands.
After I had thoroughly blown the lid off Pandora's Box, after I had learned the unlovely truths and seen the egotism and madness involved in the creation of Gone With the Wind, I treasured the sublime illusion of it all the more. What ended up on the screen was - and is - magical in spite of the fact that there's nothing magical about making movies.
posted by Margo Channing @ 5:15 PM
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