Growing up, my mother used to tell us the story of how she and her siblings excitedly crowded around their TV set to watch The Wizard of Oz – in Technicolor. Only, not realising that the film starts off monochrome, they impatiently adjusted the settings and ended up watching the whole thing in black and white. So when we were little, she took much joy in watching the movie with us – green witches, ruby-coloured slippers, shiny tin men and all.
And I mostly liked it (aside from the utterly terrifying scenes in the haunted forest or when the Munchkins creepily appear from hedges and drains – seriously, wtf?). But it was never my go-to. Perhaps because we had watched it so many times and there was an ever-hopeful expectation that we would enjoy it.
