My daughter and I read children's literature every night, from a list of recommendations. We just finished reading The Wizard of Oz which is not only a pervading cultural reference, but also a classic movie I saw once at my Grandma's.

My Grandma rarely babysat me. She lived for a time in the same apartment building I'd lived in until I was seven. So I must have been just a little bit older when I stayed at her place and she suggested we watch The Wizard of Oz. I was an over-sensitive child who had barely survived the trauma of Bambi and had taken refuge in my grade one teacher's ample bosom during The Rescuers Down Under. So when the green witch and her flying monkeys appeared on screen, I had long been sensing the mounting tension and devised a plan to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. My plan was nearly foiled when my grandma offered to pause the movie. I convinced her it was ok. She suggested I leave the bathroom door open so I could still see the screen, and I had to accept the compromise. Somehow, we got to the end of the movie. My unfamiliarity with her made me doubly nervous.

All this to say that the book is nothing like the movie. Had I seen a more faithful version, I'm sure I would have been fine. It is strange though that in the slew of remakes, no one has ventured to lay a finger on the Wizard of Oz, as if Judy Garland were a sacred finality.