Seen again more than seven decades after winning the 1943 Academy Award for Best Picture, Casablanca has lost none of its power, narrative acumen (play by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison; screenplay by Julius and Philip Epstein along with Howard Koch), “timeless” music (we all know the song I mean, “Play it, Sam”), masterful visual treatments and an all-star cast who seemed destined to play their particular roles whether or not they thought the film had a chance of success.
Journeyman director Michael Curtiz (Hungarian born and no stranger to the trials and tribulations of foreign occupations) fires on all cylinders to create a masterpiece that is¾quite rightly¾studied by screenwriter wannabes to this day (including myself, attending Robert McKee’s famed STORY seminar that dissects Rick’s world almost frame by frame).
Black and white suits the mood and action perfectly. Arthur Edeson’s knowing camera revels in the preponderance of close-ups and works seamlessly with Curtiz’s vision coupled with art director Caryl Weyl’s considerable talents where nary a shadow is wasted (from the approaching hat of the French police to a marvellous silhouette of the blue parrot; the frequent employment of all manner of bars in the background reinforces the notion of prison and capture, time and time again).
Hilarious but curiously still workable is Sam’s “one note piano” (the keys are a solid block, painted black and white), but that bit of fakery takes away nothing from Dooley Wilson’s singing chops and acting skills. Also surprisingly inventive are the apparent deaths of two insects at the hand of Signor Ferrari’s (Sydney Greenstreet thoroughly at ease and enjoying himself as Rick’s competitor who never shies away from helping himself to profit) always at-the-ready flyswatter. The production is also a pea soup of cigarette smoke (may as well court early death while World War II rages on) and features the flattest champagne of all time. Still without fags and booze there’d scarcely be anything for the leads to do except say their lines.
Humphrey Bogart must have regretted describing the script as “this is the worst film we’ve ever come across,” only to discover his inner angst and wonderful ability to grow so effortlessly into Rick’s character. Ever-radiant (ah the joy of filters!) Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa also displays commanding depth of emotion as her troubled past gradually comes to light. The wonderfully opportunistic (happy to accept sexual favours for transport papers; loving the “fixed” roulette wheel in Café Américain) Captain Louis Renault has the ideal proponent in Claude Rains. And kudos to Peter Lorre, playing the unscrupulous Ugarte to the hilt in the brief role that, nonetheless, sets the tone of first-class acting to come.
Those who’ve never seen Casablanca must add it to their cinematic bucket list; those who have experienced it long ago might well savour a return to the town of lies and deceit (those days, of course, are long behind us) and join the doomed lovers in the oft quoted toast: “Here’s looking at you, kid” as time goes by. JWR