White wine, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman
I took a fat glass of Riesling to the dome and then drove straight to the theater for this. I wasn't planning on it, it sort of just happened. It was the kind of thoughtless thing you do on your day off, the kind of thing you do when you aren't thinking about what's next in your day and you are just taking things as they come.
Now I know what you’re thinking, not the most responsible move. If you’re a cop or a narc, consider the last sentence and the following eight completely fictitious. Those who know me personally know my tolerance is pretty low and in hindsight my actions were ill advised at best, but let me tell you, when I sat down in my stadium chair with my small popcorn, bunch-a-crunch and sour patch kids, I was locked in.
And to be clear, I don’t recommend taking this same sequence as suggestion, I’m just trying let you in on my mindset as the lights dimmed. I was primed to receive one of Cinema’s most lasting classics and I left as satisfied as one could hope to be. On reflection, it may have been that little bit of German wine I had about an hour and a half previous that helped to get the tears over the finish line from my ducts to my cheeks when Humphrey Bogart uttered those immortal final few lines. Casablanca sits on a perch few other movies have ever sat on. It will likely outlive us all, and rightfully so.
Sometimes you are brought to tears because something is achingly beautiful. Sometimes you are brought to tears because you are bearing witness to legend. And sometimes, you are brought to tears because you are a fucking lightweight who didn’t drink till he was like 22 and still doesn’t drink much now. Or maybe, like on this fine Sunday afternoon, it is a magical combination of the three.
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