Last night on network television we were treated to the movie known hereabouts as Mormon Prozac. I first saw Sound of Music back in 1965 in a theater to which I had been dragged by a BYU coed who had rightly determined that I was suffering from clinical depression. Karen, who had sat through the musical half a dozen times already, was confident the film would cheer me up. Instead, I staggered out of the theater not only depressed, but also paranoid. I was thinking the hills were alive!
This time I only subjected myself to snippets, lest the nightmare resume–the one in which I find myself married to a wannabe nun, confronted by xylophonically arranged offspring who just can’t stop singing. Keep their little von Trapps shut, so to speak.
It happens that a distant relative of mine, Heather Menzies, played the role of Louisa von Trapp. She is dead now, and I think I know why. I’m guessing she went hiking in the mountains surrounding Salzburg and was gobbled up by one of them.
Speaking of Salzburg, a few years back I found myself in Mirabell Garden, which is evidently a popular venue for weddings. Problem is, nuptials are constantly being interrupted by raucous tour groups, jubilantly voicing praises to their favorite things; i.e, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.
So, yes, I suppose it would be fair to say that I hated the movie then and hate it still. Nevertheless, I have to give credit to Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein for launching some of the world’s most enduring earworms. For example, try as I might, I just can’t get “Poor Judd Is Daid” out of my head.