My first exposure to the musical Oklahoma was to the soundtrack, which I’m sure is hardly unusual. The songs “Oh What a Beautiful Mornin” and “O-o-o-o-o-klahoma” were planted into my consciousness sometime before I was aware of it, just part of the atmosphere of growing up in U.S. culture (I was born in the mid-1970s; the songs are surely less omnipresent now).

I was in college (mid-1990s) before I became acquainted with any more of Oklahoma. A good friend of mine played the movie soundtrack on a long car trip, and I enjoyed most of it. I was kind of horrified, though, at “Pore Jud Is Daid.” Without knowing the storyline, I could only suppose they were singing at a funeral for someone who had died, and it just seemed monstrous to mock the deceased this way.

Of course, when I finally watched the movie (on VHS tape) I discovered Jud was not dead, he was just being sung to by his mortal enemy/rival, and was even one of the two voices singing the lyrics. It’s still pretty macabre, though, in context, and quite vicious in its humor.

Rewatching the movie on Blu-ray I was struck by how relentless the songs are in the first half of the film. They just keep hitting one after another, with barely any breathing room between, and each one could easily be a favorite because they’re all so well written and performed. (Well, okay, the five-minute instrumental overture might not be a favorite, but it’s still an enjoyable piece if you know the songs and aren’t impatient for the film to begin.)

The movie is two and a half hours long, and I kind of planned on watching until the intermission and saving the rest till the next night, but I couldn’t. I had to get to the end, despite having watched the film three times over the years. I knew what was coming, but I needed to see it to be at ease the rest of the night.

There are two main reservations I have about the movie. Both are problems you see in many musicals from the 1950s and 60s.

First, the seemingly endless, wordless dance sequence: fifteen minutes where the story screeches to a halt for a scene designed primarily to showcase the dancing itself. This time around, I actually found the first two or three minutes captivating, seeing how graceful and elegant the ballerina’s movements were, but again, it lasts fifteen minutes, not three. Oklahoma makes some effort to make this dance portion relevant—grudgingly I can admit that it shows the extent of Laurey’s feelings about Jud, and there is a need for that. But the sequence goes on and on and on. . . .

Second, true to its time, there is no inclusivity. Positive portrayal of divergence in sexual orientation or gender identity was unimaginable then; showing someone who had a disability was possible but doesn’t happen here; including a few ordinary people of other races should have been possible but again doesn’t happen. (Historically, by the way, there were African American and Latino cowboys.) The cast is entirely and utterly white. The most you can say about such musicals is that by not including anyone else, they avoid spreading demeaning stereotypes.

In Oklahoma there is a wrinkle: the character who calls himself Ali Hakim (pronounced “hack-um”). He’s a traveling salesman peddling things out of his horse-drawn cart who says he’s from Persia. This could be seen as yet another time some white guy plays somebody of non-European ancestry, denying a role to someone from that ancestry, made worse by the film-maker not even bothering to find a name that’s Persian . . . but this character is a con man. I’m pretty sure the audience is not supposed to believe for a second that he’s actually Persian, even if the other characters never mention any doubts. That means we’re expected to find this practice low and disreputable, the act of a huckster lying to make himself “exotic” and more memorable to his unsophisticated customers.

And there’s plenty of unsophistication around. The song “Kansas City” in particular takes delight in poking fun at the characters singing it. It has this marvelous aspect of suggesting that the awe expressed over the existence of 7-story buildings and “gas buggies goin by theirselves” is naive and provincial not just to the modern audience but also to people of the story’s time period who lived in cities. Poor Will is convinced progress has gone as far as it can go. Obviously we know better, but I’m pretty sure the folks he saw in Kansas City on his trip knew better too, even then.

There are three main female characters in the story: Laurey, Aunt Ella/Eller, and Annie. (There’s a fourth named woman, a man-stealer with a horrendous laugh, but she only has a few scenes.) 

Ado Annie is not exactly a positive portrayal of womanhood. You could look at her and see a flighty airhead easily swayed by sweet words and maybe too free with her affections. You could also look at her and see a woman unashamed of her own sexuality and desire, seeing nothing wrong with enjoying kisses (or more) as opportunities come her way. But it would be quite a stretch to make her a champion of female sexual liberation, because that kind of requires more intelligence in choosing your partners than she’s shown as having. “I will love who I want to, no matter what people think!” is not the same as “I’ll kiss anybody who asks prettily!”

The movie isn’t explicit about how far Annie goes with these multiple men she’s apparently diverted by. Is it only kissing she’s “guilty” of? Within her context, kissing around would be blameworthy, but perhaps not scandalous enough to make her socially unacceptable. And she still moves in polite circles and nobody blinks at her donating a food basket for the auction. Will, who wants to marry her, doesn’t act like he believes she’s sleeping around. It’s more like he’s mad at her for flirting when they’re just short of engaged.

And yet, maybe it’s significant that she isn’t inside the house with 98% of the other young women on their way to the social. And then there are rumors about her losing her bloomers. And she “cain’t say no.” It seems like the story wants to have things two ways at once, just as much as the character does.

Next, Aunt Eller. She’s resilient, determined, full of both good sense and endurance, and ready to have plenty of fun on the proper occasions. She might say “two women can’t run a farm by themselves,” but according to what we know about her life in the film, two women can make sure their farm gets run, without selling it or letting a man take over. If she and Laurey need a hired man to keep it going, well, they’re still the ones in charge and plainly doing well. (“It’s a good year for corn and there’s money in the bank,” Aunt Eller notes.)

Then Laurey, the female lead. When we first see her, her verbal sparring with Curly is delightful. It’s just fun to listen to them go back and forth. But . . . they go too far. It’s debatable whose teasing is to blame, but Laurey is the one who actually takes a step she can’t easily undo and has to regret it. But it’s not because she’s foolish or ditzy or trying to use some “feminine” trick calculated to make her man jealous; it looks for all the world like she’s just mad, and human, and she doesn’t need any time at all to realize the mistake. 

Later, in one of those great songs, Laurey proudly declares that she won’t weep and wail for a man who drops her; then she’s reminded the man she loves is right that moment outside with someone else, and she starts to cry . . . but doesn’t, and reasserts that she won’t. Later still, in a carriage with someone who tries to grab and kiss her against her will, she shoves him away and takes action—perhaps not the best action, since the horses go into a frenzied gallop that might leave the carriage, and her, smashed against a tree; but as soon as she has a chance she literally takes the reins herself and is then in control.

Laurey isn’t perfect or helpless either one. There are things to admire about her and things to shake your head over. She is, in that way, well-rounded and believable. She feels human.

I would like to caution her, though, that if the large, angry man you’re afraid of is heading your direction, the right response is not to walk into the shadows away from the crowd.

Finally, does Oklahoma pass the Bechdel test? I suppose it depends on how strictly you apply it. Near the end Laurey and Aunt Eller have a conversation which is occasioned by concern over a man’s fate, but what’s said is not specifically about men—it’s about bearing up and keeping on, and how life brings good and bad and you’ve got to face both.

Bottom line: Oklahoma has omissions characteristic of its time, it has a female character who’s arguably worrisome, and it includes a grueling ballet sequence, but otherwise it shines and makes me happy.