Everything that glitters is not gold. Some delights of childhood innocence are best left unexplored. The Chocolate Factory is not one of them.

I believe I had already revisited this as an adult, but there was something magical about it this time. Details emerged that I was always too distracted by the eye-popping everything to notice—the sublime lunacy of the entire world’s obsession with Wonka, Charlie’s tender heart, and how explicit many people were in conspiring with Slugworth (Grandpa Joe included!).

On the whole, I’m not one for musicals. I find the vast majority of songs from them don’t stand out, and ordinarily I’ve forgotten each and every melody by the time the credits close. This, however, is eternal.

When I was in high school, the best teacher I ever had was a man named Mr. Coates. He was the choir teacher and was leaps and bounds too talented to be teaching high school choir, as he was a classically trained composer. But he insisted there was something about teaching that he loved.

I was a difficult kid to have in class—always misbehaving, always interrupting, always looking for a joke, looking for that dopamine rush from a classroom uproar that I knew I was responsible for. But I was also strong-willed and opinionated.

Now that I’ve worked as a teacher myself, I get what it would have been like to teach me, both the good and the bad. The bad is obvious—obnoxious kids are obnoxious. But, in my experience only a tiny fraction of the loudmouths are genuinely obnoxious. Usually, the loudmouths are the students that you thank for breaking the monotony. Of course, this means livening up the class itself, but the loudmouths are also the students that you can just genuinely chat with.

One interaction I had as a teacher comes immediately to mind: I had set up the class so they were working in groups on something from the textbook, when a girl in the class chats me up about this and that. We have a jovial conversation, and after about five minutes, she says, “do you know what I’m doing? I’ve duped you into not teaching by talking to you.” Oh, sweetie, don’t be so naive. If I weren’t talking to you, I’d be walking in circles, mentally mulling over the dinner options.

Students have that tendency to see teachers as inhuman. I did too with Mr. Coates, but I had good reason. Mr. Coates was inhuman. I’ve never met anyone like him, before or since. He was a strange mix: a drill sergeant with the soul of a drag queen. He was always deadly serious but you could never tell if his anger was genuine or in service of his dry wit. He never laughed nor smiled, but everything seemed to wryly amuse him. 

Despite my lack of interest in choir, he showed more attention toward me than the other students. He challenged my loudmouthed wit by playing back instead of trying to lock me down like the other teachers did. On one tired morning, I went to the restroom and when I returned the class was empty except for him. He was standing at the front mock-conducting an invisible choir and began chiding me for not joining in singing with the rest of the ‘choir.’ Fresh out of puberty, my voice and ego were not ready for solos. But, his demeanor is persuasive—like I said, a drill sergeant—so I start mumbling out the tune, trying to keep my voice steady. After a few moments, he relents and the entire class of 20+ students come tumbling out of his office like circus clowns. 

He once confided in me that he thought “Pure Imagination” was the greatest song ever written. I’d always liked the tune, but it shocked me that a guy who was writing symphonies for the state orchestra preferred that over something more traditional. I went home that day and put it on and damn if I didn’t see exactly what he meant.

This evening, I realized that there is one person to whom Mr. Coates is akin. None other than the man who sings his favorite song—Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka. From his now renowned character choice of the faux-limp onward, the two are alike. Always oblique, like the Cheshire cat. Winking without blinking. At once forward and taciturn in equal measure. A man whose whisper was more resounding than most people’s shout. I was scared of him, at times, just as I was of Wonka when Wilder exclaims, “Good day, sir!”

I hope you’re well, Mr. Coates.

Back to the film itself. What a joy. It’s everything that a classical musical ought to be, but few are. Every one of its songs are memorable (except one) and I could find myself humming any at times without self-consciousness, though there’s certainly variety in their quality, which you can see here:

1. “Pure Imagination”
2. “The Candy Man”
3. “Oompa Loompa”
4. “I’ve Got a Golden Ticket”
5. “I Want it Now”
6. “Cheer Up, Charlie”

The top three are some of the quintessential let’s-randomly-sing-a-song songs. Just start singing and the tune your subconsciousness selects could likely be one of these—at least for me.

“Cheer Up, Charlie” serves its purpose: gives Charlie a low before granting him happiness. But it’s not earwormy.

Aside from the proper songs, the musical cue that induces pure movie magic is that of the instrumental version of “Pure Imagination” played over the ending. The line about the boy who lived happily ever after isn’t particularly remarkable, but its proximity to this motif renders it sublime.