Bedknobs and Broomsticks

If you grew up in the eighties or nineties, your local video store likely had a "Disney" section that felt like a permanent shrine to a very specific kind of live-action magic. Nestled between the pristine white clamshell cases of Mary Poppins and Pete’s Dragon, there was always Bedknobs and Broomsticks. For years, I viewed it as the "diet" version of Poppins—the movie you rented when the more famous nanny was already checked out. But revisiting it now, I’ve realized that while it shares the same DNA, it’s a much weirder, spikier, and more ambitious creature than its polished older sister.

The setup is pure wartime Britain: three Cockney siblings are evacuated from the London Blitz to the coastal village of Pepperinge Eye. They’re foisted upon Eglantine Price (Angela Lansbury), a woman who is less "eccentric spinster" and more "apprentice sorceress via correspondence school." When the kids catch her hopping around on a broomstick in the garden, she bribes them with a magical bedknob that can transport their bed anywhere in the world. What follows is a psychedelic journey involving a charlatan magician in London, a soccer-playing lion on a tropical island, and a literal army of ghosts.

The Mary Poppins Shadow

It is impossible to talk about this film without mentioning Mary Poppins. They share the same director (Robert Stevenson), the same legendary songwriters (the Sherman Brothers), and even the same leading man in David Tomlinson. In fact, the project was originally developed as a backup in case P.L. Travers refused to give Disney the rights to her umbrella-wielding nanny.

Because of this, the film has always lived in a bit of a creative shadow, but I’d argue that Angela Lansbury is actually a more interesting protagonist than Julie Andrews’ "practically perfect" icon. Miss Price is a mess. She’s a trainee witch who constantly fumbles her spells, gets her broom stuck in the rafters, and displays a delightful, prickly vulnerability. Lansbury plays her with a frantic, wide-eyed sincerity that makes you root for her, even when she’s accidentally turning people into white rabbits.

I watched this most recent screening while my neighbor was mowing his lawn with such aggressive volume that I had to turn on the subtitles just to catch the lyrics to "Portobello Road," and I realized that the film’s pacing is its biggest hurdle. At nearly two hours, it wanders. The middle act in London feels like it belongs to a different movie entirely, though David Tomlinson is so effortlessly charming as the fraudulent Emelius Browne that you almost don't mind the detour. He specializes in playing the "lovable failure," a role he perfected here.

Soccer Matches and Sodium Vapor

The technical wizardry on display is the peak of the pre-CGI era. The centerpiece is the trip to the Isle of Naboombu, a 10-minute animated sequence where the live-action actors interact with a menagerie of cartoon animals. This used Disney’s famous "sodium vapor process"—a yellow-screen technique that allowed for much cleaner edges than the blue-screen tech of the time.

The soccer match between the animals is legitimately better than the original Space Jam, mostly because it’s fueled by pure slapstick chaos. Seeing a cartoon elephant deflate like a balloon while Angela Lansbury looks on in a velvet dress is the kind of practical/animated blend that felt like actual sorcery on a grainy VHS tape. On a modern 4K screen, you can see the slight "fringe" around the actors, but that only adds to the charm for me. It looks like a moving storybook rather than a computer render.

However, the real showstopper—and the reason this movie has a cult following among practical effects nerds—is the finale. Miss Price uses a "Substitutiary Locomotion" spell to animate the suits of armor in a local museum to fight off a Nazi raiding party. It is a wild, slightly terrifying sequence. Seeing empty suits of medieval plate mail marching across a foggy British beach to kick the teeth out of German paratroopers is the most metal thing Disney ever put in a family movie. The way the armor "dies"—just collapsing into a pile of hollow metal when the spell breaks—has a haunting quality that stayed with me long after the credits rolled.

A Cult Classic in a Clamshell

Why didn't it become a global juggernaut like Poppins? Mostly bad timing. By 1971, the "mega-musical" was dying a slow death at the box office, and New Hollywood was ushering in a grittier era of cinema. Bedknobs and Broomsticks felt like a relic the moment it hit theaters. It was edited down significantly for its initial release, losing several songs and character beats that weren't restored until decades later.

But for the "VHS generation," this was a staple. I remember the specific texture of the "Masterpiece Collection" tape, the way the colors seemed to bleed slightly during the underwater "Beautiful Briny" dance. It’s a film that benefits from the intimacy of home viewing. It’s cozy, slightly cluttered, and deeply British.

It also features a fantastic supporting turn by Roddy McDowall as a scheming local priest and Sam Jaffe as a creepy bookman. They add a layer of "Old Hollywood" gravitas to a story that could have easily drifted into pure fluff. The film is a reminder that Disney used to be much more comfortable with being a little bit dark and a little bit weird.

Bedknobs and Broomsticks isn't a perfect film—it’s too long, and the plot is essentially a series of loosely connected vignettes—but it is overflowing with imagination. It captures that rare sense of childhood adventure where the world feels both dangerous and filled with hidden doors. If you’ve only ever seen the "A-list" Disney classics, this is the deep cut you need to experience. It’s a messy, magical, Nazi-thumping good time that deserves to be pulled off the shelf and watched with the same wonder we had back in the days of rewinding tapes.