Yesterday I saw “Casablanca.”

It was a Valentine’s Day gift to Emily Anne. But it was also a Valentine’s Day gift to myself. “Casablanca” tells me something about who I am at the time I watch it. Right now, I’m having a Me Too Moment.

Ilsa Lund is a little too racist and a little too weak.

When she walks into Rick’s Gin Joint, and hears Sam playing piano, she asks, “Who’s the boy playing piano?” Sam is no boy.

I understand, in the time the movie takes place, a black man was called “boy.” But not by a revolutionary. Only a thoughtless brat would degrade a man by calling him “boy.” We’re supposed to believe Ilsa Lund is a revolutionary. She would have seen through this abusive slur.

Then there’s the issue of her beauty.

Every man Ilsa comes in contact with seems comfortable commenting on her beauty. She never turns the table on the compliment. Instead it makes her blush. You don’t blush unless it buys you something. Isla Lund isn’t a debutante. She’s a killer. Rouge isn’t a color. It’s a red flag.

Finally, for all of the years we’ve been told she’s been on the run, hiding from Nazis, fighting the good fight, Ilsa is too quick to hand Rick the decision of what to do with her life. I don’t buy it. Not anymore. Maybe in public, for the spectacle of marriage. But not in private.

She’s a prize more than a partner. She’s the wife of a revolutionary more than a revolutionary. More than her close up, Ilsa Lund is read for her rewrite.