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Since I began writing this column and returning to movies that, in some cases, I haven't seen in over a decade, I have gotten to thinking about myself and my cinematic tastes even more than normal. There's no way to say that without sounding at least slightly ridiculous and egotistical, which is fine. I live the life of the mind and the upside is a peculiar kind of certainty. I like knowing why I prefer what I prefer. In a universe that tends towards chaos and entropy, it gives me something on which to fix my over-stimulated mind and create a sense of order. I had always thought that what I looked for in a work of art (and by extension an artist) was the same thing I wanted in a friend or lover/wife/partner: someone or something to grow up with and grow old with. The obvious catch is that in any human relationship, both of you are changing all the time and if you are lucky enough, your changes will somehow sync up and contradict/complement each other.

However, when I return to a song, or a book, or a film after a prolonged absence, it hasn't changed, but I have. I possibly might find the same things delightful that I originally did "back then" and encounter new riches. Or I may find the love affair has passed and I have moved on. In a way, it is certainly easier to hang on to my initial reaction, confident in how I felt about the film once upon a time. But it's not real. The downside then is accepting that things have changed. That I am different. And that feeling is just like waking up to the person next to you in bed or sitting across from you at the table and finding a stranger. What happened? Where did all the time go? For some reason, I always think of the recurring image in Anand Tucker's wonderful 1998 biopic Hilary and Jackie with Emily Watson and Rachel Griffiths as musicians/sisters (both actresses were Oscar-nominated). Watson's character is standing on a beach watching herself and her sister play as adolescents. At one point, the girls come over and Watson whispers in the ear of her younger self. We never hear what is said, which is the point, I think. What advice could we possibly give our younger selves? All that might be uttered is that time speeds up so insanely fast as you age. That and most certainly, things change.

My first cinematic encounter with the art of firing a gun in each hand at the same time was not in a John Woo film. Nor was it in a Hong Kong action film of any stripe. It was an Entertainment Tonight profile on Harvey Keitel from the summer of 1992 (in my mind, his heyday as an indie icon in the making and the apex of his on-screen bad-assedness). They were showing a clip from Reservoir Dogs and I remember it so clearly because my brain said quite loudly, "He's firing two guns at the same time. How is that possible?!" At the risk of sounding hopelessly naïve, I have no doubt that I had seen this done before in my prior decade of movie watching. I certainly had not seen any HK (Hong Kong) flicks though and wherever I might have first encountered double the bullets/double the fun, it had certainly made no impression on me. The sight of HK (Harvey Keitel) in dark shades, dark suit and white shirt posed just left of center in the frame, determined look planted upon his mug did impress upon me most deeply. Let's face it. I was smitten.

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