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On Sunday morning that was how I felt. But now, I'm not sure of anything anymore. How can I be? How can I go on believing this after the preconceived notions of my cinematic foundation have been rocked to their very core by rewatching Titanic? Oh yeah, that's right. Resigning myself to an evening of Sunday night football, I quickly strayed as the Steelers ran up the score in the first half and decided to see what Sunday TV (for which - if you read this column frequently - you know I'm a sucker) had to offer. On this particular day, it only took one click of the remote. All of a sudden I was somewhere I never intended to be again. If it weren't for the particular shot I happened to come across I probably would have given it a prompt "next!" But in this particular scene I realized I had forgotten how absolutely gorgeous Titanic was. It was a scene I didn't remember specifically - a sparsely filled dining room. The set and costumes were immaculate and ravishing. Late afternoon light poured through the windows, creating a haze that consumed the frame in a nostalgic glow. Wow.

Understandable, though, I thought. This movie cost $200 million. Obviously James Cameron, being the competent filmmaker that he is, would supply some level of technical mastery and visual spectacle. Surely if I watched another few minutes proof that Titanic was a pompous, over-romanticized play at the hearts and wallets of 14-year-old girls – who, as we all know, hypnotically attended multiple viewings that would lead to Titanic's methodical grossing of $1.8 billion worldwide - would show its face soon.

Even though it had been awhile, I had seen the movie several times before. There would be no surprises. I knew every calculating twist and turn. And so what if I loved it when it first came out? I was 14 myself! The only reason was because I went with this girl I was insanely in love with who was stringing me along. In her bereaved state at the film's end, I got to put my arm around her. How could I NOT love it? (I will always be indebted to you for that, James Cameron. Thanks, bro.) But as I've gotten older and wiser, I know my preliminary feelings toward this film were just a product of circumstance. It was the girl that made me love the movie, not the movie itself.

Life is much clearer now. Older, and a serious film buff, I have gotten past this naïveté. I have seen more than one Luis Bunuel film (four, actually) and I have argued intelligently – I hope – on the overly stated influence of the French new wave. Even today I went a screening of East of Eden (damn, James Dean had it going on) when I easily could have seen, oh I don't know, everything just sounds more pathetic than funny. Pandorum? Anyway, the point is, in my current film-going mindset I was confident that my well-versed knowledge of the medium – while maybe not up to Uncle Jon's standards, jerk - could discern when a film is great and when I'm being manipulated. There was no way I could be convinced that Titanic might actually a good movie. However, there was one variable I forgot to take into account. Kate. Winslet.

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