I think what makes cinema, to me, ultimately, is something that, for some reason, stays with you. A few years later, you could watch it again, or 10 years later, you watch it again—and it’s different. In other words, there’s more to learn about yourself or about life. At first, you might find yourself saying, “I’m affected by this film. The camerawork is amazing. The actors are terrific. The editing is great,” and that sort of thing. But after a certain amount of time, you start to see something deeper.
Take, for example, Shoot the Piano Player by Truffaut. At first, I thought, “This is the best.” But after a while, I realized it has more depth. You can watch it repeatedly, at different times in your life, and while the film remains the same, you change.
It’s the same with films like The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp or Hitchcock’s films—take Psycho, for example. I was there on the third night, at the midnight show. It was like a circus, this wild experience. But over the years, I’ve watched it again and again. I’ve become obsessed with it—not for the famous shower scene or Martin Balsam’s death, but for the smaller, quieter moments.
'It’s the scenes with the actors—how they’re framed, how they play off each other. It’s the mood and tone of the picture, combined with the music. The compositions have this almost aesthetic, freaky kind of quality to them.
'And so, in a way, I’ve come to enjoy that film, and I still do—not for the things it’s famous for, but for the things that you find when you look deeper.