Many years ago, in what now seems to be almost like a past life, I used to be quite the cinephile. I loved films. I loved the French Nouvelle Vague. I loved Italian neorealismo. I became enamoured of the great auteurs. On many occasions, I would drive to faraway cinemas in the big cities so I could see films—usually foreign or independent ones—that were not going to play in my hometown movie theatres. When I was even younger, I used to eagerly await the the Friday edition of the local newspaper so I could read the movie reviews of the weekend’s new releases. When I reached my college years, I took a few elective courses on film history and production.