On The Beat At The End Of The Millennium, The World Is Lining Up For Lucas' Latest. But True...

Years ago, when I was living in Paris in my early 20s, with no money and nothing better to do than see six or seven movies a week, I met a young woman who found out about my deep, desperate desire to make a film.

"Why don't you try and make something really good?" she said. "Like 'Star Wars?' " I thought I'd die. "Star Wars" was everything I abhorred -- a big, empty canvas with wooden acting and uninspiring cinematography.

After foaming at the mouth for a few minutes, I suggested that I'd take her to see the films I really loved. We started out gently, with pictures like Wyler's "The Best Years of Our Lives" and "Roman Holiday," then moved to Peckinpah's "The Wild Bunch" and Coppola's "The Godfather," and eventually we reached the films I loved beyond anything -- Renoir's "Grand Illusion" and Visconti's "The Leopard," pictures that have moved me so deeply, they seem lived parts of my life rather than the fabric of someone else's imagination.

Finally, I asked her to see one of the most obscure films of all, Ozu's "Tokyo Story," the tale of an elderly couple making one last trip to see their children in Tokyo, slow and meandering and yet so achingly human that its ending never fails to move me to tears. I promised Catherine that if she went I'd meet her after the picture.

A couple of hours later, I arrived at the tiny movie theater with its torn screen and wretched seats. I was terrified: "Tokyo Story" was so profoundly important to me, it would have been devastating if Catherine didn't like it. The rain was bucketing down; nobody was around. I let myself into the theater while the movie was still running and sat down at the back.

The film ended. I waited, watching the audience filter past me. One by one they crept by, old cynics and young enthusiasts -- everyone but Catherine. My heart was pounding; I thought she must have walked out of the film. Then the lights came up, and I saw one solitary person seated at the front, staring at the blank screen. Catherine.

That moment has remained with me over 15 years, touching me like few others. And I wonder whether it would be possible to reproduce it today. In our increasingly frenzied world, with cable and video and DVD competing for our attention, and with delivery systems that make the old-fashioned idea of schlepping to a movie almost archaic, it seems inconceivable that people would trek across town in the rain, as we did, all for the sake of a film. Now, ironically, people may be about to do it for the new "Star Wars" film. But that's an oddity. I'd give anything to revisit that run-down theater in Paris, and replay the magic of Ozu's movie flickering in the dark.