As a longtime film writer, I have considered it a failing that I couldn’t answer the simple question “What’s your favorite movie?” My responses felt like punts, whether I was touting the buoyant energy of “A Hard Day’s Night” or the spell that “2001: A Space Odyssey” has cast on me since I was young or how movies from “Blue Velvet” to the “Three Colors” trilogy to “Babe” hit me just right upon their releases.

They’re all great movies, sure, but none felt like a lifelong favorite. And the thing is, there was a movie that I did consider my favorite for many years, but I’d parked it on some side ramp in my mind. I’d seen this movie 10 times by the end of college, then took a break. A long break. Long enough that I became anxious about revisiting it.

What if it didn’t hold up? What if my obsession had been a sign of callow youth? Some respected critics considered it sappy. I’d outgrown sap, hadn’t I?

It’s dicey business to set up your older self to pass judgment on your younger self. My younger self was a passionate guy who wouldn’t shut up about his favorite movies and bands.