What was the first movie you ever saw?

I was four years old and we were living in Israel at the time. Movies were cheaper than babysitters, so my parents would leave me in movie theatres for hours on end. Let’s save the negligence issues for another column and instead celebrate the irony that I am now a filmmaker myself.

You really are what you eat, and I was screen fed.

One of my parents glanced at an ad for a film called The Ark. It was easy to assume it was about Noah’s Ark, and that a movie about animals and moral lessons regarding God’s cataclysmic wrath would be good building blocks for any young boy. (I was four years old. I must remind you of that.)

And although wrath of God it had, Noah’s Ark it was not. Rather, the ark in question was the Ark of the Covenant. and the movie was Raiders of the Lost Ark – that is, Indiana Jones, the first installment.

I was four years old when I saw the fingers of God burn holes in the torsos of Nazi soldiers and then watched their commanding officer’s face melt off.

Fantastic. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

I ran out of the theatre screaming and into the front seat of Dad’s Jerusalem jalopy.

“Did one of the animals scare you?” he asked. “God was fair and saved even the alligators.”

“No Dad,” I replied. “When the Nazi’s face melted off, that’s when I lost my hardened toddler nerve.”

It’s almost no surprise that I’m about to enter into arguments with the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) about the rating of my own film. The discussion will be about my “skewed” perspectives on what is and what is not appropriate for children to see.

I’d wager that I’ve come by my benevolent misjudgments naturally.

Raiders was a wild inauguration into the world of cinema. After that sensational movie about adventure in the ancient desert, I ran out to my father’s sandy car, which was waiting for me in the ancient desert. It became my perspective thereafter that movies were about where you lived. It followed only fittingly that my first film would be about summer camp, where I’d done the rest of my living.

Now, almost three decades later, the saga of Indiana Jones comes to a climactic conclusion with the release of its fourth, and likely final, instalment, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of The Crystal Skull. Its opening coincides with the eve of my nephew’s third birthday. Will I shape the course of his life by way of this daring introduction? Or will I wait until the MPAA or his parents decide for him?

OK, I’ll wait for his parents’ permission. But wouldn’t it be totally worth reading his CJN article in 30 years about how I scarred his youth. It’s a family tradition, after all. It seems unfair to avoid the duty.

With this final Indiana Jones release, and my nephew’s birthday, I feel the torch has finally been passed. Now it’s my generation’s turn to wreak visual havoc on your younglings, to leave them with memories of boundaries crossed, without corrupting their kindness or robbing them of their youth.

The festival warning on my current film mentions, “Just because this film features your children does not mean it is for your children.”

So, babysitters beware. Parents, be forewarned. That is my notice to the painfully responsible. However, as my own parents once did, if you really prize your quiet time, send your children to see my stuff. And double your vacation afterward by seeing it yourselves, taking comfort that, warnings aside, rowdy audiences of all ages so far have thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

This is the best I can offer: to offend many and hurt no one.

Just to be safe, I should tell you that no one’s face melts off in my camp movie.

See you on the circuit.