When I was thirteen I saw “E.T.” with some buddies of mine (there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth). I sobbed as hard as all the other little girls in that audience when E.T. started performing his existential gymnastics what with the dying and the coming back to life … good dismount, too bad he couldn’t stick the landing.

But no one judged our intense emotional responses harshly. Modesty meant nothing compared to the beauty we all shared together in that darkened theater. I went back as soon I could hit up my poor, old grey-haired granny on the fixed income for a few bucks. Thank you, Steven Spielberg, for helping us laugh at love … again!

It was during the second viewing, paid for by the good folks at the Social Security Administration, that I had a revelation like getting pimp-slapped by Martin Scorcese. “E.T.” was nothing but crass manipulation. It was the artistic equivalent of a kick to the groin. Spielberg created this sweet, cute, little playmate alien-baby thing with Christ-like healing powers, the glowing finger, the heart light, the huge, kind, innocent eyes. He made us fall in love with this little mutant — then he killed it! Little kids were sobbing and rolling around in the aisles, blaming their parents and just generally getting traumatized. When you think about it, E.T. was nothing but a PG-rated snuff film! Damn you, Spielberg! Damn you all to hell!

(As an aside, I don’t see how E.T. could have been so sweet after years of cattle mutilations, abductions and anal probes, but that is why Spielberg is a genius — he makes us believe the impossible.)

What’s worse is the “Spielberg Effect.” Since this guy started making movies, everything sucks just a little bit more, except for special effects which substitute for things like plots, characters, direction, etc. It is a formula that sells. Every movie you go to is half a joke. No one wants to risk being serious, so they use cute kids, one-liners, stale, uninspired humor, obvious good and evil, super-sentimental, hyper-emotional, soft and soapy love stories. Because this is easier than real film-making.

Which brings me to “Titanic” and why I won’t see this movie. Everyone says “just try it, you’ll love it.” William S. Burroughs used to say the same thing about heroin, and now he’s dead. I have even talked to people who try to claim there is some kind of educational value to this thing.

Like there’s more to know than Titanic WASN’T the greatest ship ever built? Oh, it wasn’t iceberg- proof either? Thanks! The thing sank, ’nuff said!

The only thing anyone could learn at this movie is what Kate Winslet’s breasts look like, and you can find that out on the net like every other 14-year-old in the world.

This thing was getting to be like a cult with James Cameron sitting in for Jim Jones as the charismatic leader. Especially after he lashed out and tried to get some L.A. Times critic fired just for not falling in line. Sieg Heil, Jimmy, what’s next, a holy war to round up infidels and make them watch this steaming pile?

All that cash is probably going into secret reanimation experiments to revive Senator McCarthy who will come back from the dead only to be handed a list of the 205 people in this country who HAVEN’T seen “Titanic” so he can start a new witch hunt or eat their brains.

And that performance at the Oscars — what a freakshow! Cameron must have an ego you could float a zeppelin in.

The one thing I can respect about all this is that women like this movie. They seem to enjoy romance in a variety of historical settings, and that’s cool, I guess. Men have something similar that they enjoy which involves something akin to romance in a variety of places, too. Vive le difference!

However, the only men I know who would advocate seeing “Titanic” are the kind of guys who would sit through the entire, painful length of “Ishtar” just because the cable guide said there was partial nudity in it. “I know this movie sucks, but I can’t stop watching it until I see some skin, man!”

I think I got “Titanic” figured out from listening to that Celine Dion song once an hour for three months straight anyway. Boring into my brain like an earwig.

I like to be affected emotionally at a movie. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t grow up to be the kind of guy who can’t watch a movie unless something blows up real good. I don’t need the cinematic equivalent of shiny objects like special effects and car chases to keep my attention. I like to watch British mystery shows and documentaries about “The Dust Bowl.” I watch them without falling asleep, too, so I’ve proven that my powers of concentration are beyond those of most, normal people.

But there is a difference between giving us compelling characters portrayed by great actors who make us feel their pain and giving us shallow characters portrayed by cute actors who pantomime love for us to gush over before the director whacks one, leaving the other as a testimony for the ages. We should all be offended; we deserve better movies.

Movies like this are a kind of test, like waiting to urinate is good for your character, or getting beat up will make a man out of you, or the way smoking makes you look really cool.

I am not a movie elitist. I like a wide range of films, including some which are absolute crap, like Night of the Comet. It’s a pallet cleanser.

But if I saw “Titanic” I’d probably get sucked in by the lovefest, and I just can’t afford to go there. I’d probably weep and swoon like a 10-year-old girl at a Hanson concert. And anyway, I sold too much of my soul when I gave in and saw “The English Patient” — there’s ten hours of my life I won’t get back.

Whatever happens, people, stay alive, I will find you!

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Greg Jerrett is a graduate student in English from Council Bluffs.