I've never experienced such a striking validation. The value of four years of film school and thousands of education dollars realized in seconds. This, I thought, is what it was all for. And then, tragically, it fell apart.

I spent much of 1998 watching Wes Anderson's Rushmore repeatedly. Filled with oblique references and symbolic meaning, I came away feeling that this was my film. My Casablanca, my Citizen Kane, I had Rushmore figured out.

That scene where Max Fischer is talking on a pay phone in his fencing outfit? I recognized it immediately as a straight crib from High School, Frederick Wiseman's extraordinary 1969 cinema verité masterwork. All the under water stuff? That took more study. I'll leave the careful deconstruction aside and stick it to you in an aphorism: The seas can be rough. Not everyone makes it through.

I felt smart. I was smart. Friends were assaulted so they'd know of my extraordinary ability.

Did you see that? Did you get it? Diving for Sunken Treasure? Yes, I liked the 'O R they?' line too, but what of all the fish tanks in Miss Rosemary Cross's classroom? That's where we discover that her former husband, the unfortunate Edward Appleby drowned at sea. Don't you see the connection? Wasn't the cinematography extraordinary?

This was met with rolling eyes. Film snobbery is not widely tolerated.

I waited. Someday, I'd be of means sufficient for the purchase of a DVD player and a copy of Rushmore, complete with director's commentary and various supplemental materials. Then they'd know. Then they'd appreciate this film that I, and I alone, was sophisticated enough to follow.

Years pass.

While technophiles hawk its superior sound and image quality, self proclaimed film enthusiasts (of the sort who wasted their college years debating the merits of Fellini and Eisenstein) appreciate the Digital Video Disc for its incredible capacity.

No longer bound by the limits of the film itself, viewers are privy to  hidden and deleted scenes, alternate camera angles and special 'making of' documentaries. For those looking to bolster their cocktail party conversation chops, there is no greater boon.

And for me, I knew the time had come. Surely, Anderson would validate my keen observations and leave me flushed and aglow with intellectual preeminence.

He came through. That scene from High School was acknowledged and I felt a gentle warmth spreading through my extremities. Who needs the Criterion Collection when you've got film analysis skillz like mine?

But the commentary soon began to deviate from expectations. Time and again, the recurring underwater motif was ignored. Finally, at the point where Bill Murray asks a student of Miss Cross what he's painting, Anderson (or perhaps it was Owen Wilson, I'm too traumatized to go check) speaks to it.v

He said that he wasn't sure where all the water imagery came from. It was, apparently, just an accident.

An accident. Happenstance. Not an intentional effort on the part of the director to communicate something extraordinary within the context of the film. A painful revelation, this meant that all of my film schooling was for naught. I'd discerned a symbolism that wasn't there. I'd manufactured significance where there was none intended.

Though this was difficult for me, it was undoubtedly a great relief for those who tolerate my company. Shamed, I stopped foisting my film theories onto unwilling ears, and limited my commentary to simple platitudes: Yes, that was a good film. I enjoyed it very much.

The advantageous muzzling of an over eager film critic aside, commentary tracks on DVD titles can be quite damaging. The enjoyment and interpretation of a film is not for a director to dictate. Attempting to do so via bonus audio track can cripple a film. Though they might wish otherwise, once a film hits the tiny screens of the local megaplex, it no longer belongs to its director.

The rough seas of Rushmore still exist, even if Anderson didn't mean for them to.

Next week: The Three Investigators and the decline of Hitchcock