I remember watching 9/11 unfold in horror. As I came home that day, leaving the idle Toronto International Film Festival, all I wanted was to be with my family. Together we watched CNN well into the night and I found myself unable to translate some aspects of the day to my curious daughter. Explaining what happened was easy; explaining why was impossible.
We live in times when terrorism is a very real part of our lives, when acts of terror come unannounced, swift and brutal, doing exactly what the engineers of hate hope to accomplish.
Cinema is my job, my life. I spend much of my life in the dark watching flickering images created by artists, their stories unwinding through the projector and unto the screen. Sometimes they make films to make us laugh, sometimes they try to frighten us, enlighten us, or thrill us. Sometimes films replicate life in such a way it is unnerving, the realism is that strong.
Every now and then comes a film seems to be too real, too close. I felt that way after seeing John Frankenheimer’s unnerving thriller “Black Sunday” in 1977. The film was terrifying in its depiction of terrorism, portrayed with a grim realism and matter-of-fact reality I had rarely seen before. It seemed to me that Frankenheimer had actually contacted real-life terrorists and been permitted to film their deeds.
“Black Sunday” was based on a best seeling novel by Thomas Harris, who had not yet written “Red Dragon” or “The Silence of the Lambs.” The rights to the book were snapped up by Paramount and Robert Evans set to work on a blockbuster wrongly envisioning the project as a disaster film. His greatest move was to hire director John Frankenheimer, who saw something darker, more sinister — something extraordinary.

He was nominated for an Oscar just once for his riveting performance in “Coming Home” as a vet who cannot wait to go to Vietnam, and once there cannot wait to get home, horrified by what he sees, betrayed by the dream of what he believed war should be.