When I was seven years old, I saw Ingmar Bergman's Hour Of The Wolf (1968) on TV. I'd talked my parents into letting me stay up late for it, under the mistaken impression that it was an old werewolf movie.

Instead, I got 90 long minutes of weird Nordic gloom, enlivened by my first major screen sighting of nude female flesh - a long, mobile close-up that followed Max von Sydow's hand as it felt its way down Ingrid Thulin's naked, white, dead body. That shot, the texture of Ingrid's seemingly inert flesh, not to mention the fact that she sat up a moment later and began laughing hysterically, haunted me for years afterward, having, I'm sure, a major impact on my relationships with women.