Being in Los Angeles brings out the film fanatic in me.

It starts when, looking up at the hills, I see the gigantic HOLLYWOOD sign proclaiming that I am in the Land of Make Believe. My latent stargazer is fanned to a fury as I drive past huge billboards boasting images of movie stars, bragging release dates of blockbusters, and inviting me to visit this studio or that.

Finally, I am clobbered into submission when I reach my mother’s apartment. The Gods of Entertainment have smiled down upon her. She has a satellite dish and gets TV channels that play movies, movies, movies. My favorite kind. Old. Old. Old.

This is a fabulous treat for me, whose television channels are limited to those that my ancient roof antenna can suck down its metal rod.

And so, in the past few days, I have seen Kirk Douglas inspiring slaves to rebel in Spartacus. I have seen Charlton Heston leading bedraggled Israelites to the shores of the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments. I have seen King Kong reduced to a simpering chimp by his love for Fay Ray, Gene Kelly galloping through puddles and Singing in the Rain, and in some ways most jaw-dropping of all, Fred Astaire defying gravity as he danced up, down, and over the ceiling and walls in Royal Wedding.

All accomplished, lest we forget, without computers.