The release of the new X-Men movie means I'll probably be subjected to another round of questions from folks as to how I liked it. It probably shouldn't annoy me but it does that these queries are never preceded with the question, "Say, did you see it?" People I know in and around comics just kind of presume not only that you've seen the film but that you raced to see it Opening Day. Sometimes, they even frame their question as, "So, how many times have you seen it so far?" and they're almost crushed when I answer, "Counting the next time once."

I can't remember the last time I saw a movie and promptly paid money to see it a second time. It may have been Network, and then only because I was then dating a lady who I knew would love it. The only times I can ever remember hurrying to catch a film right when it opened were a couple of Mel Brooks movies, back when he was in good form. This was not because I couldn't live without seeing the movies themselves but because Mel tended to turn up at the early screenings in Westwood and put on an extra show, chatting with the audience and heckling the trailers. Right in the middle of the inevitable ad for L.A. Times home delivery, you'd hear this very Jewish voice from the back of the house yell, "SHOW MY MOVIE, DAMN IT!" That was worth a battle of Opening Day crowds. Nothing else I can recall ever was to me, and now that movies are so promptly available on DVD and on my little satellite dish, there seems like even less reason to rush.

Actually, I have no desire whatsoever to see the new X-Men movie, just as I had no desire to see the Daredevil movie, the Spider-Man movie, the Blade movie, the last few Batman and Superman movies, etc. I saw the previous X-Men movie only because I was then working for Stan Lee Media and Stan hosted a special screening for the staff. One day in lieu of working, we all trekked over to a nearby theater and free box lunches were distributed. So I was being paid to be there and fed, and I think that's about what it would take to get me to the sequel.

I came to the realization some time ago that though I've collected comic books all my life, I'm not particularly a fan of the characters as they exist apart from certain creators. I love Spider-Man by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, Spider-Man by Stan Lee and John Romita, and perhaps a few other incarnations…but I'm not particularly a fan of Spider-Man, per se. I haven't read the comic in about…well, for a year or three after Peter Parker married Mary Jane, I dragged myself through a lot of issues I didn't much care about and finally stopped. I'm not saying there haven't been some wonderful issues in there — I haven't looked — but my affection for one body of work did not transfer with the characters. It isn't that I dislike a new version because it isn't the old version. I just feel no reason to automatically like it. I loved James Bond movies when they starred Sean Connery. When others took over as 007, it was, for me, a brand new ball game. I enjoyed the first few Roger Moore films but I enjoyed them the same way I might enjoy any new movies: On their own merits and not because they "continued" something for which I'd had a passion in the past.

The first X-Men movie left me generally cold. I had seen and loved Chicken Run the week before and what with all the conspicuous make-up and special effects in X-Men, found myself connecting a lot less with its characters than I had with a batch of animated hens. Others at the screening were just thrilled to see Wolverine and Storm and Professor X and I don't even know all their names up there…but I was not a huge fan of the comic book, or at least of the version of it that was adapted to the screen. I respect the craft that went into many of its issues but I'm afraid that I have just read too many super-hero comics in my life. I was starting to o.d. by the time the new X-Men came along and was never able to give it the kind of attention that it seemed to ask of its readers. Had I followed the comic more religiously, I'm sure I would have received a certain tingle to see much of it brought to life. But I didn't.

When I described these feelings to a friend, he urged me to go see the Spider-Man movie: "You loved the Steve Ditko version, right? Well, that's what this is." I'm sure he's right, and I'm also sure that I'll get around to seeing it and that I might even enjoy it. Actually, there might be a kind of Catch-22 here: The more it resembles the Lee-Ditko version, the more I'd probably connect with what's on the screen. At the same time, the more of Ditko that's in there, the more I'll probably sit there resenting the fact that he's not receiving a cent for it. It's a small, perhaps unimportant emotional point but one that is easily deferred. I'll deal with it someday, maybe if the film's on a double-bill with Chicken Run 2, just as I'll see all of these super-hero movies. Right now, I have other things to do that strike me as preferable — so I'll do them, and put up with all the questions about how much I liked the new X-Men movie and how many times I've seen it. If I were a better fibber, I might just tell them, "Six and I'm going back tomorrow to sit through it three more times." I'm sure it would make some of them happy.

This Thursday, early in the AM, Cinemax is running a rarely-seen Jerry Lewis movie called Don't Give Up The Ship which holds a great many memories for me. Please forgive the rambling nature of what follows and the fact that my recollections of the film itself are a bit fuzzy, but there's a fine reason for that. The last time I saw it, I was seven years old.

I think it was the first movie I ever saw, at least in a theater. My parents took me to the Paradise, which was located on Sepulveda Boulevard less than a half-mile north of Los Angeles International Airport. This would have been in 1959. The second time I set foot in that theater was in 1974 to see the animated Disney Robin Hood. A week later, the Paradise closed down "temporarily," never to reopen. The structure is still there but it was refashioned into the Paradise Office Building a few years later. Soon after, the other movie theater in that area — the Loyola — was turned into the Loyola Office Building, though they left its free-standing box office out front, almost to taunt us as we drove to the airport.

But back to Don't Give Up The Ship and what I recall of it: The Paradise had a "crying room" — a little private booth in the back where the parents of bawling babies could sit and watch the films with their noisy offspring and not disturb others. There were no crying kids in the place that afternoon — not even me — so my parents sat us in there. That was in case I didn't behave (I did) and so that they could explain things to me, if necessary. It wasn't necessary. I enjoyed the film, and I recall laughing myself silly at one scene where Jerry played a baby taking a bath and someone stuffed a sponge in his mouth. The storyline — and again, this is from memory and going back 44 years — had Jerry as some sort of Navy official who was in trouble with highers-up because he had misplaced a battleship. He scurried around for the whole movie trying to find it until it turned out that one of those highers-up had ordered the ship used for target practice. Throughout the film, my father kept going out and returning with popcorn, sodas and ice cream bon-bons.

That's about all I recall, but that isn't bad for 44 years ago. There was another movie on the bill but I was too restless at that age to sit through two, plus I was full of bon-bons, so we left after the one. The next day (or maybe a few days later), my father bought me the Dell comic book adaptation of Don't Give Up The Ship. That may be part of the reason I remember the plot. The comic was a lovely souvenir, expertly drawn by a superb artist named Dan Spiegle. Thirteen years later, I would begin a long, pleasurable association with Mr. Spiegle, writing comics for him to draw.

At age seven, I was often taken to the pediatrician for shots and to treat a wide array of stomach aches. My pediatrician was a lovely man named Dr. Arthur Grossman who kept getting written up in local newspapers because he was also an accomplished musician, and because his medical practice welcomed a lot of stars' kids. A day or two after I saw my first movie — or at least, my first Jerry Lewis movie — I was sitting in his waiting room talking with a kid around my age with some comic books I'd brought along, including that Dell adaptation of Don't Give Up The Ship, and the kid — like it was the most natural thing in the world, said, "Oh, yeah, my dad did that one." Just as I was wondering if I should believe him, Jerry Lewis walked into the office. Thinking it would please him, I quickly told Jerry that I had just seen his new movie and I showed him the comic book. Jerry's reply was along the lines of, "Who the hell cares?" and "Leave me alone." For some reason, this did not bother me or cause me to stop going to Jerry Lewis movies. I guess I just figured I had said the wrong thing and that Mr. Lewis was grumpy because his kid was sick.

Twenty-three years later, I was writing a TV show on which Jerry Lewis was guesting. Attempting to strike up the kind of immediate friendship you need in such situations, I told him how much I'd enjoyed many of his movies. He asked me which ones I'd liked. I mentioned The Bellboy, which pleased him since I hadn't said The Nutty Professor. Apparently, though the latter was the one he thought was best, it was also the one that people who didn't know much about his career always named. The show's producer, Marty Krofft, was listening to all this and, trying to get Jerry to show a smidgen of confidence in our writing staff, said, "Mark here knows every microscopic detail of your life and career" — a slight exaggeration. I instantly found myself challenged to tell Jerry something unbelievably obscure about himself. Racking my brain, I told him he'd taken his kids to a pediatrician named Dr. Arthur Grossman who had offices on Wilshire Boulevard, just east of Robertson.

Mr. Lewis did a double-take greater than anything he ever did in front of a camera and you could tell he was very impressed. He asked me how the hell I knew that, and I told him about meeting his son in the waiting room and I pulled the comic book out of a folder I had it in.  I'd brought it along in case I could get him to sign it…which he did.

But also since I never know when to shut up, I went on to tell Jerry the story of him being rude to me, which led to him apologizing profusely. I apologized back for mentioning it and told him how much I'd enjoyed Don't Give Up The Ship. To prove this, I explained that I remembered its basic plot even though I hadn't seen it in (then) twenty-three years, and I gave the summary that I gave above. Jerry grinned and said, "That's about how long it's been since I've seen it…and you remember more about that movie than I do."

I've set my TiVo to record the movie on Thursday. If anyone reading this is in touch with Jerry, please let him know it's on. I'm curious as to whether either of us will like it now.