I remember a long bike ride sometime in the summer when Jeff and I went to a giant discount department store called Schottenstein’s. We went through Linden to get there; Linden had been my neighborhood before the family moved that summer. I think it would have been about three and a half miles from my new house in Beechwold. We passed my old library in the Northern Lights Shopping Center on the way. The trip was to look for Beatle vinyl and I walked out with two LPs: Rubber Soul (out the previous christmas) and the newly-released US-only compilation called Yesterday and Today.

Like all their early albums the US versions differed from the UK versions. The US version of Rubber Soul was particularly interesting in that it turned the collection in an acoustic direction, making it more the Bob Dylan-inspired album the group had in mind in the first place. Both versions are extraordinary.

Yesterday and Today was an odd mix of songs dropped from the US Rubber Soul, songs from the upcoming Revolver album, and tunes drawn from the A and B sides of recent singles (like the smash hit Yesterday). Beatle 45s often didn’t get an LP release at all, at least not in the 60s. The Beatles had their own ideas about a track list for each album; Capitol didn't pay much attention until the release of Sgt. Pepper's when the band took control. And for a recent initiate like myself, the slapdash mix of tracks on Yesterday and Today was just fine. It was a mind-expanding mix.

This is the 1959 Signet paperback, possibly the one I read. I have no memory of the physical book, except for the red edging on the pages; I know it was a paperback. I probably picked it up at a used bookstore in downtown Columbus, a place I haunted for science-fiction paperbacks and old comic books. Maybe the paperback I took home that day was the 1959 Signet edition pictured above. I know I read it in seventh grade; I was impressed and saw no problems with what author Ayn Rand called Objectivism.

One epiphany from Rand's book was the contrast between Objectivism and the rituals of the Catholic Mass. At one point in the English version of the Mass, promulgated that very year by the notoriously liberal Pope John the Twenty-third and his Second Vatican Council, we’d beat our breasts and say three times “Oh Lord I am not worthy that thou should come under my roof. Speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.” Rand turned me into a close reader of those words. “Not worthy,” I thought, “not worthy?” Why, I was a potential Superman!

What was happening to me? Why was I having these thoughts? I was a devout Catholic in a way that kids sometimes are. I believed in the saints and the Virgin Mary and the Trinity. I’d read the Bible all the way through, though what kept me reading were all the racy parts. I liked the Song of Solomon a lot more than that grim Old Testament stuff. I'd always loved religious elements in movies. Come to the Stable and One Foot in Heaven were already favorites of mine (particularly that climactic montage of upraised faces in One Foot). The Ten Commandments (naturally, the 1956 Charlton Heston version) was a bi-annual outing, always on the biggest screen possible.

This cognitive dissonance was happening at the same moment that I was reading a novel about the future by H.G. Wells. I'm not sure which book though it wasn't one of the more foundational sci-fi novels. At some point in my reading I began to see that Wells was an atheist. The near-simultaneous realizations that the Catholic ritual was something I could no longer say or believe, and that my favorite author was an atheist was enough to turn me towards the light.

I was still trapped for a year or two in the cult of Rand, however. I don’t think I completely rejected her till college—Kafka and Camus helped with that, and a Theatre of the Absurd graduate class that I took by mistake.

It was only years later that I realized the extent of Rand's influence on people who weren't me. Kids from other parts of the Midwest were reading her, too, and later many of them became famous Republicans. House Speaker Paul Ryan, fanboy incarnate, required all his staffers to read not only The Fountainhead but also Atlas Shrugged, a monstrous slog.

I flirted with the GOP myself in high school. I was briefly in the Teenage Republicans (TARS); my dad was a Republican office-holder and it seemed like what I should do. I thought it might help me socially (i.e. meet girls). At one of the pool parties I realized I was not with people who were going to be my friends. I don't remember what triggered these feelings but I left the group and never went back. Around the same time I attended a debate at Ohio State University between two guys from the YAF (Young Americans for Freedom) and the SDS (Students for a Democratic Society). The topic was mostly Vietnam, and I found myself nodding my head with every point made by the supposedly radical SDS guy. In contrast the YAF fellows weren't making a lot of sense, dressed like Mormon missionaries, and seemed bitter and angry. I began to realize what a conservative was, and to know that I wasn't one.

This really crazy kind of conservatism was everywhere in the sixties. The day Kennedy arrived in Dallas the biggest newspaper in town was calling for his assassination. I remember seeing a rabid paperback around the house called None Dare Call It Treason; I'm not sure anyone in the family ever read it but it was there on the shelf for years. The John Birch Society was riding high; over time that insanity morphed into the Tea Party and later the MAGA crowd. All this stuff is mostly a hangover from our virulent anti-commie past; one doesn’t have to look very hard to find examples of the paranoid style in American politics.

Finally, my perverse pleasure in reading The Fountainhead did not come from its politics. I liked the overheated sado-masochistic sex and I liked radically new architecture. I loved Frank Lloyd Wright from the moment I saw his buildings and he is, of course, the template for Howard Roark, the form-follows-function architect protagonist.

Around this time I somehow discovered there was a 1949 movie made from The Fountainhead. This was galvanizing. It seemed a very long time before it appeared on TV; the cinema revival movement did not happen in Columbus till a bit later in the decade and there was no other way to see older films. Finally it appeared on one of the local stations and immediately became one of my favorites.

Rand wrote the screenplay and it's sort of crazy and ponderous and certainly not the way humans talk. She had no gift for vernacular dialog. There's a particularly egregious courtroom speech near the end, an awkward moment in the miscast Gary Cooper’s career. It lasts ten minutes—about thirty years in movie time—and part of Rand's agreement with Warners was that not a word be eliminated. (Screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky was able to make similar demands during Ken Russell's filming of Altered States. Russell made a good film from that talky script by keeping the dialogue at an amphetamine tempo.)

Fortunately the ludicrous script is only a small part of the film's charm. The look of the film is staggering. In Wynand’s office and other sequences, the production design by Ed Carrere anticipates the Ken Adams sets from Bond films and Strangelove. The matte-painted Wrightian dream house anticipates the modernist home (another matte painting) seen near the end of North by Northwest.

Another sequence with an unforgettable look features an ambulance ride through Louis Sullivan's Chicago, Roark sitting beside his dying—and despairing—Louis Sullivan-styled mentor.

Fountainhead gives Patricia Neal a dynamite leading role—her first—and Neal runs with it. She dominates the futurism as masochistic architectural critic Dominique Francon. (The idea that architectural critics are the movers and shakers in big-city politics is another of the film's charming whimsies.) Neal's face has more structure than a dozen Howard Roark buildings. I've loved her ever since The Day the Earth Stood Still and the "Klaatu barada nikto" sequence.

The quarry scene brings the hyper-charged sexuality between Roark and Dominique to an absolute boil; you almost see the steam rising from the angular intercutting between these two gorgeous humans. The off-screen romance of Cooper and Neal bleeds through and makes the fantasy all very real. Robert Burks is the cinematographer, the man who shot Strangers On a Train, Rear Window, Vertigo, and The Birds. There’s never been another studio product quite this delirious.

One of the most important additions to this colossally wrong-headed spectacle for the eyes is Max Steiner’s masterpiece of a score. It’s one of his best, lush and tantalizingly unresolved. This is the man who invented the wall-to-wall score for the sound era with Symphony for Six Million and more significantly, King Kong. I believe the finale is the best thing he ever wrote.

Through the years I began to think that director King Vidor was trying to subvert the book and turn it into a comedy. Sadly, that isn’t true. I'm afraid he believed in the book, proving once again the irrelevance of artist intention. I admire Vidor for Duel in the Sun, Beyond the Forest, and the indelible tornado scene in Wizard of Oz, a masterpiece of practical effects that fueled my nightmares for years. I'd dream of our newly-built GI Loan suburb and see that cyclone coming right down the street.

I'm not a superstitious person (though I have my share of unreasonable prejudices). Shouldn't every year be pretty much like every other year, at least in terms of how many good movies you see, how many books you read, how many tunes you like? I am suspicious of myself when it comes to favoring certain periods. A given year might seem a better year but I always suspect my emotional temperature made it seem so. Perhaps love made me exceptionally receptive, perhaps anything that happened was imprinted with that experience of love.

I had no love affairs in 1966 until I saw Julie Christie in Dr. Zhivago. She put the other Julie (Andrews) right out of my mind. I hadn’t seen Billy Liar, of course, or Darling. I doubt either of those John Schlesinger pictures played in the suburban theaters like the Beechwold or the Clinton that I was haunting at the time. I do remember going to the Clinton to see Far From the Madding Crowd, the financial and critical bomb that threatened to cut off Schlesinger in his prime (just before his triumph with Midnight Cowboy). I went by myself and saw a couple girls from my school there, looking at me and discussing me, perhaps, this odd boy going to romantic movies alone. After Zhivago I was not going to miss another chance to study Julie Christie.

Dr. Zhivago was another roadshow presentation like Sound of Music or 2001. It hit Hunt's Cinestage in a roadshow presentation on May 25. I saw it in 70mm and its color and scope knocked me out. There was an intensely romantic Maurice Jarre score; I’d loved his music in Lawrence of Arabia and Zhivago was if anything even more melodic. The single biggest factor that made it a personal milestone, though, was the blonde majesty of Julie Christie, fresh out of the Royal Shakespeare and already an Oscar-winner for Darling. I was fourteen and well-past puberty—dad and I had gone through the talk—and the attraction was profoundly sexual.

I’ve mentioned elsewhere the shift in sexual ideation from Donna Reed to Christie. The Donna Reed Show ran from 1958 to 1966; I’d been smitten with Reed and her blonde perm as she led her family through the paces of a better than routine situation comedy. Reed was blonde and pretty, yes, but above all she was strong, unflappable, and smart. She was the capable mom, but not the woman I found attractive by age fourteen. I didn’t care how well Julie Christie could handle a domestic crisis. There was sense of danger with her (danger for me), of passionate extremes that would obliterate the mundane day-to-day. There was something about her—I still can’t precisely identify what it was—that made me want to be next to her, to hold her, to touch her. This was my profoundly typical passage into adult sexuality.