The Harry Potter movies — six down, two to go — occupy a strange place in my moviegoing experience. I anticipate them wildly and strive to see them on opening day whenever possible, yet I generally forget them rather quickly afterward. They run together as a blend of potions, broomsticks and Every Flavor Beans.
I feel, in a way, as if they aren’t “real” movies. They are dramatizations of books I’ve loved, a way to bring life to visions swirling in my head since reading J.K. Rowling’s tale. But I can’t imagine watching these films having not read the books (unlike, say, The Godfather or The Bourne Identity). They are very expensive companion pieces.
Meet Me In Montauk 