Spielberg finally getting around to a movie about his parents may be redundant for some—a hat on 50 years worth of hats—but waiting this long to make it is exactly what gives the film its power. It’s rosy and romantic but not blinkered, a clarity only achieved by looking back after 75 years. And while it’s not unfair to label this as a Magic of the Movies fest (you’re treated to the requisite image of an awestruck child below a projector beam before you can crack open your Raisinets), it’s much more about the selfishness inherent to chasing one’s dreams and the collateral damage that comes with realizing them. Spielberg’s movies are rarely complex but they are almost always deceptively simple. I cannot get this movie out of my mind.