I realize that only a morally bankrupt admirer of a director who behaved selfishly and hurtfully 45 years ago would even flirt with paying to see Roman Polanski’s WWII-era masterpiece, but…

When I was a young buck I had this primal thing for Jovan musk cologne, which hit stores sometime in the mid ‘70s. The scent did something to me, and perhaps for me. I had this possibly bogus idea, you see, that occasional Jovan slap-ons might have upped my batting average, which was in the .350 to .400 range during the Ford, Carter and Reagan administrations.

Yesterday I bought a reduced-cost bottle of the stuff (CVS discount) and the scent just time-travelled me…whoooosh! Decades were erased in a flash. I was suddenly Marty McFly, driving my 1975 VW Fastback and wearing flared jeans and puka shells and Frye boots. Aromas are as good for time travel as Rod Taylor’s valour-seat, spinning-wheel device in George Pal’s The Time Machine (‘60).