Well, just as I was finally beginning to like Will Smith, he turns all juvenile and jerky.

I get that he was defending his woman, but his attack was late-night barroom behavior. I think that these rich, powerful celebrities forget who puts them on their arrogant pedestals. We do, with our wallets. And I think we have the right to judge them. In my mind, he blew it.

My problem is that I go back too far, when movie stars were just movie stars. And I was an expert. From age seven, until my mid-teens’ job schedule, I was at the flicks every Saturday.

During those impressionable years, the price never changed. It was 12 cents. Mom usually gave me exactly 17 cents for a ticket and a candy bar. If she was feeling generous, or I had been especially good, I received 22 cents. Popcorn money! She was generous more often than I was good.

My ticket was admission to my dream world – another venue of my early education. Those Saturdays began a devotion to the cinema that has carried forward into three generations.

The matinees began with three or four cartoons. I became a huge Bugs Bunny fan and still use some of his one-liners today (”Whadda maroon!”). Donald Duck, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd and gang were predictable but fun and I guess that’s where I learned that laughing really felt good. The Roadrunner began outwitting Wylie Coyote a few years later and I was hooked.

After the cartoons came the “B” movie, usually an “oater,” or a “whodunit,” hopefully Boston Blackie. Blackie was an ex-con turned detective who was “an enemy to those who make him an enemy, friend to those who have no friend.” Enthralled by his crime-solving abilities, I was proud he was from Boston.

The “B” movie was followed by the Movietone News bringing the world-at-large to our small town. Those films from Europe, Australia and Africa, began my dreaming about seeing those places.

The “A” movie that followed was often a star cowboy movie. Roy Rogers, “The King of the Cowboys,” rode his palomino, Trigger, in 100 movies. After Roy married Dale Evans, they made most films together.

I was a devoted fan of Hopalong Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, and the Cisco Kid, but my all-time favorite was Gene Autry, “The Singing Cowboy.” I guess being raised by a single mother had me on the lookout for a father figure. Gene’s smile, kindness, and upright goodness captured me. Until one memorable night in the Boston Garden:

The Garden was where the Celtics and the Bruins played and where Mom treated me to the Ice Capades and Ice Follies. Wandering the Garden’s tunnels during intermissions, I knew the layout pretty well. As a special treat for my 11th birthday, Mom bought tickets to Gene Autry’s Rodeo. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I was somehow going to get his autograph.

During intermission I headed for the star dressing room entrance. Unbelievably, Gene was standing outside with three other men. Smoking. They had his shirt lifted in the back, trying to readjust either a girdle or back brace. I watched patiently while they ignored me. Finally, I tugged on a sleeve, asked for an autograph and was told, “Get lost, kid.” Devastation. If he’d only known I was his biggest fan. But he didn’t. I fell out of love trudging back to my seat.

Back at the movies, I also loved the big musicals, often singing the tunes for a week afterwards. Knowing I adored Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, Mom eventually gave in to dancing lessons. Sadly, I flunked both toe and tap.

The goofy, fun comedies with Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis or Abbott and Costello were laugh-a-minute. I paid attention, learning what was really funny. And romantic comedies were very important. I desperately wanted to look like Doris Day when I grew up, but my gene pool didn’t cooperate. I did, however, study makeup, hairstyles and, yes, how to kiss.

Looking back, the 12 cents I paid every week was tuition. I watched carefully the lip-to-lip closeups, knowing that when that time came, I’d be ready.

What a dream world I lived in. The first boy in college to French kiss me got a rude surprise: “What are you doing? It’s NOT DONE like that!” I knew. I’d been to the Rita Hayworth School of Kissing.

How much lighter and fanciful those days were compared to today’s reality films. Yes, I love a serious movie that leaves me with something to think about. But when I want to laugh, or simply grin for 90 minutes, I whistle up Singin’ in the Rain or Ferris Beuller’s Day Off.

It’s seldom on a Saturday afternoon.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.