Anything directed by Spielberg peaks my interest and it always has since childhood. Jaws terrified me, Close Encounters astounded me, Raiders enthralled me, I could go on. He has a way of turning a relatively unremarkable synopsis into a awe-inspiring heartfelt delight. If he were to direct a man reading the phonebook it'd be spectacular - except in this case. When I read that he was making a film about himself my heart sunk, I sighed, I shrugged and sat through this being reminded of all the interviews I watched where he recalls his childhood, it's all here. I felt myself ticking the boxes, yes, I remember he talked about this in that Jaws interview, oh and this part too. I felt I already knew what I was about to see which I hate. Don't get me wrong, this is a nice movie. The performances are above par, the sense of time and place sets the tone, but there's no high point, no great bits you revel in the next day in the office canteen. Perhaps as Spielberg creeps past seventy-five, it makes sense for him to reflect on a wonderful life lived by publishing the family scrapbook but is that what WE want? I have no interest in your upbringing any more than you have for mine - anyone's for that matter, and his included, sorry. I want to be bedazzled. For a man that could make any movie on any topic, I feel that Spielberg has forgotten that we're all still kids at heart and to this day (some of us in our forties) we yearn for aliens, ghosts, dangerous animals and hero's. What can I say? It's a Spielberg movie but it's not a SPIELBERG movie.