“Paranormal Activity” took this year’s Blair Witch Memorial Award for viral-marketed zero-budget hit — grossing well over $100 million to date — and “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire” has defied the film industry’s cumulative demographic and marketing wisdom to the tune of $40 million or so. If the major studios’ Indiewood specialty arms are dead or dying, old-fashioned film-festival acquisitions suddenly look like good business again.

My problem, which may be strictly my own, is that I found a lot of this year’s indie hits to be predictable, formulaic and fundamentally uninteresting. The top-grossing foreign-language film of 2009, to date, is “Coco Before Chanel,” a movie I saw and declined to review because it bored me too much. (Anne Fontaine is one of my favorite French directors, but I thought she was poorly matched to star Audrey Tautou and the orthodox biopic material.) Pedro Almodóvar‘s movie-movie noir “Broken Embraces” may wind up giving Fontaine’s film a run for the money, but while I found many of the individual elements in “Broken Embraces” beautiful — the photography, the seriocomic tone, the central performances of Penélope Cruz and Lluís Homar — it never congealed into a satisfying whole. (I’ve been told to see it again, and I plan to.)

One major foreign release still lies ahead: Michael Haneke’s austere black-and-white period piece “The White Ribbon,” already winner of the Palme d’Or at Cannes and the best-film and best-director prizes at the European Film Awards. While it’s a typically dark and enigmatic Haneke work that will surely attract some big-city viewers, it lacks the contemporary setting and the Lynchian combination of violence and mystery that made his “Caché” a surprise hit a few holiday seasons back.

One imported hit that I think is being oddly dismissed by so-called serious critics is Lone Scherfig’s “An Education,” a pitch-perfect pre-feminist coming-of-age fable that ought to make Carey Mulligan a movie star. It struck me as a lovely film with a depth of moral seriousness that’s partly masked by its sets, costumes and charm — and I’m afraid that even in the year of Kathryn Bigelow‘s unexpected resurgence, “An Education” is the victim of some latent sexism.

As for Bigelow’s “Hurt Locker,” anointed by critics’ groups from coast to coast as an Oscar front-runner, uh … how can I put this? I liked it. I’m a Bigelow fan from way back to “Near Dark.” Way worse things could happen than to see her on the stage of the Kodak Theatre clutching a statuette (and looking fabulous while her ex-husband glowers in the audience) come March. But “The Hurt Locker” just doesn’t speak to me the way the films on this list do. It was terrific, visceral cinema — but I don’t treasure the experience of seeing it, or yearn to repeat it. And let’s face it: While the acting was excellent, the film’s dialogue, what little there was of it, was Michael Bay-grade awful.

So what about the movies I did like? From the Hollywood-financial point of view, it’s a whole lotta nothing. Only two movies on my list grossed more than $1 million in the United States — and only one of those made it past $2 million. I’ve got two films by American directors, only one of them made in the U.S. I swear, none of this was deliberate. I’m not consciously trying to come off like that snotty, unshaven alt-weekly critic from 1989, talking up Balkan-dialect movies nobody but him has ever seen. (I wasn’t even that guy in 1989, or not exactly.)

I do think, however, that the aesthetic conservatism that dominates American cinema at the moment — expressed on the indie fringes by a talky, unadventurous and fatally dull strain of neorealism — has taken its toll on me. I’m like a junkie GI who’s come home from Saigon and discovered to his dismay that the shit on the streets just ain’t strong enough, man! Screw these movies where people with bad haircuts sit around and drone on about their relationships, humorously or otherwise! I want Filipina transgender hookers, imitation mid-’60s crime flicks, opaque Argentine class warfare, mean-spirited Jewish fables and the completely inappropriate glorification of violent British convicts! And here they are.

Seriously, though — I didn’t put any movies on this list because I respected them. Fuck that for a game of darts, as my late Uncle Liam said on many occasions. These are the movies that dazzled me this year, that disoriented me and shifted my reality prism and messed with my head. If in most cases hardly anybody else saw them or liked them, if the great humming and coughing steamroller of defective late capitalism squished them flat without even noticing, that is strictly not my fault. Happy happies, everybody. I’ll catch you on the flippety-flop.

“Hunger“ — British visual artist Steve McQueen’s debut feature, about the Bobby Sands-IRA hunger strikes of the early 1980s, is so implausible on so many levels it’s a wonder it works at all. Straddling the boundary between narrative and experimental cinema, between pure visuals and talky drama, between Terrence Malick and, say, Sean O’Casey, “Hunger” is in fact one of the decade’s true breakthroughs. Plus, people on all sides of the Irish-British debate disliked it, which suggests McQueen was doing something right.

“Bronson“ — Another fact-based British drama that isn’t anything like what you’d think when you hear that phrase. Nicolas Winding Refn’s operatic, visionary work about the legendary, ultra-violent English convict who took the name Charlie Bronson shamelessly breaks all the rules and wears a pathological obsession with Kubrick’s “Clockwork Orange” on its sleeve. I shouldn’t rank it remotely this high, but I will anyway.

“Il Divo“ — Rigorous, adventurous and explosive, Paolo Sorrentino’s remarkable film takes the cinematic bravado of Martin Scorsese and the technical wizardry of David Fincher and applies them to the indecipherable story of Giulio Andreotti, the fabled “Black Pope” of 20th-century Italian politics. Part of the dazzling renaissance of Italian cinema, which may look sudden from here but has been brewing for a while. (See “Gomorrah,” below.)

“A Serious Man“ — I blow hot and cold on the Coens, but even their weaker films (e.g., “Burn After Reading,” “The Ladykillers“) reward repeat viewings — and their better films reward them even more. This utterly delicious black-comic Jewish fable, set in a middle-class Midwestern suburb in the ’60s (a place that still carries buried undertones of Eastern European shtetl) is among their funniest and darkest films, both humane and ruthless in a way that’s highly Coen-specific. As the last shot faded to black, I sat up in my seat and said, “Oh my fucking God!” Which is precisely right.

“The White Ribbon” — Michael Haneke’s enigmatic and violent black-and-white yarn, set in rural Germany just before World War I, doesn’t open until Dec. 30. I’ll get to it then in more detail, but as is customary with the chilly Austrian-born director, “The White Ribbon” is a slippery fish. Ostensibly a parable about the roots of fascism, it’s also a tale of faith, punishment, love and the petty cruelties of ordinary life. It’s another of Haneke’s unresolvable shaggy-dog mysteries, and simultaneously the most beautiful, most chilling and most forgiving of them.

“The Limits of Control“ — People I know mostly either loved or hated Jim Jarmusch’s stylish and surprisingly political twist on the ’60s European crime film, driven by Spanish settings, Christopher Doyle’s gorgeous photography and Isaach De Bankolé’s iconic star presence and devastating wardrobe. Seriously, what’s not to like? But then, I don’t think this movie is about its conclusion (which some find dogmatic) or its reiterative-fragments-of-dialogue story. It’s more like a Bach fugue, and it’s about the moments, the silences, the faces and bodies and clothes, the endless cups of coffee. One of the indie pioneer’s best ever.

“Serbis“ — Based on the horrified word of mouth at Cannes in 2008, I didn’t see Filipino director Brillante Mendoza’s heartwarming family saga set in a dead-end porn theater until this year, when it had a very brief Stateside appearance. Last time I depend on gossip from a pack of prudish Europeans! Sure, the Family theater (yuk, yuk) is about the sleaziest place in the world — and the film includes one legendarily disgusting scene — but Mendoza’s portrayal of the struggling family behind it, and the diverse and colorful sex trade it supports, has tremendous lyricism and compassion.

“35 Shots of Rum“ — With virtually no audience outside France, Claire Denis has become that nation’s leading chronicler of social change and dislocation. This hushed, minimalist portrait of an Afro-French father and daughter on the Parisian fringes may be Denis’ loveliest and most challenging film. “35 Shots of Rum” builds slowly toward an enormous emotional payoff, and along the way offers one of the most heartbreaking and unlikely uses of a pop song in film history (the song in question being the Commodores’ “Night Shift”).

“Gomorrah“ — In adapting a nonfiction book by Roberto Saviano about the Camorra (or Neapolitan mafia), Italian director Matteo Garrone draws on his nation’s rich cinematic history for this big-canvas social drama that invokes Antonioni, Fellini and Francis Coppola. A spectacular big-screen accomplishment, whose gorgeous bleakness is well-captured in a brand-new two-disc special edition DVD from the Criterion Collection.

“The Headless Woman“ — Argentine director Lucrecia Martel’s gorgeous and deeply troubling ’70s class-warfare drama was booed at Cannes, which is way beyond ironic given its themes of blind privilege and willful ignorance. Martel tries to break through the language of conventional film and show us how her central character, an upper-middle-class blond woman (María Onetto), lapses into amnesia rather than face the consequences of her own borderline-criminal conduct. Like every other film on this list, “Headless Woman” compels a second viewing — and then compels you to recognize that it’s shown you things you still don’t understand. (Now available on DVD from Strand Releasing.)

Honorable mentions (alphabetical): Lars von Trier’s bloody, beautiful and fatally insane “Antichrist“ established, in case anyone was wondering, that he no longer has an American audience; Andrew Bujalski’s “Beeswax“ was ignored by both the hipster audience that used to like him and the grown-up audience that should; Almodóvar’s “Broken Embraces,” on which see above; Scherfig’s “An Education,” also discussed above; Terry Gilliam’s gorgeous and daring “Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus,” with a wonderful last performance by Heath Ledger; Götz Spielmann’s twisty Euro-noir “Revanche“; Carlos Reygadas’ Mexican-Mennonite adultery drama “Silent Light“; Nina Paley’s irrepressible (and uncopyrighted!) feminist take on the “Ramayana,” “Sita Sings the Blues“; Pablo Larraín’s demented Pinochet-era disco fable “Tony Manero“; Zack Snyder’s brooding, black-comic “Watchmen.”

Check in tomorrow for Andrew O’Hehir’s picks for best movie of the decade.

And so in some ways, “Broken Embraces” is hardly a surprise at all. The picture, complicated and multilayered, is a melodramatic fantasy about what it means to live for movies — to treat them as your lifeblood, or a source of oxygen. This is a picture with not one but two movies-within-a-movie nestled inside, Russian-doll style. In the movie’s early moments, a blind screenwriter named Harry Caine (Lluís Homar) learns that an infamous, scandal-ridden Madrid captain of industry, Ernesto Martel, has died. That name means nothing to us — yet — but clearly it means something to him, as well as to his longtime friend and assistant, Judit (the wonderful, strong-willed and strong-jawed Blanca Portillo). These two are further perplexed, and distressed, when a mysterious and possibly untrustworthy documentary filmmaker, with the club-kid name Ray X (Rubén Ochandiano), appears at Harry’s door, proposing a collaboration with him. As the picture unfolds, we learn that Ray X hasn’t always been Ray X. And Harry Caine has not always been Harry Caine, nor has he always been blind. Seemingly in another life, he was a director named Mateo Blanco, and Martel (played, with lizardlike precision, by José Luis Gómez) bankrolled one of his films. The link between all of these characters is a woman of almost unearthly charisma, an actress with an unsavory past: In “Broken Embraces” Penélope Cruz’s Lena is less a character than a spirit — she’s the ghostly representation of every face you’ve ever seen in the movies that you can’t forget.

“Broken Embraces” offers some of the wild sensuality and go-for-broke passion of early Almodóvar, evoking the florid eroticism of movies like “Law of Desire” and, possibly my personal favorite, the deliciously perverse “Matador,” a jungle flower of a movie about death and romantic obsession. Even more obvious are the nods to “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” (longtime Almodóvar associate Rossy de Palma appears in a candy-colored cameo).

But as passionate as “Broken Embraces” is, it’s also disciplined, precise, fiercely controlled — it has a hard-on for classicism. The film feels borrowed, piece by piece, from the past, like a mosaic rebuilt from memory. It’s the sort of thing that invites serious film geekery: There’s an overt mention of Michael Powell’s “Peeping Tom” and a clip from Roberto Rossellini’s “Journey to Italy.” More subtle — if “subtle” is even remotely the right word for such a melodramatic flourish — is a staircase tumble straight out of “Leave Her to Heaven” and a score (by Alberto Iglesias) that carries conscious echoes of the vortex of strings Bernard Herrmann created for “Vertigo.”

But I think the spot-the-references challenge is a bit of a trap: As fun as it is to recognize and call out all those familiar bits and pieces, to fixate too much on them is to miss the lush beauty of the whole. “Broken Embraces” is one of the most gorgeous-looking movies Almodóvar has ever made, which is saying a lot for a filmmaker who has always been so deeply in love with visual splendor. The picture was shot by Rodrigo Prieto — the first picture he’s done for Almodóvar — and the collaboration seems to have kicked the filmmaker’s always-astonishing color sense into overdrive. Almodóvar and Prieto balance stark black-and-white — in the op-art pattern of a patio umbrella or the tiles of a floor — with a thousand variations on the color red, from the vibrant, suede-textured scarlet of a particularly sensuous pair of high-heeled pumps to the tomato-red of, well, tomatoes. In one sequence Lena, exhausted and repulsed after her cruel, controlling and much older lover has been grinding away at her in bed for hours, stares at herself in a bathroom mirror: There’s self-loathing in her eyes, a kind of deadened hardness, and her mouth, turned down as if yielding to the powerful gravity of disappointment, is a colorless slash. She knows she looks horrible, and says as much to the image in the mirror. But she knows she has to get back to the business at hand, and so, minutes later, she reenters the bedroom where her lover is waiting — if, that is, he hasn’t literally screwed himself to death — only now her face is dewy and alive with color: Her eyes glitter, her lips are once again pillowy and crimson. She’s like Dorothy crossing through the doorway between Kansas and Oz, although this particular Oz isn’t a place of wonder and discovery but of habit and unhappiness.

Cruz’s Lena is the soul of the mystery Almodóvar is spinning out here. The blind writer and former filmmaker, Harry/Mateo, is the lost explorer who is, quite literally, wandering in the dark, in search of the meaning behind images. Homar’s performance captures the character’s virility as a form of sensitivity: Harry/Mateo is sexually feral, yet his very magnetism also makes him vulnerable. He can get whatever he wants with his good looks and charm, but hanging onto those things is another story — the woman he loves most in the world (you can guess who it is) is cruelly wrenched from his embrace, pretty much literally.

This really is Cruz’s movie: Almodóvar is her North Star — following his lead, she’s always found her surest and most graceful footing as an actress. In his last picture, the noir-comedy ghost story “Volver,” she played a no-nonsense yet glamorous earth mother: With her swooping eyeliner and tousled up-do’s, she was a direct visual reference to ’50s-era Sophia Loren. In “Broken Embraces,” she takes the idea even further, channeling a greatest hits of feminine icons: Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, the original 1959 “Ponytail” Barbie. At one point an on-set hairdresser tries to put her in a Goldie Hawn wig (causing Mateo to caution that he doesn’t want her to look like a “poodle”). In her American movies Cruz, with her helium-balloon squeak of a voice and exaggerated Cleopatra eyes, has often come off as too cute and too self-conscious. Almodóvar allows her to smolder, although he also lets her be adorable when it’s called for — and she is awfully adorable in that Barbie-doll ponytail.

But Cruz doesn’t coast on her beauty in “Broken Embraces,” and she has the kind of role that can be difficult to flesh out. To play the embodiment of dreams, do you really need more than a killer bod and a few strapless dresses? Maybe, at the bare minimum, that’s all it takes. Cruz adds something more here: There’s a crystalline hardness to her — her character is conscious, to a ruthless degree, of her own beauty, and she knows the price of everything it can buy her. Yet Cruz can go deeper, as we see in that moment where Lena stands before the mirror, seriously assessing, perhaps for the first time, the godforsaken territory of her own face. In that moment, Cruz embodies the exhaustion of being a dream girl. A few minutes later, when she’s had a chance to freshen up and apply some blush, her face will once again be a map of all the dreams and desires that movies can inspire in us. Almodóvar reaches out toward that dream in “Broken Embraces,” and we do, too — how could we not? Cruz’s is a celluloid face in a digital world, and for Almodóvar, there’s nothing so fragile and enduring.

Having reached the implausible age of 60, Almodóvar today is no longer the hedonistic queer-cinema rebel who exploded out of Madrid’s underground art scene with such mixtures of high camp, wrenching emotion and frank sexuality as “What Have I Done to Deserve This?,” “Law of Desire” and “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.” Both the filmmaker and the world around him have changed immensely during the intervening decades, and with his new film, “Broken Embraces,” Almodóvar reveals himself as one of the last great champions and defenders of classic European cinema.

Mind you, even as “Broken Embraces” openly channels such influences as Fellini’s “8 1/2,” Michael Powell’s “Peeping Tom” and Billy Wilder’s “Double Indemnity,” it’s very far from a dry film-school exercise. This is Almodóvar, after all, in whose hands the most extreme forms of melodrama become high art. “Broken Embraces” features a blind movie director with a double identity, a beautiful woman shoved down a spiral staircase by her scheming husband, hidden secrets within films and photographs, two different films-within-the-film (one of them a hilarious tribute to “Women on the Verge,” Almodóvar’s first international hit) and a self-loathing gay character so unappealing that only a gay filmmaker could get away with having created him.

Once again Almodóvar has cast Penélope Cruz, the star of his worldwide smash “Volver,” in a principal role. In becoming the muse of Almodóvar’s late career, Cruz seems to have discovered new range as an actress, while suddenly lending global star power to his pictures. Lena, Cruz’s character in “Broken Embraces,” is a more cryptic figure, the lost love of a middle-aged director and screenwriter who used to be called Mateo Blanco but has renamed himself Harry Caine (played by the suave Catalan actor Lluís Homar). While that name sounds like a figure from American pop culture — a mixture of Harry Lime, the Orson Welles character in “The Third Man,” and crime novelist James M. Cain, perhaps? — it’s partly just a puckish Almodóvar joke. (Say it fast.)

When the story begins in 21st-century Madrid, all we know is that Harry is blind and Lena is dead, and that Harry’s assistant Judit (Almodóvar regular Blanca Portillo) burns with long-unrequited love for him — and may know more about the byzantine back story to the tragedy than she’s letting on. Piece by piece and outrageous detail by outrageous detail, Almodóvar puts the scrambled chronology and gorgeous scenery of this story together, in a visually spectacular, sweepingly romantic and thematically ambitious film that is also, as he says, a “declaration of love” for cinema, which he describes as “not only a profession but also an irrational passion.”

I got the chance to discuss that passion with Almodóvar over coffee during his recent visit for the New York Film Festival premiere of “Broken Embraces.” Warm, expansive and utterly charming, he jumped back and forth between Spanish and English in a way I wish I could replicate on the page, leaving me and his interpreter scrambling to catch up.

Visiting New York always makes him think of his youth under the dictatorship, he said. “You know, all the biggest influences for young people at that moment were happening in New York and London. So for me New York has this romantic idea, it’s where the ideas come from. We were hooked on John Waters — well, John Waters is not New York. But Andy Warhol and the Factory, all the underground directors.

“And you can’t imagine how important the music was to us. I had a group at that time, but it was no big deal, there were lots of other groups who were better. A group like the New York Dolls, or the English New Wave — you can’t imagine how important that was to us. I don’t get the same feeling when I go to London today. For a Spanish boy in the ’70s, London meant freedom. But I don’t have that feeling in London anymore. London is just another place to visit. New York for me still feels like a place of fantasy.”

How much culture from outside, from New York or London, reached you during those years? Were people able to smuggle in records and books and films?

It came in a very surreptitious way. One found a way, especially during those last five years. When the dictator was older, it started seeping in, from Paris and London. Andy Warhol’s Factory films came to us from London. During the last five years of the dictator’s life, we started to be a part of Europe. I remember that in the Spanish Cinematheque, for example, we could see films that were forbidden to run commercially.

You know, it seems as if “Volver” was about the places that shaped you — La Mancha in Castile, where you were born, and Madrid, where you grew up. And this movie seems to be about the culture, and especially the films, that made you who you are.

It’s true that “Volver” is very much tied to my childhood memories of the region, of my mother, of the neighbors, of the place. Those stories in the film were all stories that I heard. I heard ghost stories, I heard stories about rape. I got to feel the female solidarity that was all around me.

In this particular film, yes, it’s very much about my relationship to cinema, my love for cinema. It’s about cinema’s capacity to be healing, in many ways, and to present a world that is a little less imperfect. If life is imperfect, cinema makes it just a little less imperfect. Given the fact that the main character [Caine/Blanco] is a film director, through him I’m expressing my admiration for film and filmmakers. For example, when the character says, “I want to hear Jeanne Moreau’s voice,” I’m speaking for myself. On the one hand he’s blind, but of course hers is one of the greatest voices in cinema.

When a younger character starts to list the names of all the DVDs on Harry’s shelves — Fellini, Bergman, Fritz Lang, Jules Dassin — well, of course there are many more directors that I love, but those are the ones that mean the most, those are the ones I’ve been watching on DVD.

This movie also feels sometimes like one of those symbolic American melodramas from the ’40s or ’50s. Like a Douglas Sirk movie, maybe. You’ve got a main character who is blind, a beautiful woman who’s in a wheelchair, a spiral staircase, all these elements.

Douglas Sirk is a director I very much admire, and I love that period of American drama. But I think a film like “High Heels” is more in line with the spectacular and lavish drama of Douglas Sirk. In this film the pain is much more palpable, and it’s a film that is less welcoming of tears, because of its hardness.

Now, there’s this puzzling fact that the main character has two names. He’s Mateo Blanco and he’s Harry Caine. One of the simplest ways of looking at that is he’s got a Spanish name and an American name. And as a filmmaker, maybe you’ve got a European side and an American side.

[Laughter.] I don’t know, it’s curious to discover that. I like the name Harry Caine. If you just pronounce it all together, it means huracán. I like that, for a director’s name. It was more, maybe, about creating this kind of Orson Welles character, even though the rich guy, Martel [husband of the Penélope Cruz character], is more like a Welles character. But there’s some sense there, some flavor, that that’s the way Orson Welles worked.

You know, there have been lots of films about filmmaking, films about directors. You definitely refer to several of them! But I’m not sure anyone’s ever used the making-of — the documentary about the film, that shows up later on the DVD — as a major plot device before.

Yeah, I’ve fantasized about this for years, about making a film that would just be the making-of, a fiction about a fiction. If you push the genre of the making-of a little further, you enter the terrain of voyeurism, of stealing images and stealing a particular intimacy. It enters a very secretive terrain. I’ve always fantasized that it would be through the making-of that you would discover some other story, the real story that is being told. That’s what I pulled into this movie, that motif.

Then there’s the damaged young gay man who shoots the making-of, and who becomes an important figure in the plot in several different ways. He bears a strong resemblance to the main character in Michael Powell’s “Peeping Tom,” which is like the voyeur-thriller of all time.

Yes, they talk about that in the movie, in fact. The difference is that he doesn’t want to hurt the director. He just wants to know more, to see more, to be present in his life. He likes the director very much, I’m talking about, he physically likes him.

Yes! I think you made that clear.

If I look back to my films and all the different references I have to other films, it is true that Michael Powell’s “Peeping Tom” comes up with some frequency. It’s not always very explicit, sometimes I only realize it in retrospect. What it is about “Peeping Tom” is this desire to capture an extreme sensation. In my film that is actually death itself, but it doesn’t have to be that. The desire to steal, to capture, an extremely strong sensation. In “Kika” you have it maybe even more explicitly. All reality shows have a little “Peeping Tom” in them, and those were what I wanted to denounce in “Kika.”

There’s a case in Brazil — maybe you’ve heard about this — about a man, a politician, who had a news show. It was known for always arriving before anyone else at the scene of a crime. Of course it turned out that he was actually organizing the crimes, organizing murders. That’s why he was always the first one there!

Another film that influenced me very much is Antonioni’s “Blow-Up.” That idea that a photograph — not necessarily a moving image — can reveal particular kinds of secrets, things that the naked eye cannot see.

I can only hope we’re going to see more of “Chicas y maletas” (“Girls and Suitcases”), the unfinished film that Harry and Lena were making. It’s really fun!

There is a lot more of “Chicas y maletas”! I could not refuse it. It was so funny when we were doing it, and I kept writing more and more things. At the end, I knew I couldn’t put so much footage into the real movie, because, you know, it was unbalanced. There’s at least 10 minutes more, and it’s a very funny piece.

Those will be on the DVD, and there were two or three sequences that I cut from the main film that were very good too. There’s one scene I really like that’s in a restaurant for blind people, where everything happens in the most incredible blackness or darkness that you can imagine. Have you heard about this? They started in Berlin. I’ve never experienced that kind of darkness, there’s no light that comes through. It’s as if you were in a void.

These restaurants were actually started by blind people, partly to educate their family members about their experiences. Now there’s one in Paris and it’s become a hot place to go. It’s not just for blind people, it’s for regular people who want to have a new experience. The theory is that all your other senses become more acute when you have no vision. So there’s a take — you can hardly see it — where a girl is giving a man a blow job in this restaurant.

You know, the one film by another director that we actually see in “Broken Embraces” is clearly important, and it could hardly be more different from your own film. On their last night together, Mateo and Lena are watching Rossellini’s “Journey to Italy” on television, a very spare and restrained film, shot in black-and-white.

Well, there’s an emotional relationship between the two films. You know, I don’t only like directors who are as flamboyant as I am, or as my films can sometimes be. “Journey to Italy” is a film I love, and the scene I show is a scene that always moves me very much, and in my film it moves Lena, my character, in the same way.

We see a moment where Rossellini captures a couple that was petrified at Pompeii, in the lava of Vesuvius. And the tour guide says, “This is a love that has been immortalized for eternity.” This affects Ingrid Bergman’s character very much because she recognizes that her relationship with the George Sanders character is not like that. It’s awful, it’s the opposite. She’s overcome with emotion and she turns away. On the other side of the screen, Penélope’s character is also very much moved by this scene, and wonders whether the love she shares with Lluís Homar’s character will survive through eternity. This is something that is inside her, but obviously she doesn’t say it. For me it was a voice-over that we don’t hear.

She does the opposite, holds on to her lover, and Lluis Homar does yet another thing. He stands up and takes a photograph of their embrace. He’s trying to immortalize their embrace in his own way.

You know, it’s delightful to sit here and talk about film with you. But you and I are old enough to remember when a new film by Bergman or Fellini — or maybe an early film by Almodóvar — was a major cultural event. People had to go see it, discuss it, argue about it. But there are so many other distractions these days, and I wonder whether cinema still matters in the same way.

I do get the sense that it’s not as important as it used to be. I think there are of course people like ourselves who are very much excited and moved by the discovery of new film. But in general, and speaking especially about younger audiences, I don’t think that film really has the same kind of significance.

If you think of Antonioni’s films, like “La Notte” or “L’Eclisse” — if they were released today, would they even find a market? Would they find an audience? It would be impossible to find that kind of reception and reaction. I just don’t know, we’ll have to see. As long as there’s a cinephile that is still willing to see those kinds of films, then those films will still mean something.

“Broken Embraces” opens Nov. 20 in New York and Dec. 11 in Los Angeles, with wider national release to follow.