University professors. We love them, we loathe them: the personal stories, the idiosyncrasies, the elbow patches, the tenure, the old corduroys with rubber bands around the ankle, the power to crush souls and foster dreams, the tattered, Indiana Jones briefcases, the sit down bicycles with the tall orange flag. They have a cache about them, cushioned and propped up by years of extended study, education and a narrow, selective slice of exposure behind them. Oft so myopic in their scope, they can serve as one's personal guru, the know-all and be-all of Micronesian anthropology, nitrate film preservation or marine invertebrates; or, they can be the guy who has no idea who The Bluth Family is, who the Kia Hamsters are or the fact that the Haunted Mansion switches to a Nightmare Before Christmas overlay at Hallowe'en. Sad, really.

No worries for these citizens of the quad; they have the benefit of rarely, if ever, being told they're wrong. Similar to the Green Blazer of Augusta, university professors, even the lowly associate professors, are bequeathed the Cloak of Pomposity: a golden shroud of turgidity that protects the wearer from the slings and arrows of correction and opposing viewpoints. College offers great opportunity for intelligent, sharing discourse and confidence building that gives you a priceless carriage and posture of character that will serve you through life. It can also beat you over the head with a sock full of condescension and feelings of inadequacy, especially if you're a nervous and shy sixteen-year old doing her best just to find the right classrooms and fight all her instincts to hide in the library until graduation. Walt Disney said, "With every laugh, there should be a tear." Professors dole out both with great efficiency.

Be they wizards of political science, studio arts, cultural anthropolgy, graduate psychology, French architecture or, Heaven help you, English lit or Italian film theory, they can tell you the sky is plaid with a imperious certainty that leaves no room for debate and a strong desire to switch to STEM studies: Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics. Sure, those can be some of the most brazen and haughty of all species of professor; but numbers and science don't lie, usually can't be fudged and don't take kindly to touchy-feely, social interpretation. If it is, then it is; if it ain't, then it ain't.

Don't mistake me, I love the college professor-as-animal. Dear Old Dad spent more than a few years teaching undergrad and graduate psychology at Chapman University, University of LaVerne and University of Miami: student teacher there, I believe. Note to all freshmen, he loathed you most of all. "Always with an excuse," he'd say. "Hey, Dr. G, I'm like, so tired 'cause of last night.", or, "I have midterms for all my classes this week. Could I maybe, like, take yours later?" Charmers one and all, each more brilliant than the last. As kind, supportive and helpful as he and his elbow patches were, and are, he was also rarely wrong, and still is. Proffer an opposing political view? He'll smile, pat me on the head and say, "Where did I go wrong?"

Case in point wherein not all professors are always correct. My husband, many of you know him as the Viking, endured a veritable bumper crop of the cocksure whilst pursuing both his B.A. in Radio, TV and Film and his M.F.A. in Film and Television Production. No Flashbacks was a strict tenet of one screenwriting professor, a fellow whom had had some success writing for Little House on the Prairie. "Contrived, bad writing," according to Dr. D, was the hallmark of the flashback sequence. Years later, it's still one of the silliest rules of media writing either of us have ever encountered. To date, it brings us regular joy and laughter as we watch countless films and television productions which generously employ flashbacks. Thank you, Dr. D, for years of recurring and evergreen, hearty chuckles.

One final thought: pondering going to your fave prof with an idea that will change the world? You have the next gene splicer, the next data scraper, the next drive-through cataract eraser? You might want to fund your venture privately and then apply for that patent yourself. Depending on the institution, products and inventions, including intellectual property, nurtured under the auspices of a university staff and resources, may very well become property of the school in question. How do you think universities end up with so many patents? (Check with your own family attorney. This is not legal advise and I am not an attorney. I do know a bunch of good lawyer and judge jokes, though.) In the words of Donald Trump, Trust Your Instincts. Want an example? I have one. Wanna see it? Here it goes.

Picture it. Orange County, California. 1988. A young, energetic, tow-headed undergrad approaches his Communications Law professor wit

h an idea that would time shift television. The idea? Pre-record to an external hard drive everything coming into a television; play TV off the hard drive and skip the commercials. The would-be adviser in question claimed succinctly and with a sureness only a uni prof could posses, "They would never let that happen." Today, They call it Tivo. Trust your instincts.

Notably Flashback-based Films

Amadeus

Interview with the Vampire

Hugo

The Hangover

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

My Last Five Girlfriends

Riding in Cars with Boys

Hannah and Her Sisters

Forrest Gump

Slumdog Millionaire

Titanic

Moulin Rouge!

127 Hours

Ditto for TV

Doctor Who

How I Met Your Mother

Lost

Once Upon a Time

Family Guy

Poirot

Highlander

Clearly, there are scads of others fine, and poor, examples: vintage as well as contemporary. Hit me back with your fave flashbacks!

Looking for more film and TV talk from Moi? From Cecil B. DeMille to Bob's Burgers, I dig it and love to write about it. Hop on the H-town Celluloid Express and head to JennyPop's Film and TV Review tab!