A story about a fish. Let it be a lesson to you.

A couple of years ago my parents, like a lot of elderly people, suddenly took to cruises. And in order to share their new-found love, they insisted that my wife and I join them on one.

My wife and I, just so you know, are more accustomed to kayaking the headwaters of the Amazon than standing in line at the floating buffet, so when we got an opportunity to take part in one of the "activities", we jumped.

We went snorkeling.

It's not that I'm bragging, but I've done my share of SCUBA diving. So the buoys they put up to mark the edge of the 12-foot-deep "safe zone" didn't keep us in. Before you knew it, we were free diving out past the jetty.

It must have been about 35 feet deep, but I have pretty good lungs so I had no trouble making it to the bottom and spending some time there. And that's where I saw the fish.

The fish was huge. About six and a half feet long, just hanging out above a depression in the sand. And he was beautiful.

So beautiful that I couldn't help but swim up at him, taunting him with silly "fishy fishy fishy!" grippy motions I made with my fingers as I came at him.

After the second time, I made my wife come down and take a look.

And this, among other reasons, is why I love my wife. She came. And not just as an observer, either. She came at the fish as enthusiastically as I did. Both of us coming at him broadside, our arms out in front of us, crunching up our little fingers over and over like we were aiming to tickle a two-year-old.

When we got about five feet of Mr. Fish, I had a sudden realization. I recognized him. I'd seen his kin, although they'd never been quite that monstrous.

Barracuda.

I gasped, grabbed my wife by the hand –– being sure to cover the engagement ring that –– even at that depth –– sparkled in a way that only a really expensive, flawless, colorless, perfect cut diamond could, and hauled her to the surface.

The barracuda never moved.

It could have. It could have taken off my wife's hand in an instant. It could have reamed me for having dared to enter its world. I think it was stunned by our –– my –– utter, complete ignorance of its power.

You're probably wondering what my point is. Well, I'll tell you.

This is my story. It's typical of the stories I tell, which often involve my doing something completely boneheaded but somehow managing to survive, whether it's hunting for an ATM in the slums of Buenos Aires or hiking up Half Dome with nothing more than a biscuit and a camera or climbing over the 20-foot fence at the Italian embassy in Tel Aviv to play tennis on their court.

We all have our stories. My father's stories all come down to how clever he is. My wife's stories are all about how people turn out to be surprisingly good.

I can't tell my wife's stories –– at least not with the authenticity that she can. And I don't want to tell my father's stories because I'd feel like an asshole for trying.

And here comes the part where this is relevant to film: You tell the stories you tell because they have meaning for you. And film is nothing more than pre-planned, structured, extraordinarily expensive storytelling.

What has meaning for me is the intersection of naive belief and responsibility. And if you look closely, everything I do –– every screenplay I write, every film I shoot, every story I tell –– is about that. Even my little tale about my exploits with the fish.

You don't need a dozen film credits to find out what turns you on, story wise. Think of your stories, the ones you tell the girl you're hoping to sleep with, the boss you want to let you off the hook for being late.

I'll bet that once you think of a half-dozen, you'll see a pattern.

Where do themes come from, anyway?

Remember my really smart friend Bill? He's the one going off on postmodernism and how striking a non-judgmental pose is what accounts for the dearth of good films.

I've been corresponding with him about themes and we've come to a bit of a disagreement.

First, a little background. Both Bill and I started our lives as writers. For what it's worth, I happen to think he's quite talented. And the feeling is reciprocated.

Bill's contention is that a theme is crafted from the very beginning. Or to quote a quote he quoted to me, "People want to read your point of view. Otherwise reading your (piece) has been a waste of time."

I'm not so sure. I mean, yeah, when you're writing an essay, you need to know what point you're making. But when it comes to fiction, you're telling a story first and foremost, teaching a lesson is way –– and I mean way –– secondary.

When I first write, I actually make an effort not to think about a theme. Something compels me to tell a story and I just go with it.

Once the first draft is complete, I read it over and several themes generally present themselves. The most poignant example of that was a screenplay I wrote about six years ago about a kid who's so good at hide and seek that nobody finds him for 20 years. It didn't occur to me while I was writing it, but the story came to me as a response to my circumstances. I had just discovered in a very sudden and spectacular way that I was an idiot for trusting my financial affairs to someone else, and the theme that emerged as dominant in the story was that sooner or later, we all have to act like grownups and take responsibility for our own lives.

When I rewrite, that's when I'm aware that I'm working with a particular theme or themes. A lot of times I find that my subconscious has presented imagery, story lines, and characters that support the theme, but once I'm aware that the theme is there, I can often sharpen its message.

As a director, there's no rewriting. If you don't shoot an image, you can't exactly rework your piece to include it. The story themes have to be present in the writing, but visual themes are often a matter of some Zen kind of hyper-awareness that makes you go, "I don't know why, but I think it would be a good idea to grab a shot of that."

I used to go in with a thematic intention, but as with my writing I've come to discover that doing so is actually counterproductive. If I'm looking for a particular image, I make myself blind to the opportunities that present themselves. It's a weird kind of trust that you have to have, but if I'm prepared in every other way, the universe provides.

Does that help?

Three really smart people, and not just because they agree with me.

Yesterday, I got to be on the receiving end of three opinions by three really smart people, each of whom probably has no clue that the other two exist. What's really neat is that these three opinions are superficially distinct, but manage to overlap in an area that's really important to you, Aspiring Filmmaker.

Let's start with my really smart friend Bill. We've been emailing back and forth about films for a while, and yesterday morning I got a message from him in which he contends that post-modernism accounts for the wealth of lousy films being made. His point is that most filmmakers these days are afraid to incorporate real themes into their work because real themes require taking a moral stand, even if the moral stand is unimpeachable: Work is dignity. The love of money is the root of all evil. Family is everything. That sort of thing.

By a perfect coincidence, just after reading Bill's email, I read really smart Seth Godin's blog about magician Steve Cohen. Seth's point was that Steve Cohen makes quite a good living by doing several things, one of which is, and I'm quoting here, "He tells a story to this group, a story that matches their worldview. He doesn't try to teach non-customers a lesson or persuade them that they are wrong or don't know enough about his art. Instead, he makes it easy for his happy customers to bring his art to others."

In other words, he incorporates themes that his audiences will not only find palatable, but will nod along with.

There's no denying that a lot of vacuous Hollywood films make money. Would they make more (an objective, if not entirely complete measure of success) if they actually stood for something?

I've always thought so, but what clinched it for me was something my buddy Jeff said.

Jeff is a another really smart person. He's a doctor –– a liver and kidney specialist. But he doesn't waste his brain theorizing about film.

Jeff's daughter is the same age as mine, and as we were talking yesterday he mentioned how much he appreciated 'Yertle the Turtle'. Especially its message, summed up in the last line of the book: "And turtles, of course ... all the turtles are free / As turtles, and maybe, all creatures should be."

So there you have it. Three really smart people who each in his own way says the same thing:

1) Your story needs a theme.

2) Your theme must be something your audience will connect with.

Oh, and don't give me that crap about how you don't need to bother with themes because you don't want to be Ingmar Bergman or anything, you just want to entertain.

'Pirates of the Caribbean' (the first one), 'The Incredibles', and 'Shaun of the Dead' are unquestionably three of the most entertaining films, well, ever. They also all happen to transcend traditionally mindless genres and incorporate powerful themes into their storytelling.

And 'Yertle the Turtle' is for three-year-olds.

Got it?