History is being rewritten. The seventies are now seen as the advent of the blockbuster era, the decade that launched “Jaws” and “Star Wars,” which changed the paradigm forever, to not only high concept fare purveyed during the summer months, but high grosses too. If you’re not swinging for the fences today, you’re not in the game at all.

But it didn’t used to be that way.

It didn’t used to be that the Third Street Promenade was the epicenter of entertainment. As a matter of fact, Santa Monica was sleepy, all the traffic was east of the 405, walk down the Promenade and you might encounter tumbleweeds on your way to the $2 movie, no, all the action was in Westwood, just south of UCLA, where you could not get a parking spot and all the films opened.

Let’s see, how many movie theatres were there in Westwood?

Well, there were the Manns and the UAs and the… Nine edifices and more screens. And the Mack Daddy was the National, you entered on floor one but then ascended to floor two, where the seats poured down to a giant screen. That was the number one theatre in Los Angeles, possibly the world. But it no longer exists. It was torn down, L.A. is constantly reinventing itself, and for those of us who remember those days…we cannot forget when Westwood ruled and the movies did too, when the idea of lining up an hour before just to see the latest Brian De Palma flick was a common event. Movies were our lifeblood. Punk came along and put a dent in corporate rock, new wave too, but the movies didn’t waver, they paid dividends right up until…

“Heaven’s Gate.”

Now the focus has been on how that flick killed United Artists, but it goes unsaid that after that flop the artists lost control, the studios took the power back. And sure, Spielberg got his own way, but he was never one of the auteurs, I’ll even argue he’s a hack. He sold entertainment, slick stuff, whereas the greats from that era, their work had edges, it touched our souls.

Let’s start with “The Last Picture Show.” Peter Bogdanovich’s masterpiece. Dark and in parts unseemly, with a naked Cybill Shepherd to boot, watching that flick made you want to go to Texas, because it was so different, unlike the suburbs where I grew up, the movies were a window into an alternative universe.

And you can say “Paper Moon” was more mainstream, but really, creating a Dust Bowl flick in black and white? No one likes to leave any money on the table anymore, they fear alienating part of the audience, they won’t take risks, which is why the movies have faltered.

Oh, I know… You’re going to point to the small flick that floats your boat, the record that penetrates your brain, but what you don’t realize is back then the HITS did this. There was an experimental marginal fringe, but the best and the brightest were given free rein and told stories we just could not get enough of.

Like “Thunderbolt and Lightfoot,” where Jeff Bridges lit up the screen and jump-started a career. Shot in Big Sky country, you marveled at the world created, you had no idea who Michael Cimino was, but you knew the flick was good.

And we did know who the directors were, they were stars often bigger than the actors. Like Francis Ford Coppola. Not only is the “Godfather” saga probably the best movie ever made, Coppola continued to test limits and I went at noon to the Cinerama Dome to see an unspooling of “Apocalypse Now” months before it opened wide, it too played for a week, just like the “Deer Hunter.”

“Thunderbolt and Lightfoot” might have gotten little respect, but the buzz on the “Deer Hunter” was deafening. This was before DeNiro was a star, most people had never heard of Meryl Streep, Christopher Walken was an unknown, but the rap was the flick affected you emotionally, it wasn’t a thrill ride but a saga. Funny how the humanity’s been sapped out of art, it’s all sheen, but back then character was as important as plot, and when you saw the “Deer Hunter”…

We did, my girlfriend and me, at the National, where it played for Oscar qualification, tickets were sold in advance. It was during law school finals but it was an unmissable event. We had no idea what to expect, but after seeing it we could not sleep, it affected us so much, the same way you drove home in silence after seeing your favorite band live, you were numb, you wanted to wallow in the experience.

So, we were all waiting for “Heaven’s Gate.”

Which is not as bad as they say it is, the legend eclipsed reality, before the film even opened. Kind of like the new “Ghostbusters,” which is already considered a flop. The truth is everything great triumphs after that much hype and notoriety, and if the female “Ghostbusters” is good the online brouhaha will be forgotten. But it probably isn’t, so it’ll stiff. Like “Heaven’s Gate,” which was just not good enough.

It’d be one thing if Michael Cimino made another movie right away. But he became a pariah and then a recluse, a bombastic self-righteous jerk who no one wanted anything to do with.

But the interesting thing is he was there at the apotheosis and the death. “Deer Hunter” was a long movie before three hour running times were de rigueur, it was all his vision, there was no source material, nothing to hook us other than word of mouth, the lunatics had taken over the asylum, the directors ruled. And then, after “Heaven’s Gate,” it was a return to what once was, light fare, only this time with a huge focus on hoovering up dollars.

And it’s only gotten worse. Entertainment was always a business, but other than in TV, the most mindless of media in the sixties, today entertainment is solely about the bottom line. We revere those who make the money, executives are king, everything’s gone topsy-turvy.

Michael Cimino died. After removing himself from the dialogue, after having so much plastic surgery he became unrecognizable. We don’t know whether he had that much self-hatred or was transitioning, right now we don’t even know why he died, but we do know he’s a footnote, known for bankrupting a studio and nothing more.

But studios were built on the backs of artists. And whether it be Quentin Tarantino rescuing the Weinsteins or… The spoils still come from the artists, those who are hated by the suits, because their genius can’t be quantified, you can’t put the odds of success in a spreadsheet, you’ve just got to trust them, these oddballs who wouldn’t fit in anywhere else but can hold the whole world in thrall.

Michael Cimino didn’t make that many movies. But he was more than a one hit wonder. And instead of being decried, he should be lauded. He was a highly educated guy who wanted to make films as opposed to money, he didn’t go to Wall Street, make an irrelevant app. He didn’t want to compromise, he wanted his vision on screen, he was in pursuit of greatness, which we rarely see anymore, despite all the protestations from Kanye and the rest that they’re pushing the envelope.

He was from a different era. When art ruled. When no one lived in a gated community. When the movie people flew first class, not private. When we not only saw the movies, but talked about them, endlessly. When people not only knew who acted and directed, but edited and shot too.

We’ll return to those days, when we give artists more rope, when we venerate them to the point the best and the brightest will leave money on the table to enact their vision. When society changes its values, when we realize it’s all about us as opposed to them.