In the words of the great Austin Powers – “allow myself to introduce… myself.”

My name’s James, and I’m a film critic. I’m always unsure how to phrase my job title – ‘film journalist’ is a little bit vague, and ‘film critic’ conjures up a certain type of image – jaded, cynical, and convinced their opinion is gospel, and that’s not really me.

Yes, I’ve given my share of scathing reviews, but I like to think that all of my opinions come from the perspective of a fan, because that’s what I am, and indeed what this column is about. Before I knew what bylines and filing deadlines were, I was to be found at the local cinema – often with friends, but sometimes on my own with a rolled up copy of Empire Magazine – absorbing as much as I could and feeding an insatiable love of cinema.

I could also write a bit, and one day a friend suggested I might be able to make a living combining the two. Six years on, that’s exactly what I’m doing – I review movies for national publications in the UK, Dubai, France and Spain; talk about films on BBC Radio Oxford, and most of all, I get to see as much cinema as I can, and discuss movies with the people who made them – I’ve talked rugby with Clint Eastwood, been complimented on my suit by Dustin Hoffman, and (oddly) discussed supermodels with Oliver Stone.

It’s a surreal job sometimes but, when I think about it, is in perfect keeping with most of my life. Most of my friends have been made through a mutual love of film, my future wife Lauren is a film lover (we’re getting married in August, and I can’t imagine many other wedding receptions in Oxford that will have ‘Nakatomi Plaza’ or ‘The Millennium Falcon’ as table names!) and generally most things that have happened to me have a cinematic connection to them.

But where did it all begin? I’d love to tell you it was gazing up at some Disney masterpiece, chuckling at Charlie Chaplin or weaving through tunnels with Indiana Jones.

Nope, the earliest memory I have involved Dolph Lundgren’s blonde mullet and Frank Langhella in ridiculous makeup. The place was the Phoenix Cinema – not the gorgeous Jericho institution, but rather East Finchley’s Phoenix Cinema, where I grew up in North London.

The film was the 1986 ‘classic’ Masters of The Universe, a movie that is classed as a guilty pleasure to many, but because of that event will forever have a special place in my heart (I could probably quote most of it to this day).

The seats were crooked, the only concessions came from an old lady perched in a tiny booth selling chocolate bars, and Langhella’s Skeletor scared the hell out of me (well, I was four), but I was hooked and the multiplex would become my place of worship for the next quarter of a century and beyond.

So, dear reader, if you ever meet me and wonder why the only thing I’ve got to talk about is movies, don’t blame me – blame Dolph Lundgren.

Listen To James every Friday on BBC Radio Oxford at 5.25pm on David Prever's Drivetime show