These factors alone, however, do not fully explain my obsession. I think the reason I keep returning to this DVD--the element that distinguishes this movie from other favorite actioners like Collateral (2004) and Batman Begins (2005)--has to lie in the wonderfully understated romance between Jason Bourne and Marie Kreutz. In addition to providing a quick lesson in spy tactics, this movie sketches a how-to diagram for the would-be wooer and, more importantly, suggests that the journey towards self-knowledge requires intimate community.

Without quite meaning to do so, Bourne starts off on exactly the right foot with Marie--and, no, I'm not referring to the bribe he pays her to drive him from Zurich to Paris. (Contrary to what assorted, sordid pop stars would have us believe, money is no guarantee of affection.) What Marie wants more than the $10,000 dollars Jason offers her is the unswerving attention with which he immediately gifts her. Their first hour together is filled by a nervous Marie rapidly reporting her recent history to the strange man seated next to her; when she pauses and actually offers to shut up, Bourne instead encourages her to continue. At this point, the sleep-deprived Bourne could have justifiably asked for a bit of silence, or quickly shut her down with sarcasm or a cold word. Instead, he confirms not only that he has been listening closely to her narrative, but that the sound of her voice has a calming effect: "Please, if you want to help [me], keep talking . . ."

Upon reaching Paris, the two briefly consider going their separate ways, and Marie asks Jason not to forget her. His response could hardly be more winning: "How could I forget you? You're the only person I know." The amnesiac's words convey the truth of the matter, but they also capture the kind of healthy, interpersonal near-sightedness with which any serious relationship should begin. Before turning their attention back to business associates, nights on the town with friends, and the calls of family, any newly committed couple needs to know that they matter more to one another than anyone else--that these other associations will be sacrificed if necessary for the sake of their new relationship. Jason and Marie obviously do not share such a "leave and cleave" connection at this point, nor does Jason yet remember those ties from his past that he will soon begin to cut. What is soon clear, however, is that he will do anything to preserve Marie's well-being, and that her presence is providing more than simple companionship.

As the author of Proverbs reminds us, the refining of character requires a second individual against whom we can hone ourselves: iron sharpens iron (Proverbs 27:17).

As Bourne explains at the close of the trilogy's second movie--well after their mutual devotion has been established--his affection for Marie has discouraged the trained assassin from assassinating; the kill instinct drilled into him has been subdued somehow by his growing desire to protect and respect this woman. In the first film, circumstances and love for Marie quickly begin to reshape Bourne into a different person, prompting him to discard those things he learns about himself which he finds repugnant. Each time he saves Marie's life in addition to his own, he steps further from the path of the assassin carved out for him by the secret military organization that trained him. Marie acts as both mirror and lens, forcing an ongoing self-evaluation and encouraging him to adopt a new, less aggressive posture towards his adversaries.

When he finally discovers the blinding truth about his past, his love for Marie somehow refracts that harsh light in a way that generates a softened, relatively compassionate response--instead of a vengeful one. (Watch the trilogy again with this idea in mind, and notice how many times Jason does not kill someone gunning for him.) As those who saw the third Bourne movie this weekend will know, this openness to redefinition ultimately becomes Jason's salvation.

Unfortunately, Jason's malleability is fantastic, almost unbelievable. Our species dislikes change, particularly when that change comes at the behest--however subtle--of another person. We take pride in consistency, as if immobility did not make us an easier target for sin and stagnation: we would rather remain still and take our bruises than deign to recognize the merit of someone else's perspective on our life.