A little more than 20 years ago, in my role as film critic for a daily newspaper in San Diego County, I sat in a screening room at Paramount Pictures studios watching “Forrest Gump,” a few weeks before its public release.

As you know, this is a film that became an iconic symbol of something in American cinema. Simply put, most people seemed to really like it. It spoke to them in some way, for different reasons.

As I was watching the film, O.J. Simpson was motoring around Los Angeles not far away in a white Ford Bronco, as the cops chased him, slowly. Only a few years earlier, I had interviewed Simpson for “The Naked Gun 2 1/2.” No story to report there, the interview was uneventful, as I recall.

So something unusual was in the air that day in Los Angeles.

The day after the “Forrest Gump” screening, I interviewed Tom Hanks, and as in a previous interview with him for “A League of Their Own,” Hanks wanted to talk about a particular subject with me. The elusive magic of cinema? The deep dive into a character’s inner turmoil? How to craft a good dolly shot?

No, hearing again that I was from San Diego, he wanted to talk briefly about the baseball legend Tony Gwynn, who played for my team, the San Diego Padres, and who was a college classmate of mine. (I didn’t know him personally, though I interviewed him once, much later. Sadly, Gwynn died in 2014).

Hanks was exceptionally capable of discussing Gwynn and his batting methods, knew his stats, was wowed by his ability. As always, he was a good interview, and discussed his newest film with passion and intelligence.

A few weeks later, “Forrest Gump” was released, and I reviewed it, giving the film a B+ grade. Let me be clear: I liked the film. I doubt if Hanks ever saw that review, but the readers of the newspaper did, as did viewers of my local cable TV show, and I’m not sure how I survived the backlash. That B+ was perceived as an assault on the film. In other words, how dare I.

As a film critic, I had received plenty of non-fan letters before, almost all employing the same line that I was able to sense before it came, the odd insult those in the profession know so well: “You must have seen a different movie than I did.” This, even though almost always, a film with the same title, plot, director and actors was the same film that both of us witnessed.

Whenever the rare occasion I received a letter saying something like, “You and I saw the same film, but you are an idiot for thinking of it differently than I do,” I would write that person a thank-you letter. That criticism, acknowledging that I could possibly interpret the same film differently than someone else — though I was an idiot for doing so — enjoyed the benefit of logic.

For my “Forrest Gump” review, burning hate filled my work mailbox. Readers questioned my sanity and humanity, and decried my lack of empathy. There were threats and calls for my firing, or transfer to the department where I could deliver newspapers by bicycle, even though those jobs had mostly disappeared by 1994.

One such reader said that if I were to be demoted to newspaper carrier, I would likely miss her porch and knock her cat unconscious. This, even though I like cats. (Note that I don’t think newspaper carrier is a demotion from anything. There are very few remaining carriers, and I salute you all for carrying on a noble tradition).

The Gump hate mail wasn’t restricted to a certain demographic. They came from grandmothers. Fifth-graders sent in drawings of me adding 2 + 2 and getting the answer 5. (I’m almost certain the correct answer is 4). Babies called my review obtuse and lacking verbal or emotional resonance. Those possessed by demons called me one of their own, inviting me to woodsy retreats with bonfires. Or at least that’s how it all felt.

Nobody was happy, and here’s the thing, again: I liked the film. I gave it a good review. I don’t like to think about what would have happened if I added a minus after the B. Too scary to go there.

Early the next year, more rage when I edged toward other films in my Oscar choices. And remember, this was also the year for “Pulp Fiction,” “The Shawshank Redemption,” “Quiz Show” and “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” What was I supposed to do, exactly? I had not been forgiven by then, and now I was adding fuel, still desecrating what had become a beloved institution of a movie in less than a year.

The even stranger thing is, this went on for years. I would receive hate letters from people somehow just discovering my review, or who had been told by friends of my wickedness. A few earlier letter writers repeated their thoughts in annual letters, as if celebrating some kind of tragic holiday. Gump Day. Those letters slowed eventually, and I never experienced anything quite the same again.

I have dreams, though, that I’m writing film reviews again, and “Forrest Gump 2” is released. I like the film, and give it an A-. But that’s not good enough. In the digital age, the review travels the globe instantly, and all of the world’s peoples are against me. Now, middle-aged people carry on the fight for their deceased but much-loved grandparents, saying that if grandma was still around, she would spit on the ground when my name was mentioned. Those babies, now savvy and cunning Millennials, ruin me with a single snarky Snapchat post. Somewhere, demons cackle in wait. How many ways might I be chastised? Well, pick your chocolate.

Somehow, though, a few loyal friends and savvy readers, understanding that we were all seeing the same film, and that thoughts differ, and that a variety of assessments is healthy and crucial, sense the chaos to come. They give me the one warning they know will save me, borrowing from the very source of my troubles, a source I like, a film I enjoyed, as I’m pretty sure I stated in my review, though, who knows, maybe I wasn’t clear enough?

“Run, Dan, run!”