Philadelphia was born in a phone call between director Jonathan Demme and myself while sharing our grief surrounding the AIDS epidemic. People we loved were dying. We had to do something.

There were no drug "cocktails" in the late 1980s to prolong lives, no steroids to combat wasting. Robust people — turned skeletal, pocked with lesions — were writing wills. People believed that HIV was airborne; danger lurked in a handshake. We conceived of Philadelphia as a "conversation" with mainstream America, going after the hearts and minds of ordinary moviegoers. We attempted to peel away the veil of differences that separates people. The film is a message movie, courtroom drama, and tear­ jerker. Its dramatic tension comes from the begrudging respect that develops between its main characters, played to perfection by Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington. Their interaction mimics the dialogue between the film and its audience — fear turning into curiosity then understanding.

For some, the film is flawed. Where is the anger? Why are the gay lovers so reticent? These criticisms are valid. Still, the power of the film is undeniable. It plays today as a historical docu­ment — a reminder of the early days of AIDS when funerals were weekly events in gay lives. It is also a timeless, cathartic experience. Love and loss may be universal, but AIDS has bound these experiences to the gay community forever. Philadelphia honors that grief and our courage under fire.