‘Though he spoke most of his movie dialogue in a slow Western drawl, actor Slim Pickens was a pure-bred California boy. An expert rider from the age of four, Pickens was performing in rodeos at 12. Three years later, he quit school to become a full-time equestrian and bull wrangler, eventually becoming the highest-paid rodeo clown in show business. In films since 1950’s Rocky Mountain, Pickens specialized in Westerns, appearing as the comic sidekick of Republic cowboy star Rex Allen. By the end of the 1950s, Pickens had gained so much extra poundage that he practically grew out of his nickname. Generally cast in boisterous comedy roles, Pickens was also an effectively odious villain in 1966’s An Eye for an Eye, starting the film off with a jolt by shooting a baby in its crib. The most famous of Pickens’ performances is as an air force major in Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove. The scene of Pickens riding atop a falling nuclear bomb is one of the most enduring images in cinematic history.

‘Pickens credited Dr. Strangelove as a turning point in his career. Previously he was “Hey you” on sets and afterward he was addressed as “Mr. Pickens.” Pickens once said, “After Dr. Strangelove the roles, the dressing rooms, and the checks all started gettin’ bigger.” Pickens said he was amazed at the difference a single movie could make. However, working with Kubrick proved too difficult, especially the more than 100 takes of the H-bomb riding scene. In the late 1970s, Pickens was offered the part of Dick Hallorann in Kubrick’s adaptation of Stephen King’s The Shining, but Pickens stipulated that he would appear in the film only if Kubrick was required to shoot Pickens’ scenes in fewer than 100 takes. Instead, Pickens’ agent showed the script to Don Schwartz, the agent of Scatman Crothers, and Crothers accepted the role.

‘Other notable Pickens roles include The Cowboys (1972) with John Wayne, Blazing Saddles (1974), Poor Pretty Eddy (1975), Rancho Deluxe (1975), The Getaway with Steve McQueen, Tom Horn (1980), also with McQueen, An Eye for an Eye (1966) and Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973) in a small but universally admired, unforgettable performance. He also had a small role in Steven Spielberg’s 1941 (1979) in scenes with Toshirō Mifune and Christopher Lee. In 1978, Pickens lent his voice to theme park Silver Dollar City as a character named Rube Dugan, for a ride called “Rube Dugan’s Diving Bell”, The diving bell was a simulation ride that took passengers on a journey to the bottom of Lake Silver and back. The ride was in operation from 1978 to 1984. He also provided the voice of B.O.B., a robot in the 1979 Disney science fiction thriller The Black Hole.

‘In his later years, Pickens appeared in numerous television guest shots, episodes of the series The Wide Country, The Legend of Jesse James, The Fugitive and The Man from U.N.C.L.E.. He was a credited semi-regular in the second season of the show Outlaws as “Slim”. He appeared in a recurring episodes of Alias Smith and Jones, The Lone Ranger, Daniel Boone, The Virginian, Bonanza and Kung Fu. He starred in regular roles in The Legend of Custer, Bonanza, Hee Haw, B. J. and the Bear with Greg Evigan, and Filthy Rich. He played the owner of station WJM, Wild Jack Monroe, on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. One of Pickens’ most memorable television roles was an episode of Hawaii Five-O where he played the patriarch of a family of serial killers. Pickens’ final film role was playing the werewolf sheriff Sam Newfield in The Howling (1981). He died on December 8, 1983, after surgery for a brain tumor.’ — collaged

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Stills

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Further

Slim Pickens @ IMDb
Slim Pickens @ Find a Grave
Joe Biden ‘My Image of the Military Commander Was Slim Pickens’
‘The Colt Revolver in the American West’
Slim Pickens @ Film Bug
Slim Pickens tribute page @ Facebook
‘The Ten Greatest Character Actors’
‘The Ten Best Screen Cowboys’
‘A Beginner’s Guide to the Peckinpah Actors’
‘Slim Pickens: Teaching a horse to buck’
Slim Pickens obituary

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Homages

______________________________________
Terry Southern on Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove

Peter Sellers was going to play all four parts originally including the Texan bombardier. I understand you coached Sellers on his accent?

Terry Southern: The financing of the film was based almost one hundred percent on the notion that Sellers would play multiple roles. About a week before shooting, he sent us a telegram saying he could not play a Texan, because he said it was one accent he was never able to do. Kubrick asked me to make a tape of a typical Texan accent. When Sellers arrived on the set, he plugged into this Swiss tape recorder with huge, monster earphones and listened to the tape I made. He looked ridiculous, but he mastered the accent in about 10 minutes. Then Sellers sprained his ankle and couldn’t make the moves going up and down the ladder in the bomb bay. He was out of that part. The doctor told him he couldn’t do it. Then, it was a question of replacing him. Stanley had set such store by his acting that he felt he couldn’t just replace him with just another actor. He wanted an authentic John Wayne. The part had been written with Wayne as model.

Did Kubrick ever try to get Wayne to play the role?

TS: Wayne was approached and dismissed it immediately. Stanley hadn’t been in the States for some time, so he didn’t know anything about television programs. He wanted to know if I knew of any suitable actors on TV. I said there was this very authentic big guy who played on “Bonanza” named Dan Blocker. Big Hoss. Without seeing him, Kubrick sent off a script to his agent. Kubrick got an immediate reply: “It is too pinko for Mr. Blocker.” Stanley then remembered Slim Pickens from One Eyed Jacks, which he almost directed for Marlon Brando, until Brando acted in such a weird way that he forced Stanley out.

When Pickens was hired and came to London, wasn’t that the first time he had ever been out of the States?

TS: Yes, in fact it was the first time he had ever been anywhere outside the rodeo circuit as a clown or the backlots of Hollywood. Stanley was very concerned about him in London for the first time and asked me to greet him. I got some Wild Turkey from the production office and went down to the sound stage to meet him. It was only ten in the morning so I asked Slim if it was too early for a drink. He said, “it’s never too early for a drink.” So I poured out some Wild Turkey in a glass and asked him if he got settled in his room. “Hell, it doesn’t take much to make me happy. Just a pair of loose shoes, a tight pussy and a warm place to shit.” One of Kubrick’s assistants, a very public school type, couldn’t believe his ears, but went “ho ho ho” anyway.

Finally, I took Slim over to the actual set where we were shooting. I left him alone for a few minutes to talk to Stanley. While we were standing there talking, Stanley went, “Look there’s James Earl Jones on a collision course with Slim. Better go over and introduce them.” James Earl Jones knew that Pickens had just worked with Brando. Jones was impressed and asked Pickens how the experience of working with Brando went. “Well, I worked with Marlon Brando for six months and in that time, I never saw him do one thing that wasn’t all man and all white.” Slim didn’t even realize what he was saying. I glanced at James Earl Jones and he didn’t crack. Slim replacing Sellers worked out well because unbeknownst to me at the time, the actor that was playing the co-pilot was taller and stockier than Sellers. Whereas Slim was about the same size [as the co-pilot] and more convincingly fulfilled the intention of this larger-than-life Texan.

___________________
15 of Slim Pickens’ 93 roles

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*

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, The opposite of Warhol, ha ha, nice. ** Sypha, Hi. There’s clearly some reason why the Warhol Foundation is keeping his films away from Blu-rays and streaming, but I’m not sure what it is. Still haven’t made it out to the new Tarantino. I need to get a move on. ** _Black_Acrylic, It’s a goodie. Wow, you’re ready to put The Call #3 to bed? Sweet. Super down for that. If doing a ‘welcome to …’ post is of use or interest, I’m obviously way game. God, the Johnson shenanigans yesterday … you guys need a revolution pronto. ** James Nulick, Hi, James. I admire anti-publicity authors. I think if I thought I could have gotten away with that before it was too late, I would have tried. All’s well here, thanks. Still waiting for Zac to finish finessing the script’s French translation. I plan to have it in our producer’s hands by the end of next week. Then, once he’s read it, and assuming he’s still on board, the fund raising will be what it’s all about for a while. The novels going really well, assuming, that is, it doesn’t crash and burn. If it doesn’t, I think it’ll be finished by the end of the year at the latest. How’s yours? Love, me. ** Steve Erickson, Well, yeah, I guess that’s not a surprise about how those channels divvy out their talent. The Ex were, and surely still are, amazing live. That I can attest to too, although I haven’t seen them live in decades. ** Jeff J, Hi, Jeff. Enjoying a bit of a getaway, are you? Ouch. But, otherwise, it sounds like dreaminess. Watch out for the hurricane or whatever it is maybe? I’ve read a few essays by Gracq, yeah, and remember thinking they were very ace. Haven’t read a collection of them. The novel is steaming ahead. I’m pretty excited about it. The finish line seems to be in sight, but it’s the kind of thing where it is possible I could wake up one day and realise it’s not going to work. Sure hope not. But for now I’m very in the zone and using most of every day to work on it. Thank you for asking, man. ** Misanthrope, Me too, I took actually quite a number of poetry classes and workshops in college and in my brief year at university. Learned a ton. Kind of learned what I needed to there, I guess. Poetry workshops are cool because poetry is an inherently radical form. If something works, it can take any form a poet wants. From what I know from people who’ve had fiction writing workshops, it’s very, very rare situation where a teacher/workshop leader and one’s fellow aspiring attendees don’t think fiction needs to be one particular thing. I’ve never regretted avoiding them like the plague. Thanks for the props about the blog’s writing help. No bigger compliment. Good day to you, bud. ** Armando, Hi. I can and will ask Zac, but I don’t think he knows any more about French film producers than I do. We’ve only worked with ours, and that happened fast, and we didn’t investigate other possibilities. I can ask our producer if he’s accepting submissions right now when he’s back from vacation, but I’m not sure that he works that way. I guess what I meant was that there may be another way to try to get your film made that will give you a better chance than trying to get it made over here in France where you aren’t a citizen or resident or knowledgeable about film production and funding and so on. Are there not indie film producers in Mexico? I think there must be. It would be much more feasible if you had a co-producer there or somewhere and came to France looking for a co-producer than trying to get a full-on producer for a first film by a non-French filmmaker. Today? Work on my novel and … not sure what else. You, yours? ** Okay. Something came over me and I decided to devote a day to the particular joyful presence that only Slim Pickens could provide. See you tomorrow.

‘At the Lycée Claude Bernard in Paris during the 1950s a number of 16-year-olds were fascinated by their history and geography teacher, Monsieur Poirier. He was small, with short hair and dressed in a dark suit. Punctual and efficient, no one ever thought of playing tricks on him. When his teaching was over he gathered up his papers and went away. The reason for the particular interest in him was the discovery that Louis Poirier, who has died aged 97, was in fact Julien Gracq, the novelist, who had won (and refused) the Goncourt prize in 1951.

‘He had adopted this name from Stendhal’s Julien Sorel and from the Gracchi, the Roman heroes, Tiberius and Caius Sempronius. For his pupils he was the world of creative literature. But more than this, he was spoken of as one of the surrealists. Surrealism meant eccentricity and extravagance. How could the neat and precise Poirier fit into such a movement? They followed him to the Place Bianche to see him among the surrealists, as they followed him about Paris, eating his solitary meals. He remained a subject of mystery.

‘In his last years it was the population of Saint-Florent-le-Vieil who observed him with the same intentness. This village in Maine-et-Loire was his birthplace and, in his 80s, Gracq gave up his Paris flat to live there with his sister who, like him, had never married. The shopkeepers knew him well. One day he left his wallet at the florists, and she phoned Poirier before he had realised that he had lost it. When he came to fetch it he presented her with one of his books. Until then she had no idea that he was a writer.

‘As a novelist Gracq was a creator of mystery. He set his first one in Argol on the Isle de Crozon, western Brittany. To its dark forests and deserted moors, he added a labyrinthine chateau of the title Au Chateau d’Argol (1938). In the irregular architecture of this building, where the light appears as if through a curtain of silk, the main character, who has recently acquired the chateau, is unable to respond to the affection of a guest and to break out of his coldness. Le Rivage des Syrtes (1951, the winner of the spurned Goncourt), is a haunting novel with characters marked by the shadow of a past. Only at the end, as the principal character says, does the decor fall into place. Un Balcon en Foret (1958), the most accessible of the novels, tells the story of the war which has not yet become a war, that of 1939 to 1940, when ill-equipped French soldiers wait on events. Then the waiting ends; the Germans launch their devastating attack. The ending is Wagnerian. It is typical that although the author served in the French army during this period, this book is in no way autobiographical.

‘He believed in the importance not so much of style but of form. As his example, he gave the sayings of the countryside. Many of them are about the weather. These sayings are accepted. No one seeks to verify whether they are accurate. It is the form that makes them authentic.

‘Gracq was also a lucid critic. Perhaps the novelist and the critic came together best in the pieces that he wrote about London, after a visit in the summer of 1929. For Gracq, London was unknowable. He would ride in a bus until its finishing point, in some suburb. Then he would continue to walk in the same direction. Yet he saw the Thames as a river that seemed to control London, from the sordid pubs of the Isle of Dogs to the sleepy teashops of Richmond.

‘His refusal to accept the Goncourt prize was based on his dislike of the publicity that he saw surrounding literature in the 1950s. He has seen his fears confirmed by the role that television has played in making authors and their books the subject of commercialism. He refused invitations to appear on French radio and television and politely turned down three invitations from President Mitterrand to dine at the Élysée.’ — Douglas Johnson

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Extras

The heritage of Julien Gracq

Footage: Julien Gracq and Ernst Junger in 1988

Julien Gracq and Salvador Dali (in French)

‘Julien Gracq: Entetien’, a documentary in French

La mort de Julien Gracq

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Further

Julien Gracq Website (in French)
Julien Gracq Fansite (in French)
Video: Julien Gracq refuses the Prix Goncourt
‘Julien Gracq is smarter than all of us’
‘Anorexia of Literature: Julien Gracq’s Refusal of the 1951 prix Goncourt’
JG obituary @ The Independent
Julien Gracq’s King Cophetua @ The Quarterly Conversation
Julien Gracq’s A Dark Stranger @ 50 Watts
Julien Gracq’s Reading Writing @ Isola di Rifiuti
‘Rencontres avec Julien Gracq’
‘Le Rivage des Syrtes de Julien Gracq’
‘Manuscrits de guerre, de Julien Gracq’
‘Le balcon, une théorie du lyrisme dans Un balcon en forêt?’
Julien Gracq @ goodreads
JG’s books @ Amazon
Buy ‘Chateau d’Argol’ @ Pushkin Press

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Misc

Julien Gracq’s house

Manuscript page from ‘Chateau d’Argol’

Julien Gracq as a child (w/ friend)

Han Bellmer’s portrait of Julien Gracq

Julien Gracq refusing the Prix Goncourt

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Back to Breton
by Julien Gracq

Julien Gracq and André Breton, 1939. Photo: GBertrand

I do not believe that Breton would have truly welcomed the celebration of the centennial of his birth. Even though he may, in his own manner, have had something to do with the sacred, he had little interest in official, commemorative rites. Forever at odds with History, Surrealism, from the beginning, was never friendly with Memory, that impediment to a total receptivity of what could be, the blank page where revelation alone can be inscribed with all its power of renewal. Breton was utterly prospective, tracking what was emerging, rarely inclined to recapitulate; he was not a back-seat rider. Come to think of it, was he actually born in 1896? What he had in common with Malraux (and this was about all) was that he appeared relatively untouched by his childhood, which he more or less rejected as shabby, failed, too immature. He was really born around 1916: that is when things began to happen for him, towards the end of his adolescence, and the years immediately following.

Breton died in September 1966: a Fall burial that left me with an almost spring-like memory. Considerably more people attended than were ex- pected, many lovers bringing a flower and holding hands. And, shortly thereafter, the dislocation, then, dissolution of the group marked the official end of the movement. And yet …

… The black humor that sometimes nests within the dates of a biography alone prevented, less than some two years from then, an encounter which still leaves one imagining, that of Breton with May 1968. It is more difficult than one thinks to predict the opinion Breton would have had of the student uprising. Basically, Breton did not like success; he mistrusted it, he was born contrary (“All ideas that triumph rush to their demise”). He might have been violently shaken by the inimitable trivialization, indeed, caricature, of those ideas. From the start, moreover, he had structured his group, not in a way to enlarge more fully its communication, but as an order of chosen depositors, having taken an oath to “absolute Surrealism,” in a word, rather than as propagandists, an elite phalanx garrisoning around him the “château étoilé.” I do not believe he ever seriously took into account the possibility of an actual surrealistic wildfire, really putting the masses into motion. But it is certain that, without always knowing it, the unforeseen libertarian explosion of May ’68, which, more than a political revolution, sought to change life according to the law of desire, here and now—”immediately and without delay”—and which so strongly disconcerted the entire institutionalized Left, even so far as within the fabric of its language and formulae, had to do much more with Breton than with Sartre, or especially Aragon, both of whom attempted to have themselves anointed by the resurrected Sorbonne. One day, sometime after the “events,” Georges Pompidou told me, “Actually, what happened there was all about Breton.”

Has [Surrealism] finished its journey? The world which is now being made—or unmade—in front of our eyes, after having explored in vain the classic paths of political revolution, is no doubt one of those which Breton would have cursed with the least amount of reservation, and also with the most justification. The instantaneous monetary standardization of all human activity—the promotion of art on the market level—the advent of a society exclusively obsessed with “uses” of money and mer- chandise production, in which, according to Thomas Pollack Nageire in the Exchange (Claudel), “everything is worth so much,” headed, moreover, towards cretinization by the media and political economy, where both the unemployed worker’s daily news and the intelligentsia’s magazine, by the game of “supplements” which swell up and are transformed before the naked eye into a Small Echo of TV and Stock Market news, make it no longer unreasonable to imagine, in the face of such a situation destined to trivialization or rejection, that one day Surrealism will have an heir, a movement whose form we cannot predict, one undoubtedly rid of its small sins, which it had overly caressed, trinkets of a time that greatly contributed to its aging: Czarist proclamations (“oukazes”), puerile provocations, exquisite cadavers, metaphysical spoonerisms, letters to “voyantes” and other “gadgets” from the Irrational. How can we know? The lack of a response from religions has nearly become as obvious as the caricature of “cults.” Surrealism, which played a little hide-and-seek with history, and which history did not really serve well, has not “gone by” the cafe, as one used to think; rather, it has demonstrated an unexpected tenacity to survive while in hibernation. For Breton’s Manes, a century after his birth, a quarter-century after his group became officially deceased, the perspectives are wide-open.

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Book

Julien Gracq Chateau d’Argol
Pushkin Press

‘Julien Gracq’s Chateau d’Argol, the author’s first published work, appeared in 1939. In a lecture to Yale University students a few years later, Andre Breton, the leader of the Surrealist movement, cited the work as an example that summarized “the extent of Surrealism’s conquest”. By this, Breton was no doubt referring to two of Surrealism’s great pre-modern sources of inspiration, the Gothic novel and Romanticism. From Breton, this was no scant praise. No doubt, however, that those who, like one reviewer below, have “studied Surrealism for six months” know better than Breton himself!

‘Chateau d’Argol is a tale of three friends, and of a disturbing menage-a-trois turned violent. In good Romantic/Gothic fashion, the changes in the richly described landscapes mirror the turbulent alterations in the characters’ inner states. The setting is a lonely castle in an area of Brittany that is simultaneously real and imaginary, in that Gracq unites disparate elements of the Breton landscape and situates them in a locale of his memory-based imaginings.

‘The philosophy of Hegel also figures prominently in this story of doubles and opposites, of dialectical antitheses and syntheses. In addition, the author creates a strange mood of detachment through his use of third-person narrative throughout (there is not a word of dialogue in the book) that contrasts with the rich and opulent descriptive writing. Indeed, for me, the most striking and rewarding aspect of this work is its gorgeous, richly hued language, its superbly evocative and poetic narrative. Of course, there are false notes on occasion, some of which may be the fault of the translator, but, on the whole, Gracq succeeds in sustaining a hypnotically beautiful tapestry of language.’ — Pushkin Press

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Excerpt
from 50 Watts

And perhaps it was not perceptible to him in the midst of his tumultuous agitation, how much higher than all the voices of nature resounded here with a dissonant clamour the glaring disappropriation of all things—of the altar all the more majestic for being abandoned, of the useless lance, of the tomb as perturbing as a cenotaph, of the clock ticking for nothing outside time, on which its gears had no more grip than a mill-wheel in a dried-up stream, of the lamp burning in full daylight, of the windows palpably made to be looked into from outside, and against which were glued all the green tentacles of the forest.

Then out of the depth of his disquietude there rose a sound that seemed instantly to fill the whole chapel and stream down the glistening walls, and without daring to turn around, so stunned was he by its inconceivable amplitude, he now realized that during his own silent exploration of the chapel, Herminien had mounted the stone steps of the organ loft which rose in the darkness to the left of the door, occupying a considerable portion of the chapel, but which, his own attention having been at once captured by the alluring light effect, had escaped his notice until now. Herminien’s playing was stamped with a singular force, and such was his expressive power that Albert, as though he could read in the depths of his soul, divined each succeeding theme of this wild improvisation. At first it seemed that Herminien, with dissonant and tentative gropings, interrupted by reiterations and regressions in which the principal motif was repeatedly taken up in a more timid and, as it were, interrogative mode, was only trying out the volume and acoustical capacity of this perturbing edifice. And now burst forth waves of sound, as violent as the forest and free as the winds of the heights, and the storm which Albert had contemplated with such horror from the high terraces of the castle thundered out of those mystic depths, while above them sounds of a crystalline purity fell, one by one, in a surprising and hesitating decrescendo, and floated like a sonorous vapour shot with flashes of yellow sunlight, curiously following the rhythm of the drops of water that were dripping from the vault.

After these effects of nature came an access of violent, sensual passion, and with perfect fidelity the organist painted his savage frenzy: like a luminous mist Heide floated on high, vanished, returned, and finally established her empire over melodic swells, of an extraordinary amplitude that seemed to transport the senses into an unknown region, and, by means of an incredible perversion, to endow the ear with all the graces of touch and sight. Meanwhile, although the artist had already given full rein to a tremulous and incoercible passion, it seemed to Albert apparent from now on, that even in the full plenitude of his improvisation, whose curious arabesques still kept something of the tentative character of an experiment, Herminien was searching for the key to an even loftier soaring, the necessary support for a final leap whose completely decisive consequences were at once both forecast and unpredictable, and that he was hesitating on the very brink of that abyss whose glorious approaches he described with such wild enveloping grace.

Clearly now—and with every moment it became more apparent to Albert—he was looking for the unique angle of incidence at which the eardrum, deprived of its power of interception and of diffusion, would become permeable like pure crystal, and would change this thing of flesh and blood into a sort of prism of total reflection, where sound would be accumulated instead of passing through, and would irrigate the heart with the same freedom as the sanguine medium, thus restoring to the desecrated word ecstasy its true significance. A sonorous vibration, growing ever more concentrated, seemed the exterior sign of the sombre fever of his quest, and settled everywhere swarmingly like bees out of a suddenly shattered hive. Finally a note, held with marvellous steadiness, shrilled in incredible splendour, and taking off as from a beach of sound, rose a phrase of ineffable beauty. And still higher, in a mellow golden light which seemed to accompany the descent into the chapel of a sublime grace as an answer to a prayer, Herminien’s fingers resounded, as if a light and consuming warmth ran through them, the song of virile fraternity. And the final breath that gradually left the lungs as it soared to unbelievable heights, let the salutary tide of a sea, as light and free as the night, rise into the completely vacant body.

*

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Ah, cool that the post occasioned a nice missive from Delany. I love Benjamin too, so I’ll read that, thanks! ** Bill, Hey. Gotcha, ugh, you deserve bird-style freedom. I think I could live quite happily and fruitfully without ever looking at another Warhol painting for the rest of my life, but his films? That’s something else. The Ex! Wow, I’m going to go listen to them. They were a local lifesaver back when I lived in sleepy Amsterdam in the 80s. Cool. Novel proceeds, TV show will will begin re-proceeding (too) soon enough. ** Steve Erickson, Ah, I see, about using a real anchor. Yes, that would have been very interesting. Too bad. I’ve heard one track, I think, by White Ward that was very intriguing, so good news about September. Glad the editor things sounds so on-track, and lucky you re: the NYFF, although not about all the related writing, although looking forward to those rewards. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hey. Oh, no solution. It was just the non-conclusive possible eye + brain fun of finding all 164 of the shadows, some of which were subtle. ** Armando, Hi. ‘Crowd’ is a dance piece, no text at all. No, the score is all 90s techno and trance and ambient tracks curated by Peter Rehberg with one KTL track mixed in. It’s about … a bunch (around 16) young people enter an after hours dance club, dance, go through a bunch of weird physical and emotional/ psychological stuff, the club closes, and they leave. The piece was started maybe 4 years ago. I wrote the narrative subtext that created characters for the dancers and the underlying story and the structure of the piece, all of which is there and discernible under the surface if you pay attention. Look, anything is possible, but the problem is, in that case, you would need a French producer or co-producer, and it would need to be real, official, registered producer or production company, not just someone saying they’re a producer. They would, with you, apply for government grants, so they would need to know that system. So you would need to get a French producer/production company to agree to produce or co-produce your film. You being not in France, and this being your first project, would make that a bit difficult. You would need to research French producers and submit your script and other evidence to them and just see what happens. I think there are probably easier ways to try to make the film, but it’s not impossible. Take care. ** Okay. Today the blog spotlights a fantastic book by a fantastic writer you may not may not have read, the one and only Julien Gracq. See you tomorrow.