In the introduction to The Americans, Kerouac wrote, "that little ole lonely elevator girl looking up sighing in an elevator full of blurred demons, what's her name and address?"50 years after it was taken, the same woman stared at it for a good few minutes before realizing that it was a picture of her as a child; she never even saw the camera.
I don't know where that came from because I was thinking about Fellini and posthumous birthdays (his just was). I stared at Frank's book for hours on end before losing it in an ill-advised loan to a lesbian couple from Michigan. I've watched 8 1/2 lots of times too. Marcello Mastroianni's death was one of the rare celebrity passings that managed to slip a little something past my emotional goalie.
He oozed insouciant cool in a way that makes me attentive as opposed to jealous. Then again, I also love it when people are desperately and obviously trying to be cool and succeeding.
As far as cool goes, Werner Herzog.
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