Dammit, I went and killed Michelangelo Antinioni. Fuck me, fuck me!
Soderbergh and Fincher, watch your backs! There be falling pianos in the sky!
Maybe Tom Snyder counts, and the fates will stop at three. Tom, the intellectual conversationalist, whose pretty pictures floated over the air throughout my life.
I was talking recently with a friend about why I don't consider myself a writer, and when I read Snyder's lovely obit in Variety, I realized why: I'm not. I'm a conversationalist. All I do is type up the exact conversation going on in my head. How is that writing? It can't be. If someone were in the room with me, I'd just be saying it out loud instead of to my Toshiba.