Although more consistently harrowing, suspenseful, and amusing than the released work, I wouldn't describe the evening as revelational.
Robert Mitchum was the best screen actor of his and ensuing generations.
James Agee overwrote.
Shelley Winters makes Mia Farrow look like a dominatrix.
Among directors, "perfectionism" is code for sadistic misogyny.
Whoever agreed to the casting of that poor five-year-old girl deserves all blame.
Robert Mitchum was to be addressed as "Mitch" except immediately after hard blows to his head, when "Bob" was the preferred form. (I must ask Language Hat if a linguistic term exists for this contextual dependency.)
When around young 'uns, Mitchum's euphemism of choice was not "darn" or "gosh" but "poontang."
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