Quentin Tarantino

When Marc and I came out of Tarantino's movie, Django Unchained, last evening, neither of us knew what to say as we walked back to the car. 

Finally I said "White cake", invoking one of the movie's more memorable pieces of cinematic language, and Marc said he had a father-in-law who was head of marketing for a big Hollywood studio in the glory days and who'd created the trans-continental train the stars once rode across the USA to promote their new movies.

We'd gone to the 2:55 p.m. matinee in one of those new-ish mega-theatre complexes attached to a mall, and taken the escalator up to a landing platform where goodies could be purchased. (A small popcorn and a Vitamin water cost $10.75.) Then another escalator to Theatre 16. 

Going to a movie when it's still light outside is the best time to go. It's a real privilege, like waking up in the dark before everyone else is awake and having that time all to yourself. Once you take your seat and the screen lights up, it doesn't matter where you are anymore or who you are. You'll believe almost anything. Even history can come alive as a story you tell yourself about what happened; and whether what you tell yourself happened actually happened or didn't happen doesn't matter the way it mattered to those actually involved in its happening.

That Henry Mitchell was a chemist who lived to be 81 and had a wife Jessie who outlived him by more than 10 years and who bore 3 children, none of whom lived past the age of 20, has the makings of a movie set in Inverness, Scotland, especially given Mr. Mitchell's occupation and how it might have influenced his offspring's lifespans.