Photo courtesy Miramax Films
The year was 1995. Pulp Fiction was sulking angrily in the corner of a seedy Los Angeles bar, glowering into a bourbon-filled milkshake. The film had gone home almost empty-handed. Sure, it had won best original screenplay. But best actor? Best picture? Best director? The Academy had thrown them all at some chocolate-obsessed retard called Forrest. That film had even won best adapted screenplay, and voters made sure Pulp Fiction overheard that Gump would have stolen another of his awards had the screenplay categories been merged.
It was almost last call when the haze finally lifted from the film’s eyes. Another movie had walked in, sauntered over to the bar and leaned against it, back to the publican, and fixed her gaze on him. This was Casablanca, a film 50 years the pulpy crime saga’s senior.
He made a relatively straight line for her, and thought fast, gently purring to her, “M’am, I don’t mean to bother you, but do you have a moment to talk about the Book of Ezekiel?”
Beloved funnyman Robin Williams is dead. The actor and comedian was found unconscious in his home at around noon Pacific time and pronounced dead on the scene. The Marin County Coroner’s office suspects this was a suicide, and his publicist has confirmed Williams was battling severe depression, though he wouldn’t say whether or not Williams killed himself. Williams was 63.
