It was night when I arrived back in Los Angeles, and driving home, I could see a thirty-foot can of spinach being tugged down Hollywood Boulevard, spot-lit, surrounded by limousines. There really is no place like it. Early evening almost two weeks later, I was walking around my front room and listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Point Blank when the phone rang. It was Holly Wertheimer, the film editor, calling from New York, and she was crying. (FROM AN AMERICAN STORY)
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