Clue Movie Quotes

The whole of life is just like watching a film. Only it's as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no-one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it out all yourself from the clues.

Where do babies come from? Don't bother asking adults. They lie like pigs. However, diligent independent research and hours of playground consultation have yielded fruitful, if tentative, results. There are several theories. Near as we can figure out, it has something to do with acting ridiculous in the dark. We believe it is similar to dogs when they act peculiar and ride each other. This is called "making love". Careful study of popular song lyrics, advertising catch-lines, TV sitcoms, movies, and T-Shirt inscriptions offers us significant clues as to its nature. Apparently it makes grown-ups insipid and insane. Some graffiti was once observed that said "sex is good". All available evidence, however, points to the contrary.

Free food!" mumbled Hamilton, his mouth full. "No wonder you're rich. You don't have to pay for anything." "Since when is it free?" Jonah demanded. "If I don't leave a big tip, it'll be all over Europe that the Wiz is a cheapskate! They'll seat me behind the sound-man from the penguin movie at the Oscars!

Change of plan–," she called to Jonah. "Can you drop us off in Rome?" "Yo, am I a movie star or a taxi service?" Jonah grumbled from the depths of the script pile. "Technically, your neither," Hamilton puffed, lifting weights again. "I mean, you're a star and you've made movies...

Understanding knowledge as an essential element of love is vital because we are bombarded daily with messages that tell us love is about mystery, about that which cannot be known. We see movies in which people are represented as being in love who never talk with one another, who fall into bed without ever discussing their bodies, their sexual needs, their likes and dislikes. Indeed, the message is received from the mass media is that knowledge makes love less compelling; that it is ignorance that gives love its erotic and transgressive edge. These messages are brought to us by profiteering producers who have no clue about the art of loving, who substitute their mystified visions because they do not really know how to genuinely portray loving interaction.

What's this?" Dan said, pointing to a funny squiggly formation. Uh, an M," said Nellie. "Or if you look at it the other way, a W. Or sideways, kind of S-ish..." Maybe it's palm trees," Dan said. "Like in the movie It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. You know? No? These guys need to find hidden money, and the only clue they have is it's under a big W? And no one sees what it means-but then, near the end of the movie, there's this grove of four palm trees rising up in the shape of... you-know-what! Classic!" Amy, Alistair, Natalie, Ian and Nellie all looked at him blankly. There is no W in the Korean language," Alistair replied. "Or palm trees in Korea. I might be maple trees..." Mrrp," said Saladin, rubbing his face against Dan's knee. I'll tell you the rest of the plot later," Dan whispered to the Mau.

I'm throwing out this bottle rocket." "No, wait!" Dan said, reaching for it. "It hasn't been set off yet. Don't waste it, Amy. And we don't have company coming—we have Ian Kabra coming. And I know you want to totally impress him and take him to the movies and stare dreamily into his eyes—" "I do not," Amy said, too quickly. "Oh, Ian," Dan said, pressing his lightsaber to his chest and batting his eyes. "Tell me again about your shiny, shiny shoes.

One of the sicknesses of the twentieth century? I'll tell you the worst one. People can't stand to be alone. Can't tolerate it! So they go to the movies, get drive-in hamburgers, put their home telephone numbers in the crapsheets and say 'Please call me up!' It's sick. People hate their own company --- they cry when they see themselves in mirrors. It scares them, the way their faces look. Maybe that's a clue to the whole thing...

She says that if this were a movie, someone would find a poem about cursed snakes and it would give us the clue we needed

We see in movies, people are represented as being in love who never talk with one another, who fall into bed without ever discussing their bodies, their sexual needs, their likes and dislikes. [...] the message is [...] that ignorance gives love its erotic and transgressive edge. These messages are often brought to us by profiteering producers who have no clue about the art of loving. [...] They do not know how to genuinely portray loving interaction.

Westerners who’ve never traveled abroad don’t realize the extent to which American movies and actors, and Hollywood imagery, dominate overseas cinemas and markets.

I want more with you, Emmy. I want to come home to you every night and I want to take you out to dinner in the city. I want to hold your hand on the sidewalk and I want to kiss you in the rain. I want all that shit they talk about in the movies. I’m going to be honest with you, though. I don’t have a fucking clue how to be in a relationship or how to be a boyfriend, but I’m going to learn. I’m going to try, and you’re the only person I’d ever want to try with. This isn’t just sex to me, and it hasn’t been for a while. If keeping it casual is the only way I get to keep you, then so be it. But I think you want something more too.

WHEN ASKED “ What do we need to learn this for?” any high-school teacher can confidently answer that, regardless of the subject, the knowledge will come in handy once the student hits middle age and starts working crossword puzzles in order to stave off the terrible loneliness. Because it’s true. Latin, geography, the gods of ancient Greece and Rome: unless you know these things, you’ll be limited to doing the puzzles in People magazine, where the clues read “Movie title, Gone ____ the Wind” and “It holds up your pants.” It’s not such a terrible place to start, but the joy of accomplishment wears off fairly quickly.

Sometimes your gaze alone scares me. Sometimes I've never seen you before. I no longer know what you're doing here, in this popular seaside resort, in this dull, crowded season, where you are even more alone than in your regional capital. The better to kill you, perhaps, or to drive you away, I don't know. I sometimes manage to feel I've never seen you before. That I don't know you, to the point of horror. That I have no idea why you're here, what you want from me, or what will become of you. Becoming is the only subject we never, ever broach. You must not know what you're doing here either, with this woman who is already old, mad with writing. Maybe this is just normal, maybe it's the same all over; it's nothing, you came simply because you were desperate, as you are every day of your life. And also during certain summers at certain times of day or night when the sun quits the sky and slips into the sea, every evening, always, you cannot help wanting to die. This I know. I see the two of us lost in similar natures. I can sometimes be overwhelmed by tenderness for the kind of people we are. Unstable, they say, a bit nutty. 'People who never go to the movies, or the theater, or parties.' Leftists are like that, you know, they have no clue how to enjoy life. Cannes makes them sick and so do the grand hotels of Morocco. Movies and theaters, it's all the same.

Most remember Hitchcock as a skilled storyteller, but what few know is that the director shot his movies using two separate scripts. The first, known as “the Blue Script,” was entirely functional. In it were all the tangible onscreen components, including dialogue, props, camera angles and set descriptions. The second script, which Hitchcock referred to as “the Green Script,” chronicled in fine detail the emotional arc, or “beats,” of the film he was shooting. Hitchcock relied on both scripts, but the Green Script reminded him how he wanted moviegoers to feel, and at what point,

Checking out shoes when looking for Lesbians is an elimination device, a negative marker. Lesbians wear sensible shoes whenever possible. Irene and I have learned to pass right by a woman who looks like a Lesbian from head to ankle, but wears flimsy shoes with pointed toes and heels. She is sure to mention a husband by her second sentence. So, what does a Lesbian look like? Well, we saw two old women drive into a campground in a large motorhome. One dog and no men accompanied them. These are Lesbian-positive clues. We seldom see old women in campgrounds unless they are accompanied by old men. They walked the dog, each wearing a long “ladies” winter coat and lipstick. We casually intercepted them. “Nice dog,” says Irene. The dog growled. We mentioned the movie about nuclear war on TV the night before. “They should go to Russia. Show it to the Communists,” they angrily replied. We walked on. If they were Lesbians, I did not want to know. “Not Lesbians,” pronounced my expert. “There are Lesbians who wear ‘ladies’ coats and Lesbians who wear lipstick. There are even Lesbians who prefer nuclear war to “Godless Communism”; but Lesbians would not let their dog growl at a woman without correcting it.

I have no fucking clue how to handle this situation. And now I’m the one who’s scared. This right here should be the line in the sand for me, I thnk. I can leave. Walk away. This is way more baggage than I need or want. I’ve already been in a high-drama relationship, and I don’t need this in my life. These thoughts run through my brain quickly, like one of those silent movie reels, and as quickly as the enter, they leave. Because instead of running as far away from this woman as possible, I slide in behind her, pushing her forward slightly so that I can wedge myself between her and the wall. I wrap myself around her. “Pulling you close and holding you tightly,” I whisper.

There were really a lot of clues,” Rico said. “I’m slightly disappointed in us.” “We aren’t very self-aware,” Chris said with a frown. “Holy shit!” Tanner said. “He can do magic.” “I sighed and gave in. “He has shiny arms.”: “Shiny arms?” Rico said. “Like ...what.” “His arms. They glow when he does magic.” “Shiny arms,” Tanner said. “That's ...amazing.” “Magic,”Chris said. “I ...Don’t know what to do with that.” “And what about you?” Rico demanded. “How do you fit in with all of this: That led to tethers and mates. “Like destiny and billshit?” “Oh my god, Ox, your life is like those shitty sparkly vampire movies. That I’ve never seen and don’t like at all, shut up.” “Oh man. That explains the whole Jessie thing. She never stood a chance in the face of sparkly vampire destiny or whatever it is.” I put my face in my hands. The conversation went for another three hours after that.

In his movie The Seventh Continent, Michael Haneke depicts a normal middle-class family who, for no apparent reason, one day quit their jobs, destroy everything in their apartment, including all the cash they have just withdrawn from the bank, and commit suicide. The story, according to Haneke, was inspired by a true story of an Austrian middle-class family who committed collective suicide. As Haneke points out in a subsequent interview, the cliché questions that people are tempted to ask when confronted with such a situation are: “did they have some trouble in their marriage?”, or “were they dissatisfied with their jobs?”. Haneke’s point, however, is to discredit such questions; if he wanted to create a Hollywood-style drama, he would have offered clues indicating some such problems that we superficially seek when trying to explain people’s choices. But his point was precisely that the most profound thoughts about whether life is meaningful occur once we have swept aside all the clichés about the pleasure or lack thereof of “love, work, and play” (Thagard), or of “being whooshed up in sports events and being absorbed in the coffee-making craft” (Dreyfus and Kelly). Psychologically, or psychotherapeutically, these are very useful ways of “finding meaning in one’s life”, but philosophically, they are rather ways of how to avoid raising the question, how to insulate oneself from the likelihood that the question of meaning will be raised to oneself. In my view, then, the particular answer to the second question (what is the meaning of life?) is not that important, because whatever answer one offers, even the nihilist or absurdist answer, is many times good enough if the purpose is to get rid of the state of puzzlement. More importantly, however, what matters is that the question itself was raised, and the question is posterior to the more fundamental one of whether there is any meaning at all in life. It is also intuitive that we could judge someone’s life as meaningless if that person has never wondered whether her life, and life in general, is meaningful or not. At the same time, our proposal is, in my opinion, neither elitist, nor parochial in any way; I find it empirically quite plausible that the vast majority of people have actually asked this question or some version of it at least once during their lives, regardless of their social class, wealth, religion, ethnicity, gender, cultural background, or historical period.

10 Watch EQ at the Movies Hollywood. It’s the entertainment capital of the world known for glitz, glamour, and celebrity. Believe it or not, Hollywood is also a hotbed of EQ, ripe for building your social awareness skills. After all, art imitates life, right? Movies are an abundant source of EQ skills in action, demonstrating behaviors to emulate or completely avoid. Great actors are masters at evoking real emotion in themselves; as their characters are scripted to do outrageous and obvious things, it’s easy to observe the cues and emotions on-screen. To build social awareness skills, you need to practice being aware of what’s happening with other people; it doesn’t matter if you practice using a box office hero or a real person. When you watch a movie to observe social cues, you’re practicing social awareness. Plus, since you are not living the situation, you’re not emotionally involved, and the distractions are limited. You can use your mental energy to observe the characters instead of dealing with your own life. This month, make it a point to watch two movies specifically to observe the character interactions, relationships, and conflicts. Look for body language clues to figure out how each character is feeling and observe how the characters handle the conflicts. As more information about the characters unfold, rewind and watch past moments to spot clues you may have missed the first time. Believe it or not, watching movies from the land of make-believe is one of the most useful and entertaining ways to practice your social awareness skills for the real world.

Faith’s like a goddess to the Marines, and she’s actually good at her job, especially given she’d just finished seventh grade. Which is an important job. She does really important shit. “Right now, you’re just getting your head together. Like the pamphlet says, maybe you decide to help out. We can use people who know how to get shit done. Not just as military. I only took the Lieutenancy they offered cause I have to work with the Navy and Marines to get my job done and it helps. But there’s lots of ways a guy with your background and work ethic and general get-it-done attitude could help. Problem being, even if you wanted to, right now the only reason the Marines haven’t gotten together to kick the crap out of you is that they’re too busy. When they get less busy or, for example, this evening when they break from killing zombies, I would not want to be in your shoes.” “So what is this?” Zumwald said. “A military dictatorship? Beatings for free?” “Yeah,” Isham said, looking at him as if he was nuts. “We’re on ships. And they are all officially US Navy vessels. Even most of the dinky little yachts. The commanders, including this one, are all Navy officers, even if the ink is still wet on the commissions. And even if they weren’t, captains of vessels at sea have a lot of legal control in any circumstances. By the way, I talked Captain Graham, boss of this boat, out of pressing charges against you for assault. Because you don’t get how badly you fucked up. I get that. He’s another Faith lover, but it’s also you don’t get to just grab any cookie and tell her you want another scotch. You don’t. This isn’t Hollywood, and, sorry, you’re not some big time movie executive anymore. You’re a fucking refugee in a squadron that spends half its time on the ragged edge. Still. You got no clue how tough it is to keep these vessels supplied.

THE IRIS OF THE EYE WAS TOO BIG TO HAVE BEEN FABRICATED AS A single rigid object. It had been built, beginning about nine hundred years ago, out of links that had been joined together into a chain; the two ends of the chain then connected to form a loop. The method would have seemed familiar to Rhys Aitken, who had used something like it to construct Izzy’s T3 torus. For him, or anyone else versed in the technological history of Old Earth, an equally useful metaphor would have been that it was a train, 157 kilometers long, made of 720 giant cars, with the nose of the locomotive joined to the tail of the caboose so that it formed a circular construct 50 kilometers in diameter. An even better analogy would have been to a roller coaster, since its purpose was to run loop-the-loops forever. The “track” on which the “train” ran was a circular groove in the iron frame of the Eye, lined with the sensors and magnets needed to supply electrodynamic suspension, so that the whole thing could spin without actually touching the Eye’s stationary frame. This was an essential design requirement given that the Great Chain had to move with a velocity of about five hundred meters per second in order to supply Earth-normal gravity to its inhabitants. Each of the links had approximately the footprint of a Manhattan city block on Old Earth. And their total number of 720 was loosely comparable to the number of such blocks that had once existed in the gridded part of Manhattan, depending on where you drew the boundaries—it was bigger than Midtown but smaller than Manhattan as a whole. Residents of the Great Chain were acutely aware of the comparison, to the point where they were mocked for having a “Manhattan complex” by residents of other habitats. They were forever freeze-framing Old Earth movies or zooming around in virtual-reality simulations of pre-Zero New York for clues as to how street and apartment living had worked in those days. They had taken as their patron saint Luisa, the eighth survivor on Cleft, a Manhattanite who had been too old to found her own race. Implicit in that was that the Great Chain—the GC, Chaintown, Chainhattan—was a place that people might move to when they wanted to separate themselves from the social environments of their home habitats, or indeed of their own races. Mixed-race people were more common there than anywhere else.

When I’m in the right frame of mind, I start to create a list of dreams and goals. Some are preposterous; others are overly pragmatic. I don’t attempt to censor or edit the nature of the list—I put anything and everything down. Next to that first list, I write down in a second column all the things that bring me joy and pleasure: the achievements, people, and things that move me. The clues can be found in the hobbies you pursue and the magazines, movies, and books you enjoy. Which activities excite you the most, where you don’t even notice the hours that pass? When I’m done, I start to connect these two lists, looking for intersections, that sense of direction or purpose. It’s a simple exercise, but the results can be profound.

QUICK MENTAL RECAP: KIDNAPPED BY Mafia gang ruled by insane, chain-smoking reject from the sixties—female; discover husband has alias name and FBI badge that he’s been able to keep hidden from me for seventeen years (reminder to self: get a clue!); follow half-baked scheme provided by Brad Pitt look-alike to make a quick getaway through guest bathroom; wind up playing bad game of Twister in bathtub with Elvis Presley wannabe; witness the whacking of FBI husband; hear Elvis Presley wannabe proclaim, regarding husband’s whacker: “That’s No Toes” and follow up with obvious comment, “Dis ain’t good.” Would Al Pacino be caught dead in this movie? Definitely not.

Can’t you tell I’m broken?” she demanded. “I can’t stand anyone touching me!” “You handled me touching you until I pushed you too far.” “Freaking out because someone you’re enjoying kissing tries to get closer to you is not normal.” “It wasn’t normal that I was turned into a vampire because a female vamp became obsessed with my best friend,” David replied. “When Liam didn’t follow after her, she decided to turn his friends in the hopes she would get him to fall in line with her. That’s about as far from normal as it gets. I didn’t have a clue about the paranormal being real when my transformation occurred. Vampires were for horror movies, not reality. Life’s not normal. Shit happens. We all work through it.” “Is that so, Dr. Phil?” The frustrating man smiled at her. “That’s so,” David replied.

The first reason why peer-oriented children have to harden emotionally is that they have lost their natural source of power and self-confidence and, at the same time, their natural shield against intolerable hurt and pain. Apart from the steady onslaught of tragedies and traumas occurring everywhere, the child's personal world is one of intense interactions and events that can wound: being ignored, not being important, being excluded, not measuring up, experiencing disapproval, not being liked, not being preferred, being shamed and ridiculed. What protects the child from experiencing the brunt of all this stress is an attachment with a parent. It is attachment that matters: as long as the child is not attached to those who belittle him, there is relatively little damage done. The taunts can hurt and cause tears at the time, but the effect will not be long lasting. When the parent is the compass point, it is the messages he or she gives that are relevant. When tragedy and trauma happen, the child looks to the parent for clues whether or not to be concerned. As long as their attachments are safe, the sky could collapse and the world fall apart, but children would be relatively protected from feeling dangerously vulnerable. Roberto Benigni's movie, Life Is Beautiful, about a Jewish father's efforts to shield his son from the horrors of racism and genocide, illustrates that point most poignantly. Attachment protects the child from the outside world.

We see movies in which people are represented as being in love who never talk with one another, who fall into bed without ever discussing their bodies, their sexual needs, their likes and dislikes. Indeed, the message received from the mass media is that knowledge makes love less compelling; that it is ignorance that gives love its erotic and transgressive edge. These messages are often brought to us by profiteering producers who have no clue about the art of loving, who substitute their mystified visions because they do not really know how to genuinely portray loving interaction…

The classic murder mystery ends with a neat set of motives, a culprit and a comeuppance. Perhaps that is why we read them. Perhaps that is why we love them. Because real life offers us so few of these consolations, so few of these satisfactions. Maybe one day a clue will be uncovered or a confession will come to light to offer us the sense of closure the books and the movies have taught us to expect, and to believe we deserve.

Mikey was one of those incredibly straight-seeming Glasgow gay guys; the only real clue being a passionate drunken rant he’d go into any time a new gay movie or TV show came out, about the lack of lube in sex scenes.

I like movies that make me think. Movies like Inception or Interstellar.” Complex movies that involved a deep level of deception. A clue about the man himself? Take it easy, Val. You like murder mysteries, but that doesn’t mean you want to kill someone.

I’m a rare fox-human, with the souls of witches inside me. Can you imagine what a certain mindset would like to do with me? I’ll give you a clue; it’s not to re-create a cherished Roald Dahl novel.” I could imagine. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. “And to make matters worse, there was a movie with a talking fucking raccoon in it. Did you know that Camelot has a cinema? That they import movies from Earth? Well, they fucking well do. For months all I heard was how maybe for the sequel they could have me be his stunt double, or that they should paint me brown and make me a star. I began to get angry with the rabid little fucker. And he’s not even real! I was angry at a fucking comic book character.” I didn’t really know what else to say. “Good film though.” Remy stared at me. “You’re sort of missing the point of my anger, here.” “No, I get it. You know, even for my life it’s a little weird that I’m talking to a fox about how unhappy he is that people compared him to a raccoon in a science fiction film about a bunch of comic book characters saving the galaxy.” “When you put it like that, I sound downright silly.” “Yeah, wording, that’s the issue here.” Remy chuckled for a moment,

You goin’ somewhere?” I asked. “Out west.” “Out west? What is this, a John Wayne movie? There’s a lot that’s west of Boston. How far out west?” I asked. “Vegas,” he said, and turned down the strings. “Huh.” Vegas. That was quite the drive. I wondered how long it would take. I really had no clue. It was all the way across the country. Major road trip. “I’m headed that direction too,” I lied enthusiastically. He looked over at me, his eyebrows disappearing under the thick edge of his cap. “You’re headed to Vegas?” “Well, maybe not that far, you know, uh, just . . . west,” I hedged. I didn’t want him to think I wanted to tag along all the way to Vegas, although suddenly I thought I might. “Can I ride with you for a ways?” “Look, kid—” “Clyde?” I immediately interrupted. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m not jailbait or an escapee from prison or a mental institution. I’m not a member of the Klan, or even a Bible salesman, although I do believe in Jesus and am not ashamed to admit it, though I will keep my love for him to myself if you’ve got issues with that. I have some money to contribute to gas and food and whatever else we need. I just need a lift out . . . west.

An old Chevy, I think,” he was going on now. “It’s supposed to be back soon, though. Not really the same without it, is it?” He actually sounded genuinely mournful. I was surprised to find myself battling back a quick, involuntary smile. He did seem to be more interesting than your average, run-of-the-mill BMOC. I had to give him that. Get a grip, O’Connor, I chastised myself. “Absolutely not,” I said, giving my head a semi-vigorous nod. That ought to move him along, I thought. You may not be aware of this fact, but agreeing with people is often an excellent way of getting them to forget all about you. After basking in the glow of agreement, most people are then perfectly content to go about their business, remembering only the fact that someone agreed and allowing the identity of the person who did the actual agreeing to fade into the background. This technique almost always works. In fact, I’d never known it not to. There was a moment of silence. A silence in which I could feel the BMOC’s eyes upon me. I kept my own eyes fixed on the top of the carless column. But the longer the silence went on, the more strained it became. At least it did on my side. This guy was simply not abiding by the rules. He was supposed to have basked and moved on by now. “You don’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he said at last. I laughed before I quite realized what I’d done. “Not a clue,” I said, turning to give him my full attention for the very first time, an action I could tell right away spelled trouble. You just had to do it, didn’t you? I thought. He was even better looking when I took a better look. He flashed me a smile, and I felt my pulse kick up several notches. My brain knew perfectly well that that smile had not been invented just for me. My suddenly-beating-way-too-fast heart wasn’t paying all that much attention to my brain, though. “You must be new, then,” he commented. “I’d remember you if we’d met before.” All of a sudden, his face went totally blank. “I cannot believe I just said that,” he said. “That is easily the world’s oldest line.” “If it isn’t, it’s the cheesiest,” I said. He winced. “I’d ask you to let me make it up to you, but I’m thinking that would make things even worse.” “You’d be thinking right.” This time he was the one who laughed, the sound open and easy, as if he was genuinely enjoying the joke on himself. In retrospect I think it was that laugh that did it. That finished the job his smile had started. You just didn’t find all that many guys, all that many people, who were truly willing to laugh at themselves. “I’m Alex Crawford,” he said. “Jo,” I said. “Jo O’Connor.” At this Alex actually stuck out his hand. His eyes, which I probably don’t need to tell you were this pretty much impossible shade of blue, focused directly on my face. “Pleased to meet you, Jo O’Connor.” I watched my hand move forward to meet his, as if it belonged to a stranger and was moving in slow motion. At that exact moment, an image of the robot from the movie Lost in Space flashed through my mind. Arms waving frantically in the air, screaming, “Danger! Danger!” at the top of its inhuman lungs. My hand kept moving anyhow. Our fingers connected. I felt the way Alex’s wrapped around mine, then tightened. Felt the way that simple action caused a flush to spread across my cheeks and a tingle to start in the palm of my hand and slowly begin to work its way up my arm. To this day, I’d swear I heard him suck in a breath, saw his impossibly blue eyes widen. As if, at the exact same moment I looked up at him, he’d discovered something as completely unexpected as I had, gazing down. He released me. I stuck my hand behind my back. “Pleased to meet you, Jo O’Connor,” he said again. Not quite the way he had the first time.

In 1949-1950, a movie based on a true story was made “Wer fuhr den grauen Ford?” “Who drove the gray Ford” with Otto Wernicke playing the part of Criminal Commissioner Thieme. In the plot, a robbery of 240,000 Marks is perfectly planned and carried out with the help of a stolen gray Ford. Police Commissioner Thieme and his assistant, search for the loot in the dark without success. Then one of the robbers in a moment of conscience commits a fatal mistake by sending his share of the loot to the police. This mailing provides Commissioner Thieme with enough clues to capture the robbers.

What’s your favorite movie?” “Anything by the Coen brothers. My favorite is Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?” He looks at me like maybe he has no clue what movie I’m talking about. But then he says, “We thought . . . you was . . . a toad.” I laugh. “Damn! We’re in a tight spot!” “Jesus Saves, George Nelson withdraws!” We’re both laughing now.

I loved it and was shocked at all of the similarities between President Trump and Norma Desmond, the lead character in the movie, who was a former silent-film star obsessed with her looks and with making a triumphant return to the screen. Here was a woman who was convinced that everyone loved her and lived in a fantasy world of her own making. I’m sure that Trump had no clue—like none—how similar to him she was.

She palpated the edges of the wound. “So, I’m like you…werewolf—no, lycan? Am I some sort of science experiment?” He became utterly still, giving her a chance to see he wasn’t lying when he said this. “You’re not human. You have to remember this. I don’t know how one of us could ever believe otherwise, even if we lost our memory. Maybe if someone hypnotized you into believing yourself human, I could buy you not remembering. Knowing what you are is as basic as knowing how to walk. We are lycanthropes. Lycans.” No one said anything for several long moments of silence. Even Flynn seemed to have stopped breathing from wherever he stood behind them. Flynn was probably looking at her again. Why did that make him want to punch his brother, whom he trusted with his life? Skepticism laced her tone. “Can I change into a dog or something?” “No. That’s a human urban myth. We do change to become stronger when necessary, like I did in the hangar. In our feral form, we can do many superhuman things, but it’s not an ugly creature covered in hair like in the movies. You almost did the shift at the club. It’s why I distracted you both times. You can’t do that in public.” “You’re lycan, too, Flynn?” she asked. “Does that mean you both got bitten at the same time?” “What?” Flynn shot a shocked glance at Roman. “Bitten? What the actual hell?” “Chill. She’s got no clue,” Roman said in a calm tone. “Of course I’m lycan.” At her skeptical eyebrow raise, Flynn groaned theatrically and rolled his eyes. “It’s genetic, not something like in the movies where a bite will turn you. I was born this way. My parents were 100 percent lycan, as were theirs. And yours. It’s a different species than humans.” She asked, “Why do I believe so strongly I’m a person, that I’m human?” Roman shrugged
“Superspeed healing?” She touched her side.
“The older we get, the more rapidly we heal. That speed means you must be at least fifty, maybe older.” “How old are you?” “A lot older.” “You think I’m fifty? I look maybe early twenties.” She nibbled her lower lip. “How long do you…we live?” Roman shrugged. “Centuries. I don’t know any that died of natural causes.” “What about that spooky guy named Antonio? Is he like us?” Both Roman and Flynn exchanged glances. “You didn’t know what he was?” Flynn asked. Roman said, “He’s a vampire, not exactly a friend of our species.” They had yet to pin down if Antonio was involved with the dealer who peddled black magic artifacts like the vial. But every time they found something deadly like it, he lurked about. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t like him. Probably good I didn’t act on one of the five ways I envisioned he could die.” He was staring at her.
“Yeah, probably smart,” he muttered.

She says that if this were a movie, someone would find a poem about cursed snakes and it would give us the clue we needed, so she’s gone off to find one. The archivists don’t know what to do with her.

We see movies in which people are represented as being in love who never talk with one another, who fall into bed without ever discussing their bodies, their sexual needs, their likes and dislikes. Indeed, the message received from the mass media is that knowledge makes love less compelling; that it is ignorance that gives love its erotic and transgressive edge. These messages are often brought to us by profiteering producers who have no clue about the art of loving, who substitute their mystified visions because they do not really know how to genuinely portray loving interaction.

And monkey's brains, though popular in Cantonese cuisine, are not often to be found in Washington, DC.

Showcase Your Dominant Story Idea: Imagine you’re making a Hollywood Movie Trailer... how would you sum up your DSI? Look at the movie examples above for some clues.

Hey Celeste! I'm glad you made it to this page. I've heard how much you love books, so I thought it would be fitting to put your clues on here! I hope I make your big/little reveal a special time for you in Sigma, like it was for me! Clue #1: I am a HUGE Robin Williams fan, and I grew up watching his movies with my dad!

Miss Knight.” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. She didn’t turn to face him, merely waited for him to say whatever was left to say. “I would prefer someone older. Someone less like you.” Now what the hell did that mean? Someone less like her? “You know,” he said lamely when she turned to face him quizzically. To his credit he looked as confused as she felt. “Nope. Don’t have a clue.” Her voice was so icy that her words practically froze as they left her lips. “Someone with more experience. With less personality.” “What?” “You talk too much,” he said pointedly. “Your attitude is too familiar and too sarcastic.” She opened her mouth to say something, and he held up a finger to stop her. “And that was before everything that happened in Tokyo. You’re completely irreverent and have a bizarre sense of humor. I also have no wish to hear about reality television shows, pop music, manicures, Brangelina, Star Trek, or anything that’s trending on Twitter—not even secondhand through whispered telephone conversations when my assistant thinks I’m not paying attention.” Well, he’d certainly been a lot more attentive during those half hours in the mornings than she’d given him credit for. But one thing struck her as odd. “Star Trek?” she repeated. She loved the new movies but hardly ever publicly discussed them. “You’re constantly talking about how sick you are of the Cardassians,” he elaborated uncomfortably. Her eyes widened and she stifled a laugh. “Different kind of Kardashian,” she corrected. It would be hopeless to explain it to a man who clearly had no interest in pop culture—even while every model or actress he was publicly photographed with inserted him into the very scene he was so scornful of. Quite frankly, she was impressed that he even knew about the Cardassians in Star Trek, which attested to a level of geekdom that she would never have suspected of him. “So you’re looking for the anti-me?” “It shouldn’t be so hard to find the complete opposite of you. You are quite . . .” His brow lowered as he tried to find the correct word. “Singular.” “Thank you,” she said, ridiculously flattered until a closer glance at his straight face told her that it hadn’t been a compliment. Her fledgling smile died, and she once again—as she often did in his presence—fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay, so you’re looking for an old, boring, and competent assistant,” she itemized, and his lips thinned but he said nothing. “I’ll get on that right away, sir.

Duncan had never felt more powerfull than when Ghost trusted him enough to fall asleep beside him. And to know that Ghost felt the same way about it? He was so fucked. Ghost's brow creased. "Do you? Want? I mean. That. With me?" Damn Ghost for asking. And damn himself for this self-destructive stupidity. "Yes." "I don't mean sex. I mean -" "I know what you mean. Yes." "But you don't want to. You wish you didn't." "It would be easier not to want you. It would be safer. Probably better for my long-term mental health. But it's kind of moot. I do want you. It's not a choice." "Then we can. Watch movies." Duncan sighed. "No. I-" He didn't have the first clue how to say this if Ghost hadn't already figured it out. "You can't plot to kill someone and then watch a movie with me. It doesn't work that way. I don't work that way. Ghost considered that for a long time." Fine, I won't kill him. Even if that's the only way out. I won't." "That's-" Duncan wasn't sure whether to be flattered or appalled. "Are you flirting with me by not murdering people?" Ghost looked thoughtful. "Do you like it?

Hey, Beau, you and Ash got kind of close this summer. I mean, she unloaded on you the other day about her stress at home, and she no longer gets that pinched look on her face when I mention your name, which is a good thing. I’m glad the two people who mean the most to me finally remembered they were once friends.” How do I respond to this? I just nodded. “Would you, uh, mind doing me a favor? I mean, if you and Nic don’t have anything going on tonight…It’s just I told Ashton I’d take her out to get something to eat and maybe go to a movie. You know, to get her out of the house and away from the crazy family members. But Dad just texted me, and he needs me to go with him to meet with a friend of his who’s in town for the evening and has connections at the university athletic department. It’s important, and Dad has worked really hard to set this meeting up. But I don’t want to let Ash down either. Could you take her out for me if you aren’t already doing something with Nic? Because we both know how she feels about her. I don’t want to throw Ash into a situation that makes her uncomfortable.” Did he really just ask me to take Ash out tonight? Was he insane? He didn’t deserve her. Any guy who would blow her off for something his daddy wanted shouldn’t get to have her. “Sure,” I replied, hearing the clipped tone in my voice. Stupid-ass cousin of mine had no clue what he was asking for. I was already headed for hell; I might as well enjoy the ride.

As a boy, I admired Humphrey Bogart in a big way. I coveted the homburg and trench coat. I wanted to pack heat and smoke unfiltered cigarettes and give them long-legged dames in mink stoles the squinty-eyed once-over. I longed to chase villains, right wrongs, and restore the peace. Upon surviving into manhood, I discovered the black and comedic irony that is every gumshoe’s existential plight, the secret that dime novels and black-and-white movies always elide: each clue our intrepid detective deciphers, each mystery he unravels, each crime he solves, makes the world an unhappier place. I got smart and became a gangster instead. More money, more women, and better clothes. Much less in the way of mystery. As for the misery quotient? Basically a wash.

Timing is at least as important as content, and for those in the audience watching the film their emotional state at the time can also determine the impact of the viewing experience. What’s important here is not whether the film has some sort of permanent artistic value. The viewers—and I include myself here—usually only possess a limited ability to comprehend a film and tend to overlook many important clues in it. But they feel liberated from their daily frustrations and feelings of being overwhelmed, are able to shake off their sense of gloom, to discover a feeling of adoration, of honesty, and of something positive that they didn’t know they had in themselves, and then return refreshed to their daily realities and routines. This, I think, is the true role of popular movies.

The film is the thing. You work so hard after the ideas come to get this thing built, all the elements to feel correct, the whole to feel correct in this beautiful language called 'cinema'. And the second it's finished people want you to change it back into words. And it's very, very saddening. It's a torture. It's the film, the language of cinema. When things are concrete [there's] very few variations in interpretation. But the more abstract a thing gets, the more varied the interpretations. But people still know inside what it is for them. And even if they don't trust their intuition, I always say that if some girl named Sally... she comes out of the theatre 'I don't have a clue what that means!' She goes over with Bob and Jim to get a cup of coffee. Bob starts talking about what he thinks it is, because he knows exactly what it is, he starts talking. Five seconds later Sally 'No, no, no, no, it's not that!' And all these things come out of Sally. So, Sally really did know. For herself. That's the beauty of it. It’s just like life. You see sort of the same things, but you come up with many many different things as you go along as a detective. [...] You have everything in the film, that’s the thing. It doesn’t matter what I say. Zip! It can only be a negative. The thing is built so you don't wanna take anything away, and you don't wanna add anything to it. It's complete. That's it.

The film is the thing. You work so hard after the ideas come to get this thing built, all the elements to feel correct, the whole to feel correct in this beautiful language called 'cinema'. And the second it's finished people want you to change it back into words. And it's very, very saddening. It's a torture. It's the film, the language of cinema. When things are concrete [there's] very few variations in interpretation. But the more abstract a thing gets, the more varied the interpretations. But people still know inside what it is for them. And even if they don't trust their intuition, I always say that if some girl named Sally... she comes out of the theatre 'I don't have a clue what that means!' She goes over with Bob and Jim to get a cup of coffee. Bob starts talking about what he thinks it is, because he knows exactly what it is, he starts talking. Five seconds later Sally 'No, no, no, no, it's not that!' And all these things come out of Sally. So, Sally really did know. For herself. That's the beauty of it. It’s just like life. You see sort of the same things, but you come up with many many different things as you go along as a detective. [...] You have everything in the film, that’s the thing. It doesn’t matter what I say. Zip! It can only be a negative. The thing is built so you don't wanna take anything away, and you don't wanna add anything to it. It's complete. That's it.