Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

get him in the middle of lunch, whereupon he bid us all a faintgoodbye and left, stumbling against the tables. It was the last timeany of us were to see him alive.)There were many toasts, and among them I remember GeorgeStevens raising his glass to the "wonderful thing that despite ourdifferences in origin and belief united us around the table." I stoodup and clinked glasses with him, but, ever suspicious of culturalsolidarity, replied, "I'll drink to that, even though I have mydoubts. . . ."The next day, Fritz Lang, who'd been too tired the day beforeto attend the luncheon, invited me to his house. You must rememberthat I was seventy-two and Lang past eighty. It was our first meeting,and at last I had the chance to tell him about the crucial role hisfilms had played in my life. Before leaving, I asked him for anautographed picture, something I'd never done before with anyone.He was surprised, but eventually found one and signed it. When Isaw that it was a photo of him as an old man, I asked if he didn'thave one from the I ~ ~ Othe S , time of Destiny and Metropolis. Thistime it took longer, but he came up with one in the end and wrotea magnificent inscription on it. As usual, however, I've no idea what'shappened to it. I vaguely remember giving one of them to a Mexicanfilmmaker named Arturo Ripstein, but the other should be aroundhere . . . somewhere.