Watching The Long Kiss Goodnight and enjoying it as much as I did in 1996.

I find that I have regularly misquoted a favorite bit of dialogue. My memory for wording is usually better than that. Perhaps I inherited a mild case of Mom’s lifelong malapropism; but that would not explain another anomaly: I also misremembered that Patrick Malahide made an atrocious attempt at a Dixie accent, rather than using his own voice. Perhaps that was another role.

A key scene in the above-titled flick cannot work unless the two leads have very similar breasts; and now I’m curious about the casting process.

I have a very vague – call it abstract – memory of watching the beginning of this movie, but it seems not to exist, so I guess it was a dream.

The main character is a spy’s only daughter. Daddy (now dead) taught her to lose a tail, improvise a disguise, pick a lock, do basic forgery; normal father-daughter bonding stuff. She is now grown up with a career to which such skills are irrelevant, but in establishing scenes she practices them for fun.

She meets a girl (~14) who is running from Bad People and distrustful of the ostensibly Good institutions. She becomes the girl’s protector, and suddenly spycraft matters.

The local spooks become aware of her and are rattled. Who is this new player? How long has she been here? What else has she been up to, and for whom?

Last night I watched Peter Ustinov’s adaptation (1962) of Herman Melville’s story Billy Budd. In 1797, a young merchant seaman is drafted onto a warship, where his sweet nature is admired by all except Claggart, the cruel master-at-arms, who resents Budd’s inability to fear him (because Budd is too innocent to see evil in anyone). ( . . more . . )

In Sherlock episode “The Lying Detective”, the phrase serial killer is uttered many times, always stressing the first word – as if the second were a given, even when (for the speakers) any killings are hypothetical. That impaired my enjoyment of a generally well-written episode. (Well, much better-written than its neighbors.)

I’ve noticed the phenomenon before: when a phrase becomes a fixed lexeme, many people, perhaps most, are deaf to its components. For my ex, the phrase beef jerky was in such perfect union that she often said “turkey beef-jerky”. Not Always Right has occasional tales of restaurant workers and customers for whom the arbitrary name “bacon lettuce & tomato sandwich” does not imply the presence of bacon.

In the film and TV series Limitless, a drug makes the protagonist temporarily super-intelligent.

In the episodes I’ve seen, it’s not established whether any skills learned with the drug remain when it wears off. I imagine that you’d want to try to develop ways to improve your unenhanced intelligence; in other words, to teach your alter-ego to learn better.

Later: In the third episode he behaves so stupidly that I lost interest.

In Marvel/Netflix Daredevil episode 11 “The Path of the Righteous”, [spoiler] drugs [spoiler] and takes her to a secret place. When she wakes up, he sits facing her and puts a large pistol on the table between them, “to get [her] undivided attention.” After he has made his demands and threats, his phone rings: a call that he cannot ignore. She takes advantage of his momentary distraction to grab the gun. He scoffs: “Do you think I’d put a loaded weapon within your reach?”

I thought of a scene in Randall Garrett’s “Lord Darcy” stories. Someone asks the forensic magician Sean O Lochlainn, “If you’re not going to cut anything, why are you sharpening that knife?” Master Sean replies, “The best symbol for a thing is the thing itself. This knife represents a sharp knife. I have another one that represents a dull knife.”

What, then, would be the symbolism of putting an empty gun on the table?