- (Michael) So what's been going on, Ivan? - (Ivan) Nothing's been going on, Doctor. Nothing's been going on at all.
Everything's still the same as it always was. My mother's still a mad old crow. She's in a state of complete denial now, Michael.
She's got one eye on the grave and the other eye reading all these magazines about how at her age life is just beginning. Alexander sits at his desk all day and writes and writes and writes and writes and writes, scratching, scraping, crossing out, and writing some more. It's the paper I feel sorry for.
He's not made a single film in seventeen years, Michael. He's dry as a bone. And this old fucker's now living on his first wife's money, my sister's money, Anna, may she rest in peace.
The Maestro himself is now living on her potato farm, not because he wants to, but because he can't afford to live in the city, even though he is a. . .
uh. . .
what do they call him? A generational defining filmmaker. Do you know, he's been given three honorary doctorates.
Three! Doctor, Doctor, Doctor! And what for?
For what? Nothing, Michael. Nothing at all.
He's never had an original idea in his life. His only successful films were adaptations. (Audience laughing) And even they were.
. . .
. . well, adequate.
I wouldn't call 'em 'generational defining', for fuck's sake! And he's so pompous, Michael. And he never fucking shuts up.
And the luck that fucker has with women! Not even Don Juan de Marco has the luck that that old fucker has. Anna!
You met Anna? (Michael) Of course I did, Ivan. (Ivan) How beautiful was Anna?
(Michael) She was, Ivan, she was very beautiful. (Ivan) Really, though, Michael, she was. She was.
. . She was.
. . She was lovely.
