Your damned forehead. I don't like it one bit.
But it's the only one I've got and anyway -
Ah, stop it. That's probably not even a real Brooklyn accent. Nebraska, right?
And you're hangdog, man. Stop with the whole hangdog thing.
It's my thing.
Your thing is simpering, Monty. You fucking simper.
...Do not.
See?!
But Borgnine keeps beating the shit out of me.
Ah, Borgnine's alright. He's just acting out. He's normally a really sweet guy. It's Sinatra ya gotta watch out for. He's real nice to your face but he's a careerist if ever I met one.
Were Lancaster and Gardner really caught banging down on the beach?
Who cares. There's that whole fucking hangdog thing again. I think you looked your best when Tracy was giving you his steely stare in the dock at Nuremberg, even if you were all fucked up in your private hell by then, but what do I know?
...
Well, I heard Monty Clift got gunned down by his own team making his way back to the beach without so much as a single bugle to play Reveille.
But I guess that's just the way dreams always play out through all places, through all eternity.
Joe about Monty.
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