Sergio Donati. Gave us a new vision of a clownish kind of impotent man, one who was so cynical as to burst in the laughter, the post-John Ford version of the Joker, in it for not his own end, but finding a slot for himself near the pocket, in the grand design, and flapping his butterfly things towards that.
Meanwhile, quick-drawing people.
Bored, he would toy with them, like a bored cat playing with specks of fuzz and lint.
He had an ascension, or an assention, as it were, one or the other, something of a woman with lawnmower oil in her hair, and what we would all give to be part of that American Graffiti just one more time, where every night is Saturday night.
There was no love interest. Wha--? It was too busy being silly, I suppose to give time to the energized toil of tilling the millage, tiling the mileage, slipping the footage, and the laying or rail, with the laying of rail set aside in conversations in some street side cafe, set aside for other works.
Sergio "Fern" Donati, with a certain, as it were, Communist leaning, with the new being so brutally different as to look with scorn at the old, to even just stand there with pistol caterwauling, and these so progressive as it were, to play with an old man's balls for the sake of having an opportunity to mansplain.
The negroid Mexican, the mulatto, as it were, holding timbers while dude quick draws them, and he leaves a proverb, mansplaining even to the very means of production.
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