Mexico was violent (but not as violent) back in the seventies. Maybe the kind of films we made down there had something to do with it. Here I find myself in Mary, Mary, Bloody Mary, killing the great thespian, John Carradine, a Shakespearian actor as well a member of the filmic Hall of fame. When I got to know him a bit, I asked him what he was doing in a piece of crap like this.
He rolled his eyes and said in that sonorous voice of his, "It's work, my boy!"
Marla Monday was a superstar in Hollywood's golden era, worshipped by fans, adored by critics. And also a woman who would allow nothing to keep her from what she wanted, whether a partner of either sex in bed, a role another actress coveted, no matter whom she had to seduce, whom she had to destroy. She had as many enemies as film credits, but who would go so far as to slash her throat?
This story grew out of a vague idea and handful of characters who put it together themselves. No writer is supposed to say so -- but this complex mystery virtually wrote itself. Right to an ending that surprised even me.
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