![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxwBYvPM7AG29bbvieT3A8kkMFp4PvZaqpFcXy4btbakFGGZYLwhUv0kVx0eTNrY087yl0psym1IwNrWNb5o06O432c7NNRPGp-F2BV_T_ro7UEqY5BKHkKP3VgOTtruZ3yszXdW0P70/s320/BLOODY+MARY+BIO.jpg)
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!"
Lesson learned.
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