It is 1976, he is arguing with Alec Guinness over blocking out a scene. Guinness is a bit of a dick.
It is 2008, he thinks he used to be a detective. He remembers being pretty good at it.
It is 1969, Cassavetes got it wrong, but he agreed to work for him anyway.
It is 2003, The memory was cruel. He could put up with all of the things that fall apart in old men, but when the memory started to go he felt gut-punched.
It is 2010, he can’t find the damn door. The doorbell won’t stop ringing.
It is 1974, and he has just caught his prime suspect in a lie. He never gets tired of that.
It is 1986, he recites lines from a funny book. The kid gets a kick out of his glass eye.
It is 2011, the woman in the room is nice, he likes her voice. Can’t place her, but he thinks the ring she’s wearing belonged to his wife. She tells him he’s tired, if he sleeps it will all come to him. He closes his eyes, forgets to ask why she was crying.