I hope to never again hear of Orson Welles‘ The Other Side Of The Wind. Nor will I ever again speak of Filip Jan Rymsza or Oja Kodar or Sasha Welles or anyone else involved in this infuriating, godforsaken project. Okay, I’ll discuss/mention Peter Bogdanovich or Frank Marshall or any other peripheral players who have distinguished themselves in some other realm but the movie, which has never existed in any kind of coherent, showable, arresting form and may never in fact attain that condition, no longer exists for me.

If The Other Side Of The Wind ever appears on streaming or Bluray or in theatres I will strenuously ignore it. I’m sick of it. I’m off the boat. If anyone comes up to me and says “I will give you a thousand tax-free dollars if you’ll just sit down and watch The Other Side of The Wind,” I will look them straight in the eye like Ted Cruz does when he’s talking to TV reporters, smile, gently place my hand on their shoulder and politely refuse.

I donated $100 of my hard-earned money to help get this scattered, disjointed mess of a would-be film restored and assembled but that was then and this is now. I’ve washed my hands of it, and I’m urging everyone else to think about making a similar pledge. All together now, “To hell with The Other Side Of The Wind!

And by the way I’m going to take my sweet-ass time seeing the restored version of Chimes of Midnight, if in fact I ever submit to it, which is doubtful at this stage.