“Well, and now Fräulein Schmidt—von Schmidt? Uh-uh! What for? We have to emphasize the social contrast. Previously, Kitty wasn’t very popular among the girls because she isn’t highborn, you understand? That’s what makes the story so up to date; otherwise there’s no topical message—well, now Fräulein Schmidt throws herself in front—what? Winkelried? That’s what you wanna call her? I don’t like Winkelried, too pretentious. Besides, Schmidt sounds better for bringing out the social contrast—and she kicks the bucket . . .

Oh, she suffered

poor Miss Schmidty

’cause the soldiers

sliced her titty . . .

“Come on now, knock it off with the jokes! . . . What happens next? The first victim is brought, and then—

“Well, and the girls? The girls are saved by Lieutenant Raskolnikov himself; that makes it a lot more ecumenical, bringing nations together and so on; why should we keep fighting with the Russians after so many umpteen years? Doesn’t make any sense in the long run . . .”

Certainly not. My Supreme Piglet Wohlfahrt (not for nothing is he the business manager and sole owner of Intercosmic Art Films) is once again talking pure gold.

So: in the end, Ivan Raskolnikov marries the girl in Fräulein Schmidty’s institute who hated her most because she wasn’t high-born—what should we call her? Effie? Effie sounds good, I like it—and now for a real Junker name—what? Von Briest? Von Briest is great. So: in the end, amid the ruins of the garrison chapel of Potsdam—pretty good, right? symbolic and so on—in the end, Lieutenant Ivan Raskolnikov marries Fräulein Effie von Briest

“. . . And when you see the two of them in the last shot placing a simple bouquet of wildflowers on Fräulein Schmidty’s grave—and the Iron Cross First Class—no, wait a moment, why the Iron Cross First Class? The war’s over, damn it! It doesn’t exist anymore. A simple bouquet of wildflowers, a lot more poignant—I tell you: with the final shot, there’s got to be snot and tears, that’s the alpha and omega of cinematic art, as old Erich Pommer used to say. . .”

•

Fine! Good luck! And tallyho! I was merely doing my duty as a man: showing my brood of piglets that they can always count on more pearls from me (“the guy is difficult, granted, simply because he gets too many ideas at once—his imagination runs away with him, you just have to rein in his thoughts, then he functions right”)—

I wrote the pile of bothersome obligations off my back: the alimony for Christa (“I have nothing but sympathy with your situation, but my lawyer won’t hear of it: after all, he’s in the film business himself, he knows how much you make”), the tuition for our son in his plutocratic prep school in Holland, the rent, the auto insurance—

I can even think of paying off some of the most embarrassing of my debts—

all this with the labor of a few filthy weeks . . .