Ebert on Lee Marvin, 1970

This is clearly the best thing I've read all month:

A moment's silence for symbolic sleep. Marvin closed his eyes and threw his head back against his chair. There was a door at the other end of the living room, opening onto a porch that overlooked the beach. Through the door you could hear the waves hitting the beach, crush, crush, and at this moment, while Marvin pretended to sleep, the morning resolved itself as a melancholy foggy Saturday.

"Have another anchovy, sweetheart," Marvin said, rousing himself at last. He drained the Heineken.

"I love them," Louise said.

"She's been eating nothing but anchovies for the past day and a half," Marvin said. "You know why you like anchovies so much all of a sudden? You're knocked up. You're gonna have a little Lee Marvin."

"Lee!" Louise said. "You can't say that."

"Why not?" he said. "Put it down: Louise's knocked up. If you make it good enough, they'll never print it. And if they do print it, and come around and ask me, did you really say that?, I'll say, sure, I said it. I need another beer."

Louise got up and went into the kitchen.

"She's not really knocked up," Marvin said.

It goes on from there.