Night Moves 4K 1975 Ultra HD 2160p

Story Movie

Los Angeles detective Harry Mosby forgets his marital problems for a while to find a runaway girlfriend and goes to Florida to get her.

Review 4K Movie

Once my nipples stayed hard for half an hour after a man touched them, once I was even a teacher, and now I'm a prostitute, wine and men are my atmosphere, now I'm no longer on the bar, yes the difference is not great, but if you think that I'm some kind of healed life slob, like my buddy's wife, then look at this private detective, to whom I tell him bits and pieces about my disappointment, about the emptiness of my present life, so as not to answer his question as to why I'm not particularly depressed about finding a fish-eaten dead man in a sunken airplane. If he insisted on answering, I would have to give myself and others away, but he is bribed by the proximity of a body, though not as fresh as that of my friend's flighty stepdaughter, for whom this private detective has come to see us, and who tomorrow will be taken home to her perfumed mother-in-law, and there will be an accident, and.... But I can still be beautiful.

Of course, the detective, humiliated by a broken marriage and tracking down his own wife, will think of blaming the mechanic, and that drunken mama, and whoever else, to come back here furious and still not understanding anything, although it would seem that no one has hidden anything from him, everything is in plain sight, pieces of a simple mosaic, but he gives in to sentimentality, and then he thinks. I'm not killing anyone. If that juiced-up barbie, who likes to show off her nakedness in front of half-familiar men, hadn't been rubbing up against her stepfather, if she hadn't recognized the dead man on the plane, if the mustachioed detective hadn't been told about it three times, if he hadn't thought the wrong thing and gone to beat up whoever he wanted, nothing would have happened in the end, just a working difficulty, easily overcome, that's why I was swaying in a priapic dance, despite what we found under the water, but it's just some silly fatality, six dead bodies and everybody's a fool! But don't, don't cry, my lonely child, you've already been poisoned by the autumn dampness of the boulevard, and I know that if you shriek you may jump mad, and when you die, yes, when you die in this meat-grinder, all the players who used you, who mocked you, will themselves be floating upside down, lying in blood and mud, or indigesting in the morgue. Fatality is me, not the horny teenager that men are in such a hurry to get rid of, me, not her, me! I can still be beautiful, with a crushed skull, because the pages of this story are stitched together by a thread of my hair with bits of scalp, mine, not hers, and whoever manages to grasp the panorama of unfortunate incidents will marvel at me, at my enticing destructive power, crushing people beyond will and intention....