What a fascinating film. Brilliant, bitter, busted-up Leo Marks! He must have been atoning the rest of his life, I think, and what does one do when faced with that ocean of fuck-uppery but write to make it immortal?

I honestly don't think he had a choice. As soon as I read Between Silk and Cyanide in 2010, I could see it on the slant in Peeping Tom, which I had watched two years previously. What amazes me about Cloudburst is how not at all slant it is. He must not have thought he would write a memoir.

Thank you for the remarkable job you've done here of threading in all the context, too, while still mostly talking about the film.

Thank you! It is part of the story.