Chinatown, London Underground, you know it all sounds good to me

It is undoubtedly a sign of improvement that in just the last week I have begun to dream and remember it for the first time in months, but now I get to be irritated that I am not camped out at the Harvard Film Archive for their summer repertory series of quota quickies and British B-movies, absolutely none of whose stars seem to exist in my waking life, let alone their directors or scripts. Most of them were crime melodramas. None had been recovered from the early filmography of Michael Powell. It has been so nearly impossible for me to watch movies, I appreciate my brain trying to make up the obvious loss.