Fascinating. I don't know why I'm envisioning this as some sort of odd and completely unintentional (on the part of Jean-Paul Sartre as well as, obviously and unquestionably, barring a disturbing collapse of causality, on the part of Fejos) parallel to Les Jeux Sont Faits (1947).* It's probably because I'm too tired.

Any road, I'm glad ye got to see it and that there was in it to inspire this lovely bit of writing here.

I'm within 3200 words of making my 50k words for NaNo tomorrow, and whether I make it or not it's due to be done with by midnight PST, i.e. 23 hours and 30 minutes from now. Will hopefully be around more often thereafter.

*Which I cordially disliked on first meeting it (as screenplay, rather than film) at high school,** but have never entirely forgotten. It's one of those works that I know must have been translated, but which I can only imagine in French.
**In a school edition of perhaps late-sixties vintage, which glossed all insults and obscenities, including such phrases as the menacing "Salé petite donneuse!," with its triple-punch accusation of filth, treason, and effeminacy, as "You dirty dog!"