Popeye— he’s fucking great in it. That’s the weirdest movie of all time— why is Robert Altman directing a movie about Popeye? Who did I meet that said— they had stories about meeting Robin. He was like, we went to Malta to shoot that— Malta, an island in the middle of the Mediterranean. And he’s like, there’s no coke there— and that’s at a point in my life where I was fueled by cocaine, I had to have cocaine. And so, they couldn’t get cocaine there. So all of the sudden a bunch of Parisian models, like really sexy female Parisian models started showing up to the island of Malta. And all of the sudden, Robin Williams had coke. And it turns out that Popeye was made by vag-ed Parisian model coke. He had a bunch of sexy Parisian mules carrying the stuff. It’s a good movie.
I don’t want to live in a world where Robin Williams wasn’t getting Parisian pussy coke.
The work could have all been done in my head. But there is a certain danger in not having to reach final conclusions: it’s all too easy to be satisfied with glimmers of intuition, rather than sound, coherent reasoning.
— Andrei Tarkovsky “Sculpting In Time”