At some point between all things past and where we are now, you saw the play. To see a further explanation of the present perfect tense, click here. The past perfect tense is used to describe the idea that something occurred before another action in the past.
In other words, if you are talking about a past event and need to go further into the past to talk about something else, that is what the past perfect tense is used for.
The best way to keep track of saw vs. Seen is the exact opposite; it cannot appear without a helping verb and never stands alone. Use the HTML below. You must be a registered user to use the IMDb rating plugin. Learn more More Like This. Rhapsody Drama Musical Romance. Period of Adjustment Drama Comedy. Father's Little Dividend Comedy Romance.
Love Is Better Than Ever Sylvia Scarlett Comedy Drama Romance. Something of Value Drama War. Tulsa Action Drama Romance. The Hucksters Drama Comedy Romance. Mayerling Drama History Romance. The V. Sweet Bird of Youth Life with Father Certificate: Passed Comedy. Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Wade lived on the fifth floor of a tiny house on the rue de la Huchette, three rooms with a window looking out over all the tourist bars and kebab shops and close enough to the river that the bells from Notre-Dame woke him from his hangover every morning.
He was in his seventies and had to pause every three steps to catch his breath when he was climbing the stairs. He had a Chicago accent and a white beard and he wore a long mac with disposable cameras in the pockets, except when he was at home, Wade lived on the fifth floor of a tiny house on the rue de la Huchette, three rooms with a window looking out over all the tourist bars and kebab shops and close enough to the river that the bells from Notre-Dame woke him from his hangover every morning.
He had a Chicago accent and a white beard and he wore a long mac with disposable cameras in the pockets, except when he was at home, when he wore nothing except his underpants, and that was only the first problem I had with him offering to be my landlord. I'd had one other offer of a flat, living with a Polish girl on Montorgueil who'd come to Paris to do some modelling…and looking back, I realise what a deeply foolish decision I made turning her down in favour of an American pensioner, but it was those early days when getting any estate agent in Paris to accept my money felt like a laughably hubristic ambition, so when Wade sniffed under his moustache and said he'd let me have the spare room with a month's downpayment, I handed over a roll of notes and felt lucky.
It wasn't the most luxurious lodgings I've ever stayed in. My room was missing a few amenities including, crucially, any interior walls or doors — instead, there was just a translucent curtain nailed to the ceiling to separate my area from the corridor which ran between the front door and the toilet. It was less a room than a concept, a shared act of faith. My bed was a large baggy mattress whose intricate network of multicoloured stains could have been used as the map for a long series of epic fantasy novels.
Sometimes, at night, lying in bed, I would see through the curtain Wade's shape shuffling down the corridor to the loo, like an unimaginative but surprisingly frightening shadow-theatre. Wade had retired years ago and lived a precarious existence in the Latin Quarter funded by hand-outs from the French government, a tiny pension from the US, and whatever he could bring in by renting out his spare room. In tough months, he would rent out both rooms and just sleep in the kitchenette, which was one reason among many why I never cooked in the flat.
He was full of moneymaking schemes which never quite happened: hiring himself out as a guide, temping as a computer journalist, teaching French through the medium of musicals, and writing a hit one-man play about Joan of Arc were all ideas which he tried out but which, sadly, never seemed to come to much.
He was particularly keen on photography, went everywhere with a camera round his neck and stalked the Luxembourg Gardens, rain or shine, assessing the conjunctions of trees and joggers for potentially marketable shots. In general his idea of a well-exposed shot was one in which a female subject was well exposed. Wade was the only man who knew how to get a free lunch in Paris.
On Sundays he took a dusty s-era suit from a box under the sink, looped a black tie around his neck, crossed the Petit Pont, and climbed over the fence of the old people's home behind Notre Dame. They held a formal roast every Sunday lunchtime and he realised he could join the diners through the simple expedient of dressing up and occasionally dribbling over himself as he ate. He read a lot, too, picking up countless bargains from the riverside bouqinistes on summer afternoons, and it was thanks to his recommendation that I got turned on to this book by Elliot Paul, my favourite evocation of Paris during the Second World War and one of the greatest books ever written about this city.
It is set in the rue de la Huchette, where we lived, and after carefully cross-referencing and collating all the comments Paul makes about his apartment, Wade and I were able to work out that he may well have lived in the same building as us — certainly no more than one or two houses away. And, looking around, I suspected that little renovation had been conducted in the interim.
When I told Wade I was leaving he looked pained, and confused, then nodded wisely, cast around the detritus on his desk, and handed me a battered paperback copy of Atlas Shrugged. I sat with him to help celebrate my new lodgings and his new search for a tenant, and a couple of hours later when Ayn Rand was more or less empty and we were seeing the funny side of everything, we walked down a few blocks to a Vietnamese and drank Bia Hanois and Wade told me about the night in '72 he got drunk with Henry Miller in Big Sur, and about a girl, about the girl, and a child he had, somewhere in Malaysia, that he wasn't allowed to see.
And afterwards he caught the bus home but it was a warm night and I decided to walk, getting there somehow before he did and standing at the corner, full of Parisian Weltschmerz, or THC at any rate, watching the river rubbing its back against the moonlight.
I don't know where he'd been, but it wasn't till nearly an hour later, when I was in bed, that I heard Wade coming in the courtyard five flights down, and our building was so old the stairs and landings all seemed to point in different directions, like something designed by MC Escher during a panic attack…and I lay in bed, half drunk, half asleep, listening to him slowly climb: three stairs, and breathe.
Three stairs. And breathe. View all 14 comments. I Got Plenty Of Nuttin'. My Man's Gone Now. Bes You Is My Woman. It Ain't Necessarily So. Bouquet Of Roses. Cool Water. Galloping On The Guitar. The Three Bells. Don't Fence Me In. Songs My Mother Taught Me.
A Wandering Minstrel I. Old Devil Moon. Lazy River. Clancy Lowered The Boom. O Sole Mio. Polonaise In A-Flat. Deep River. Some Of These Days. My Man. The film was released in ; however, there was an error with the Roman numerals in the copyright notice showing "MCMXLIV" , meaning the term of copyright started 10 years before the film was released. He suddenly is grabbed by a beautiful woman, who kisses him and disappears.
The mutual attraction is instant, and she invites him to join her father's celebration of the end of the war in Europe.
Unlike most drifters, he never grew out of it, raising his two daughters to desire such a lifestyle. Helen takes after her father and uses her beauty to sustain a life of luxury even though they are flat broke. Marion goes the other way and looks for serious-minded and conventional young men such as Claude, an aspiring prosecutor, and Charles, the future novelist.
Charles and Helen start dating and fall in love. After Helen recovers from a near-death case of pneumonia , they get married and settle in Paris. James good-naturedly joins the happy family of Charles, with Helen eventually having a daughter Vickie Sandy Descher. Marion, having lost Charles to Helen, agrees to marry Claude. Charles struggles to make ends meet with his meager salary, unsuccessfully works on his novels and looks after Vickie.
At about this time, the barren oil fields in Texas that James had bought years before finally begin to produce.The last time I saw him he brought me flowers. White lilies and pink roses. We went out for lunch, he bought drinks and I bought food, he teased me for ordering a salad and I laughed and wanted to eat his sandwich. We dropped the flowers home and, arms linked, walked .
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