It’s a rather unusual skateboard lesson.

Little girls are lined up to learn to balance on a board on a half-pipe ramp. The teachers are young women from Bolivia, in their teens and 20s, wearing traditional garb as a tribute to female strength. Their outfits do not seem as if they are ideal for skateboarding: Each skateboarder wears a beribboned bowler hat and a poofy skirt. Among the eager disciples is Poppy Moore. She’s only 2, she’s from Virginia and she’s brought her own helmet for her very first skateboarding experience.

The scene was on the final day of this year’s Smithsonian Folklife Festival. The theme: “Indigenous Voices of the Americas.” There was skateboarding and more: kite-making, marimba-playing, textile-weaving, singing and dancing. The Washington Monument and the U.S. Capitol framed the festival tents on a breezy, blue-sky July day.

Members of a female skating collective from Bolivia offered lessons at the Smithsonian’s Folklife Festival.

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For Goats and Soda coverage, we focused on the Latin American contingent since we cover countries of the Global South. As we interviewed the artisans it became clear that they aren’t just local talents. They reach out far beyond their homelands, touching hearts and minds — and even mentoring a new generation of skateboarders.

We spoke to some of the artists who shared their voices at this year’s festival. It was an honor to meet them and witness their creativity. And we’d like to introduce them to you.

Hats off to these hat-wearing skateboarders

In their white bowler hats and Bolivian pollera skirts, the Indigenous all-female skateboard group ImillaSkate showed off their moves at the Folklife Festival —- and also taught beginner tricks to visitors.

“Imilla” means young girl in the Aymara and Quechua language. The skaters, from Cochabamba, Bolivia, say they formed the skating group in 2019 and were inspired by their mothers and grandmothers to wear the traditional garb, along with long twisted braids.

Bolivian skateboarders get ready for a demo.

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“We inherit the clothing,” says Deysi Tacuri Lopez, “and also the struggle and strength that they give us.”

“We want a lot of young girls and boys to join in on skateboarding and at the same time, to recognize their cultural identity,” she adds.

Pamela Moore brought her family to attend the Folklife Festival and her daughter Poppy went to skate for the first time at the skate workshop.

Moore’s family is Bolivian but she was born and raised in Virginia. She was delighted to see the Bolivian contingent at the festival and to see her daughter skate with the group. She says Poppy, who turns 3 this summer, was very proud of her achievement.

Guys appreciate the skaterboarders, too. Aaron Davis of Washington, D.C., a member of the skateboarding nonprofit The D.C. Wheels, praised Imilia Skate’s ability to transcend cultural and gender barriers to illustrate the best of the skateboarding life.

“It’s a way of life, and I relearned that from watching,” says the 28-year-old. He was impressed that, even though the Bolivian skaters don’t speak English, they were able to share “the foundation” of skateboarding with folks so they “can go on and express themselves in their own ways with their skateboard.”

Along the way, there are skateboarding life lessons to impart, too.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you fall,” says María Belén Fajardo Fernández. “The important thing is that you stand up and continue trying.” — K.T.

A song of survival

We’re still here.

It’s a universal theme in song lyrics — remember Elton John’s 1983 hit “I’m Still Standing”? And “Survivor” by Destiny’s Child. And of course Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”

This past Monday afternoon, two young men from Brazil’s Indigenous peoples sang their survival song. It was composed by the grandfather of Tambura Amondawa, one of the performers.

Tambura Amondawa (left) sports the bright yellow-orange feathers of the macaw that is their symbol of his clan. At right is Tupi Kawahin, who wears the deep blue feathers of his clan’s mutuanaguera bird symbol. Together they sang a song, composed by Tambura’s grandfather, celebrating the survival of their Indigenous community.

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The singers each wear a meaningful tiara of feathers — Tambura, whose last name is the name of his clan, sports the bright yellow-orange feathers of the macaw that is their symbol. Tupi Kawahin, from a neighboring clan, is crowned with the deep blue feathers of his clan’s mutuanaguera bird.

They blow into what look like wooden flutes but are in fact hollow tubes to amplify their voices and echo the sound of the wind. And they sing in their native language:

“The sun is going down and coming up. The sun is still rising. We are still here.”

For these men, the words speak of a life-and-death situation for their clans, who live on the Uru Eu Wau Wau land in central Brazil bordering Bolivia. In the mid-1980s their community had what Tambura says was its first contact with “non-Indigenous” people. These interlopers wanted the rubber and wood from trees grown on the Indigenous lands. They wanted the land, too.

There were conflicts, Tambura says. And the Amondawa people were exposed to diseases they’d never encountered.

Members of the clan died in skirmishes but mainly, says Tambura, from disease. He thinks the clan’s numbers dropped to about 20 people. “We suffered a lot,” he says.

But … they are still here. And rebounding, marrying and having children. No one knows exactly how many Amondawa there are now, he says — his guess is about 150. Tambura, 33, and his wife have three kids. The clan has lost some territory but the government guaranteed their right to traditional lands in the ’80s and ’90s.

Today, they farm and hunt to sustain themselves. And their immune systems are able to fight off diseases, aided by vaccines — the Brazilian government has made vaccination of Indigenous people a priority. Tambura boasts that he’s even had the COVID vaccine.

As he describes the clan’s life, Tambura mentions a recent leader who was a woman. I say that’s a progressive sign. He says matter-of-factly that she was the smartest person in the village — “that’s how leaders are chosen — who knows best.”

His grandfather who wrote the song he sang is proud that Tambura sings it but was a bit worried when Tambura took off for Washington, D.C., to head to the festival in faraway Washington, D.C. “He doesn’t like his family to go away. He likes his grandson to be there with him.” A universal grandfatherly trait.

An anthropologist is translating Tambura’s Portuguese into English during the interview. (She does not speak his Indigenous language.) She says she’s going to ask him a question herself — some people in Brazil criticize Indigenous people for heading to the hospital at the slightest sign of any symptoms of illness.

Does he think his clan is too quick to seek medical attention? “With what we have been through,” says Tambura, “we are very cautious.” -M.S.

Bobbin and weaving

It takes a lot of concentration to weave myriad threads into a textile of many colors.

 “I’m better at dyeing,” admits Diana Hendrickson of Peru, who helps run the Center for Traditional Textiles of Cusco, a Peruvian city. Hendrickson, whose dad is American and mom is Peruvian, works to find a bigger market for the weavings.

Master weavers from Peru wear their creations as they demonstrate the art of weaving at the Folklife Festival.

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Part of the weaving contingent at the Folklife Festival, she inspects the big bubbling cauldrons of water where color is extracted from native plants – and crushed beetles.

The beetles congregate on cacti, she says. Women weavers used to harvest the bugs by hand. Now as weaving has become more of a business, bags of crushed beetles are sold at local markets.

The women, some of whom cannot read and write, learned to weave from older family members, says Hendrickson. They not only earn a living but also put children and grandchildren through school – although the economic crisis in Peru has taken a bite out of their income.

“We support ourselves with that work,” says Marina Maza Huaman. “Sometimes we make more and [sometimes] there are no buyers.”

Their labor is more than a vocation. “Our lives, our history gets poured into what we make,” says Hendrickson.

And they take great pride in their creations. Huaman is wearing a multicolored woven vest with … many buttons. How many?

“Eight hundred!” she says with a broad smile.

The magic of the marimba

A 16-year-old stands over a wooden marimba, wielding a mallet in each hand, striking the wooden bars to create a cheerful melody .Hollow mini-gourds beneath the keyboard amplify the sound.

Kevin Cabrera Sanchez, who lives in Virginia, was at the Folklife Festival representing his Guatemalan roots. The marimba is said to date back to the 1500s in Guatemala and in 1978 was declared the country’s national instrument.

Sanchez learned to play the marimba from a teacher who now lives in Guatemala and by watching videos. He doesn’t use sheet music —- “it’s very difficult to hold onto the music,” he says.

Like many musicians, he says that muscle memory is the key to his fast and fluid musicianship, with weeks of practice.

The xylophone-like instrument originated in Africa and crossed the ocean as enslaved peoples were brought to the Americas.

The wooden marimba is not your typical instrument, Sanchez adds. To keep it in tune, he says, the wooden keys must be shaved a bit.

The deft musical hands of 16-year-old Kevin Cabrera Sanchez play a tune on a Guatemalan marimba at the Folklife Festival. It’s the national instrument of Guatemala.

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Sanchez says he’s grateful to be at the event and excited to learn more about how different cultures represent themselves at the festival.

“I’m always open to new cultures,” says Sanchez. “It’s always interesting to learn how civilizations express themselves through art and music”

I ask for one more song and he gladly obliges, taking the music in his head and turning it into sweet and mellow notes that fill the Washington, D.C., air. “Do you want to be a musician?” I ask. The realist in him says that’s a difficult dream and he says he’s not sure he will pursue it. -K.T.

A kite is born

A giant kite is being born.

And it’s causing a bit of stress for Ubaldo Sanchez.

Ubaldo Sanchez is about to launch a traditional Guatemalan kite at the Folklife Festival.

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An artist from Guatemala who now lives in Virginia, he’s intently putting the finishing touches on a colorful, six-sided giant kite — a barrilete gigante — at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival. It’s about 5 feet by 5 feet and is emblazoned with the theme of the festival — “Indigenous Voices.” He’s painting 20 symbols to represent the Maya calendar and mark the 20th anniversary of the National Museum of the American Indian. The museum is depicted in the kite’s center as is the Smithsonian logo.

When I visit him in his festival tent, he is painting a bright red tree of life.

Sanchez came to the U.S. in the year 2000 at the age of 16.

This painting, “Dance of the Deer” by Ubaldo Sanchez, depicts a traditional Maya ceremony held before hunting deer. The characters in the painting are Sanchez’s grandfather (at left wearing the deer head); his young nephew Kevin Cabrera Sanchez (also in a deer costume) and Sanchez himself dressed as a jaguar.

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Recognized as a gifted young artist in his home country and then in his new American high school, he has gone on to make not only kites but murals, sculpture, pottery and paintings. President Barack Obama selected one of Sanchez’s paintings, New Dawn, a portrait of Obama, for the White House collection.

As Sanchez dips his brush in bright acrylic paints, he explains that in Guatemala, giant kites are flown on the Day of the Dead, November 1, to send love and support to community ancestors.

He does finish the kite before the festival closing hour of 5:30 p.m., but there aren’t enough skilled kite flyers to ensure a safe launch. “We really have to have seven or 10 people to hold it when the wind is strong,” he says. But he does send a smaller kite soaring into the skies.

At the Folklife Festival, Ubaldo Sanchez painted Maya symbols on a giant kite honoring the 20th anniversary of the National Museum of the American Indian. Its building is depicted in the center of the kite, which is being donated to its collection.

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Though he’s been in the U.S. for over 20 years, Sanchez says he maintains strong ties with his homeland. Earning his living by painting houses and doing his art as well, he’s set up a fund to provide scholarships for kids in Guatemala. In 2017, the government honored him with the presidential medal called the “La Orden del Quetzal” (the name of the national bird of Guatemala) for his art and his community service.

And if I may share a personal note: I see on Sanchez’s bio sheet that he went to the high school in Arlington, Va., where my wife, Marsha Dale, for years taught English as a Second Language to hundreds of students. They’d often write her notes at year’s end thanking her for helping them learn the language they needed to succeed in their new home and expressing gratitude that she insisted that they do their homework.

I ask if perhaps he was in her class.

Ubaldo Sanchez’s face lights up with a big grin: “I remember Miss Dale!” He says he wouldn’t have been able to do what he’s been doing without his English teachers, including my dear wife. -M.S.

As we dip into the bayou, the scene before us feels a tad mystical, all glowing fireflies with hues of blue and purple seeping through the trees. While there’s a comfortably paced current carrying our log-carved vessels through the fantasy wetlands, what’s ultimately propelling us forward is the sound of music. In the distance we hear trails of zydeco, and as we come around a bend we’re greeted by an outsize, gregarious alligator, his welcoming green arms swinging to the tune.

“This zydeco band … can play!” says the gator, adding an excitedly drawn-out “hallelujah” for emphasis.

This is Louis, the friendly trumpet-blasting gator from Walt Disney Animation’s 2009 film “The Princess and the Frog.” Joining him is Princess Tiana, the entrepreneur turned musical archaeologist, dressed here in a regal but loose adventurer’s outfit. We can marvel at how human Tiana looks, with a carefully sculpted warm face and natural hair, or join in the festivities and smile at the band of critters — pay close attention to the rabbit playing a license plate as a washboard — swaying before us as we float by. Humor and friendliness abound in this invitingly good-natured attraction.

Tiana’s Bayou Adventure, the Walt Disney Co.’s replacement for its Splash Mountain log flume ride that was first announced in 2020, is at last ready for its closeup.

The attraction opens here at Walt Disney World at the end of this month, but it’s currently in previews. A mostly exact replica is coming to Disneyland later this year. Consider it a drastic tonal shift from Splash Mountain, as the themes of Tiana’s Bayou Adventure center around the communal power of music and food, focusing on how a song can bring together people from all walks of life. If Splash Mountain had the illusion of peril and danger — a rabbit being hunted by a fox and a bear — Tiana’s argues that a thrill ride, one complete with a 50-foot, soak-inducing drop, can be a jovial, celebratory affair.

Like any ambitious creative agency, Walt Disney Imagineering, the highly secretive arm of the company responsible for its theme park attractions, doesn’t always get it 100% right. But the company has arguably never miscalculated as much as it did with the creation of Splash Mountain, which opened first at Disneyland in 1989. Though the ride focused on animal vignettes and became one of the park’s most popular destinations, it could never quite shake its association with the 1946 film “Song of the South,” a work long decried as racist for its idyllic and romanticized view of slavery.

In 2020, amid a moment of cultural reassessment and nationwide protests following the killing of George Floyd, Splash Mountain came to be seen as a blight. Disney, citing the need to embrace an “inclusive” concept, announced that the ride would be rethemed to “The Princess and the Frog,” a film that starred its first Black princess.

It took 35 years, but the Walt Disney Co. has at long last rid itself of an attraction that was anchored to an embarrassing part of its past. With the launch of Tiana’s, Disney has chosen to give us a princess-based ride not driven by a head-in-the-clouds fairy tale but one that is instead framed as an American success story, as Tiana, now a restaurant owner, is expanding her empire with a food co-op.

This is a ride for our times, an attraction that argues that Walt Disney World and Disneyland, two of the most visited places on the planet, can not just reflect our culture or parrot back what we’ve seen on film and television but show us better, more cooperative versions of ourselves. While based on “The Princess and the Frog” and featuring reinterpretations of a number of its jazzy songs, this ride doesn’t go the obvious route of repurposing known scenes or villains from the film. Tiana’s instead opts for a more abstract, uplifting perspective.

It was a creative risk, and one that has inspired a fiery social media debate, at least if the more than 8,000 comments on Disney’s YouTube page are to be believed. But it’s also one that largely works. I’ve ridden the attraction twice this week, and here are my three main takeaways.

The exterior of Tiana’s Bayou Adventure at Florida’s Walt Disney World, which is designed to represent a salt mine as part of Tiana’s food co-op operation.

(Olga Thompson / Disney)

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A thrill ride doesn’t need to be tense

The genius of Splash Mountain, in my mind, has always been the track layout. Its narrative, which followed Br’er Rabbit and his attempts to live a life of bliss while eluding Br’er Fox and Br’er Bear, never really emotionally connected with me.

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It’s relatively loose, as Br’er Rabbit was hunted simply for being a rabbit, and his attempts at adventure and exploration eventually resulted in him being bullied back home, albeit via a rousing finale that appeared to recenter Br’er Rabbit’s priorities around friends and family. And while there could be critters on all sides of us to distract our attention, what brought me back was the design of the flume, which took unexpected turns that seemed to hide its drops from view.

But in the moments leading to Splash Mountain’s five-story drop, Br’er Rabbit appeared to be in danger. Ominous vultures warned us of what was ahead and the soundtrack turned foreboding. It created a taut moment before we were launched into the briar patch below and Br’er Rabbit could hop to safety.

Tiana’s opts for a significantly different vibe. Mama Odie, the magic-wielding swampland elder from “The Princess and the Frog,” appears to whisk us to a Mardi Gras celebration as the upbeat and bouncy “Dig a Little Deeper,” a song about learning to be true to one’s self, plays around us. We go up the lift swaying, and the hope is that we go down it swinging, in the musical sense of the word. In theme and amusement park design, it’s generally been believed that such thrill-inducing moments need to instill a sense of fear. See, even, the skeleton pirate warning us before a dip in Pirates of the Caribbean.

But Disney in recent years has been attempting to reinterpret how a ride system can be used. When reimagining the fraught elevator drops of The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror into Guardians of the Galaxy: Mission Breakout at Disney California Adventure, for instance, the sudden lifts and nosedives were played more for laughs to match the zaniness of the franchise. Likewise here, Tiana’s tale is framed as a story of strength, positivity and perseverance, and Imagineers, even in this ride’s most thrilling moment, aim to heighten those traits rather than interject any more trauma into Tiana’s life.

Charita Carter and Carmen Smith, the two core Imagineers who led the project, spoke with me about toying with people’s ride expectations and opting to avoid any sense of danger in the attraction, which is set about one year after the events of the film.

“One of the things that we thought about was that this particular flume configuration has always been a rite-of-passage type attraction for young kids,” Carter says. “And when you think about Tiana and everything that she brings to the table, when she’s inviting and welcoming and wanting everyone to participate, we thought by celebrating [the drop] and making it a fun challenge, we were opening it up to a wider audience.”

Adds Smith, “When I think about the dip drop, with most people there’s a lot of apprehension, and we wanted people to feel a sense of celebration. When you’re on the ride and you’re greeted by all these incredible musicians, you’re in a very different state. What this dip drop does is say, ‘We’re on our way to this party, and we’re going to get there as fast as we can.’ It is a rite of passage, but you’re going to this moment, to this place, to be at a party.”

Emotionally, after riding through a cavern featuring a frog-led band with a firefly chorus, all creating a rousing, sing-along take on “Dig a Little Deeper,” the mood is one of pure uplift. If you’re taken with the music, the drop is one to be greeted with open arms.

All new critters were designed for Tiana’s Bayou Adventure, including this musical frog.

(Olga Thompson / Disney)

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Atmosphere matters more than plot

Splash Mountain, to be sure, was beloved, in large part due to its bevy of animatronic animals — a tally said to have topped 100 at Disneyland, many of which were rescued from the 1970s-era America Sings attraction. At the time, it was noble and efficient, a way to preserve Disneyland’s history while giving many of its historic audio-animatronics a new home.

In turn, Splash Mountain had plenty of details — possums, bees, turtles, owls and more, many of them caught in mischief — to entice us. Once inside the mountain, there was action on nearly all sides of us, including above. Animals sang, played instruments and avoided the rain by sitting under psychedelic mushrooms. Splash Mountain had a dedication to old-fashioned Disney craft, one that put an emphasis on feeding us dioramas rather than a plot.

Tiana’s takes an even lighter touch to theme park narrative design, as the story push is simply going on a journey in search of bayou musicians. Tiana’s features all new animatronics — 19 original critters and 48 animatronics in total, according to Disney. That figure includes multiple renditions of Tiana and her friends, including, in the finale, Charlotte La Bouff, Prince Naveen and others. They are all a joy. Louis, for instance, is striking, a technological creation that looks cartoonishly plump and pillowy rather than reptilian and scaly, a hand-drawn design now a tactile, real-world presence.

Ardent defenders of Splash Mountain will argue the animatronic number is significantly lower, and therefore the spacious show building feels less populated. That wasn’t my sense, in large part because the new critters are framed as relatively big set pieces. As we traverse the flume, any stretches without a major show scene become a chance to luxuriate in the wilderness atmosphere, watch the digital fireflies sway as they lead us on the journey or take in the joyous, jazz-leaning pop. The twilight nature of the lighting creates a fantastical atmosphere that makes this water ride feel somewhat cozy.

Additionally, the advancement in animatronic technology ensures that Tiana’s requires multiple rides before you spot all the details. The zydeco band is a delight, with details in not just what instrument an animal plays but how they play it. A beaver’s tail creates a rhythm on the deck and an opossum has a bass fashioned out of a gourd.

Things get weirder and more delightful with a bobcat and bear band, where instruments are fashioned out of logs and vegetation, and later some Afro-Cuban frogs jamming out with acorns. Here, story-wise, we’ve been shrunk down to the size of a frog by Mama Odie, and while placing guests in oversize environments to make them feel small is a bit of a theme park cliché, I’ll let it slide because the human-sized flowers and mushrooms enclose us as if we’re in a snug nightclub.

There are hidden tales throughout, including nods to how humans are affecting the natural environment. See, for instance, an otter whose fiddle looks composed of a paint thinner can and bottle caps. And that says nothing of the in-story radio in the ride’s queue, which features new, vintage-style arrangements of music from New Orleans.

Tiana’s is completely vibrant in its approach to sound. “That’s what New Orleans brings to the world,” Carter says. As various musical styles ebb and flow into one another, this fictional bayou feels fully alive.

The magic-wielding Mama Odie sends guests off to experience a 50-foot drop on Tiana’s Bayou Adventure.

(Olga Thompson / Disney)

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Theme park stories matter

Any change to a Disney theme park brings with it complaints. These spaces represent American myths and stories, shared among generations. A Disney park is not just a collection of intellectual property, even if it is sometimes treated as such by its corporate handlers. There’s simply too much history in these spaces, and lands such as New Orleans Square at Disneyland, the bulk of Epcot’s internationally focused World Showcase or Animal Kingdom’s representations of Africa and Asia help connect these tales to our lives outside the park gates.

Individual attractions, too, are representative of the era in which they were born, but unlike a film or a television series, a theme park is a living space. To expect the narratives of an attraction to remain fixed in time is to be wedded to a form of sentimentality. We visit theme parks to share and partake in stories, because stories are how we make sense of the day and our lives, and those stories should adapt to our changing culture.

Splash Mountain, of course, isn’t the first time Disney has tinkered with an attraction due to outdated cultural representations. Pirates of the Caribbean has received multiple updates, most recently one that removed a bridal auction scene in which women were relegated to property. Disneyland, which soon will turn 70, ultimately serves as a reflection of American pop culture, referencing our history with nostalgia while consistently challenging itself to reflect modern views.

And the culture eventually would catch up to Splash Mountain.

Times articles from the late 1980s cited Disney representatives already trying to justify the attraction, noting that it would skirt controversy by focusing solely on animated scenes and would avoid any references to the Reconstruction-era South. But even at the time of the ride’s opening, “Song of the South” was in the Disney vault, kept out of movie theaters and, eventually, off of streaming platforms.

But what was once a tale of a bullied cartoon rabbit is now a ride that serves as an ode to community, to a culture and to a region. Smith says she had long dreamed of bringing Tiana into Disney’s theme parks via a ride, and in 2019 began to fine-tune a potential story with then-Imagineering creative executive Bob Weis.

“I looked at it as an opportunity to tell a story that I think every young girl, young boy, mom and dad, and their parents could enjoy,” Smith says.

“For us,” Smith continues, “it is a love letter to all of our audiences. We see you. We hear you. We want you to be with us. This character is so worldly. Tiana is a princess, but yet she’s an entrepreneur. She’s a doer. She’s a dreamer. She’s all these things. We just felt what a great opportunity this was to give people a celebration.”

It is, essentially, the first thrill ride designed to feel entirely like a party. One could call it a splashing success.

I’ve heard dozens of jokes about screenwriters that I can’t repeat here. The punchlines suggest that in the hierarchy of Hollywood, screenwriters come last, after producers, directors, stars, and probably the caterer.

But Robert Towne, who died this week at the age of 89, was something rare: a star screenwriter.

“There are no novels or plays I’m itching to write and there never have been,” he wrote for Esquire magazine in 1991.

And Towne’s movie characters said things that stick with you.

In the 1974 film Chinatown, for which he won the Academy Award, an informant calls LA gumshoe Jake Gittes, played by Jack Nicholson, and asks, “Are you alone?” The private eye replies, “Isn’t everyone?”

When someone calls Jake Gittes an innocent man, Towne has him say, “Well, I’ve been accused of a lot of things before … but never that.”

In 1973’s The Last Detail, a career sailor on hard duty, also played by Jack Nicholson, is asked if he’s ever been married. He says, and not wistfully, “Yeah … once … She wanted me to go to trade school and become a TV repair man. Driving all around in all that smog, fixing TVs out of the back of a VW bus. I just couldn’t do it.”

It’s a speech that captures “the last detail” of feared tedium.

Pauline Kael, the New Yorker critic, once wrote that Towne had an “ear for unaffected dialogue,” and “a gift for never forcing a point.”

He reportedly touched up the scene in Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather where Don Corleone and his son, Michael, whom he never wanted to join his crime family, discuss mob hits and treacheries. Then Don looks up to ask, “How’s your boy?” “He’s good,” Michael tells him. “He’s smarter than I am. Three years old and he can read the funny papers.”

The conversation’s shift from murderous to tender feels entirely sincere.

Towne was a professional. He won Oscars, BAFTA awards, and Golden Globes, but many of his scripts never became films. Or, didn’t turn out as he’d hoped. He wrote the screenplay for a Tarzan film, but didn’t like the eventual production, and so put the name of his dog, P.H. Vazak, in the credits. The worldwide Oscars audience later heard the name of Towne’s dog read out as a nominee for 1984’s best adapted screenplay.

As with so much else Towne wrote, that scene couldn’t have been scripted better.