Paul Newman is languishing in bed, his girlfriend noodling away on the piano. "D natural, honey," he yells. A clock reads 11.17. Then we’re in an office boardroom; excited talking in Mandarin. It’s 11.18.
Then, at 11.20 by a clock on the wall, someone’s being threatened that their wife will die in five minutes in some unknown film noir. Then it’s 11.22 in a Swedish church in winter, in Bergman’s Winter Light. Seated on Ikea white couches, the audience barely stirs. People come in and out. I Want To Live comes back again.