What I did was eccentric. I hitchhiked into the Southwest, into open country. It was not the same as a sound stage. I saw the people who lived there; they were not like actors. I’m good at stirring up conversations; I listen well. I carried a notebook and wrote down whatever struck me. I particularly remember the harbor of Galveston, Texas, and its fishing fleet. It was a breezy day, and the wind could be heard flapping the sails and rustling through the trees. “There’s no wind on a stage,” I said to myself. The harbor’s water rippled, catching the light and throwing it back. How could an art director’s construction of plywood, canvas, and paint catch that? A boat was unloading fish. The salt of the sea was in the air and I could smell its creatures. The sounds were poetry, the scale enormous, the effect exotic. This is what movies are, I thought: environment, scope, size. Out of doors!