In 1961, Peter Bogdanovich met Polly Platt.

He was 21 years old, living with his parents, and already considered a young genius in the

theater world.

Polly was 19, and the widow, her husband, a poet, dined a car accident, and she was putting

her life back together.

She was small and thin, blonde, a little bohemian, a lot of personality.

Was there any magic right away?

I liked her, and I liked the idea of living with somebody.

I hadn't done that before.

I asked a couple of people.

Nobody wanted to do it, so Polly seemed like a good idea.

I'm not sure if this is really how Peter felt about Polly when they first met, or if this

is what happens when memories get tangled with years of resentment.

It seems out of character, though.

Peter's a romantic.

His movies are about love, and he seems to like being in love.

But this is the way he remembers it now.

Peter was working as an artistic director at a summer theater in upstate New York, and

he hired Polly to be his costume designer.

We had started an affair, and we lived in a little house, mixed with a babbling brook.

It was nice.

I thought it would be over when we finished the summer, but it didn't end up that way.

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