Michelangelo Antonioni dead

Yesterday it was Ingmar Bergman. Today it is Michelangelo Antonioni. And it's another excuse for an iconic movie image. This time it's David Hemmings in Blow-Up. Incidentally, judging by his memoirs, Hemmings had no more idea what was going on in that film than the rest of us:

I had a costume fitting that same afternoon, where they threw a pair of white jeans and a green corduroy jacket at me. And for the first time, I was allowed to see the script and was given a copy to take away. As soon as I was out of the building, I dived into the nearest pub, probably didn't even notice its name, ordered what I've always called a PoG - a pint of Guinness - which I didn't remember drinking, opened the script and buried myself in it. I read it three times from cover to cover before I rang Jane and told her. "What's it like?" she asked eagerly. "God knows," I said, shaking my head rather like the Maestro. "I don't understand what the hell it's all about."