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Forbidden stories, sect 3 n°7, appt 2, 2 eme etage riad oulad mtaa sahlRHONE, Temara (2026)

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Sect 3 N°7, Appt 2, 2 Eme Etage Riad Oulad Mtaa SahlRHONE

15/06/2026

Anne Bancroft died on June 6, 2005, at 73, after uterine cancer. Mel Brooks lost the woman who had been his wife, partner, and safest home for 41 years. By then, their marriage had become one of Hollywood’s rare quiet miracles, protected through work, travel, age difference, public attention, and two very different kinds of fame.

Mel and Anne had married on August 5, 1964, at the Manhattan Marriage Bureau. It was a simple city wedding, nothing like a giant Hollywood production, and that simplicity fit them. Their love was never built on public drama. It was built on private rhythm, daily humor, and the feeling that two strong personalities had found the one person who could understand them without explanation.

Their personalities looked opposite from the outside. Anne carried herself with quiet power, discipline, and grace. Mel moved through life with jokes, speed, nervous energy, and that unstoppable Brooklyn comedy fire. But inside the marriage, those differences became balance. Anne did not compete with his chaos. She softened it. Mel did not dim her seriousness. He admired it. Their home became the place where the Oscar-winning actress and the comedy genius could put the public versions of themselves away.

Mel once remembered their wedding ceremony with pure tenderness and comedy mixed together. “For the rest of the ceremony, Anne and I never looked at each other, because if we did, we knew we’d crash to the floor laughing.” That was their marriage in one scene. Even the serious moments had laughter waiting underneath, but the laughter was never shallow. It came from comfort.

Anne had already won deep respect through "The Miracle Worker" (1962), while Mel would become one of comedy’s boldest names with films like "The Producers" (1967), "Blazing Saddles" (1974), and "Young Frankenstein" (1974). But career was never the soul of this story. The real story was what happened after the lights went off, when they returned home to each other.

In 1972, they welcomed their son, Max Brooks. That gave their marriage another center. Their family life was private, protected, and far calmer than people might imagine from Mel’s wild screen personality. At home, he was not only the man who made audiences laugh. He was Anne’s husband and Max’s father. Anne was not only a great actress. She was the steady heart of the house.

Anne once described the ordinary joy of Mel coming home in words that still feel deeply personal. “When he comes home at night, when that key goes in the door, I mean, my heart’s fluttering. I am so happy he’s home, you know. I mean, it’s like the party’s going to start.” That was the real romance. A key in the door. A familiar sound. A wife still excited to see her husband after years together.

Mel also explained why their marriage lasted, and his answer was simple but full of weight. “Anne and I both grew up during the marriage. We both knew what was really important, and what love meant, and what doing for each other meant.” That line shows the depth behind the laughter. Their marriage was not frozen in one beautiful beginning. It kept changing, and they changed with it.

They had public achievements, but their loyalty stayed private. They could appear together, work together, support each other, and still keep the center of the relationship away from the noise. Their bond lasted because it had friendship inside it. It had teasing, patience, pride, family, and the quiet habit of coming back to the same person every day.

When Anne became ill, Mel’s devotion did not become a public performance. It stayed what it had always been, personal and real. Her death left him with the kind of silence even comedy cannot fill, but their 41 years were never defined by the ending alone. They were defined by home, laughter, Max, marriage, loyalty, and the woman who made Mel Brooks feel safe.

Mel made the world laugh. Anne made his heart rest.

15/06/2026

Don Knotts married Kathryn Elaine Metz on December 27, 1947, while he was still a senior at West Virginia University in Morgantown. Kathryn, often called Kay, was not a Hollywood wife entering a ready-made celebrity life. She was his college classmate, the daughter of Baptist minister Carl Metz, and her father married them at First Baptist Church in Wheeling. Don graduated the next spring, and the young couple stepped into marriage before Mayberry, before Barney Fife, before America knew his nervous smile.

That early chapter had the feeling of two people starting from almost nothing. Don had come back from World War II, finished school, and was still chasing comedy work. Jobs were uncertain enough that he sold toys at a Morgantown department store before trying New York again. With Kay beside him, he left West Virginia with $120, including $100 borrowed from his brother. That detail says so much. Before fame pulled him across television screens, Kathryn was part of the hard-road beginning.

Their family grew slowly before the spotlight became too bright. Karen Knotts was born in 1954, and Thomas Knotts arrived in February 1957. By the early 1960s, there was already a public image of a family around Don. A West Virginia University Alumni Magazine photo from summer 1961 listed Tommy Knotts, Don Knotts, Kathryn Elaine Metz, and Karen Knotts together. It was a family portrait from the very years when Don’s career was becoming something much larger than anyone at home could ignore.

Then “The Andy Griffith Show” (1960) changed the temperature of their private life. Don became Barney Fife, the jumpy deputy who won five Emmy Awards and became one of TV’s most beloved comic figures. But the success came with long hours, pressure, travel, scripts, rehearsals, and the emotional weight of becoming famous while still trying to be a husband and father. The public saw laughter. At home, the rhythm was more complicated.

Karen later gave the most human picture of that period when she remembered, “He was gone a lot, but he was always checking in on us. And no matter how long it took, he would always come home.” That one memory holds the bittersweet truth of Don and Kathryn’s family years. He was not absent by choice. He was being pulled by a career that demanded him, while still trying to return as a father.

Don and Kathryn divorced in 1964. The story does not need a villain to feel sad. Their marriage began in college, survived the hungry New York years, brought two children into the world, then met the strain of national fame. After the divorce, Don raised Karen and Thomas on his own while continuing to work. Karen made it clear that her father stayed involved, even when work was heavy and his inner life was not always easy.

She also protected the difference between the character America loved and the man she knew at home. “He was not Barney Fife. That was a great, funny character. But my father was witty and funny all on his own.” That is the private Don in this story, not just a TV legend, but a father whose humor followed him into ordinary rooms.

Karen also warned how easily people turn famous people into half-true legends, saying, “My dad has become mythologized, to some extent, which means that people love to imagine his life and sometimes things get repeated so often.” That matters with Kathryn especially, because her later life stayed far quieter than Don’s. Public memorial and genealogy listings show her later name as Kathryn Elaine Metz Knotts-Smith-Amundson, which carefully indicates she appears to have remarried after Don, but her private life was never documented with the same public detail as his.

Don did remarry. In 1974, he married Loralee Czuchna, and that marriage ended in divorce in 1983. In 2002, he married Frances Yarborough, who remained his wife until his death from lung cancer complications on February 24, 2006, at age 81. Still, the family he built with Kathryn remained the root of his fatherhood story.

Before Barney Fife belonged to America, Don Knotts belonged to Kathryn, Karen, and Thomas.

15/06/2026

Crispin Glover did not return as George McFly for “Back to the Future Part II” (1989), but George McFly still appeared on screen, and that is where a sequel dispute turned into one of Hollywood’s most uncomfortable actor rights stories. Fans saw the nervous smile, the strange posture, the old George McFly shape, and many believed Glover was back. Glover saw another actor wrapped in the illusion of his face. The sequel used Jeffrey Weissman in prosthetics, mixed him with old footage, and leaned on camera tricks that kept the audience from looking too closely.

The first film had made George McFly unforgettable. In “Back to the Future” (1985), Glover did not play him like a standard movie nerd. He gave George a twitchy voice, a folded body, nervous eyes, and a weird comic rhythm that made him feel painfully human. George was bullied by Biff, terrified of rejection, and still somehow lovable. When he finally found courage, the moment worked because Glover made the fear believable first. That performance was not a mask anyone could simply pick up from a makeup table.

Glover later said the fight began before the lawsuit. “The reason that I didn't end up being in the film is because I was asking questions that the producers/director didn't like,” he said. Those questions went deeper than salary. He had trouble with the ending of the first film, where Marty returns to a richer, shinier family life. To Glover, the happy ending leaned too hard on money as proof that life had improved.

He explained that moral problem in a way that still feels rebellious. “What I was arguing for was that the characters should be in love and that the love should be the reward,” he said. That was Glover’s issue in plain language. He wanted George and Lorraine’s emotional victory to matter more than a truck, a nicer home, or Biff suddenly serving the family. For a studio building a giant crowd-pleasing franchise, that kind of question could feel annoying. For Glover, it was the job of a serious actor.

Then came the sequel, and the disagreement became physical. Weissman wore prosthetics meant to resemble George. Scenes placed him far away, behind sunglasses, from the back, or upside down. Viewers could miss the switch, and that was exactly what angered Glover. He later described the makeup connection with chilling precision. “They applied the features that were taken from the mold of my face from the original film that was used to make the old-age makeup.”

That line is why this story still hits hard. A character belongs to a studio, but an actor’s face is tied to his own body, career, and reputation. Glover felt the audience was being encouraged to credit him with a performance he did not give. Another quote cuts straight to the wound. “To have people believe that you are doing something that you are not doing and attribute that to you is stealing,” he said.

In October 1990, Glover and his lawyer filed a lawsuit against Universal and Amblin, claiming his voice and likeness were used without permission. Universal argued it was continuing the George McFly character, which it controlled. Glover’s side argued that controlling a character did not mean controlling the living actor’s identity. The case settled for $760,000, and the Screen Actors Guild later gained rules stopping producers from using these methods to reproduce another actor’s likeness without permission.

That is why this old sequel fight feels modern again. Long before AI doubles and digital faces scared performers, Crispin Glover had already stood in front of the machine and said no. He refused to let Hollywood turn his face into studio property.

He made Hollywood look at the actor behind the image.

15/06/2026

Rhea Perlman never turned the Shelley Long conversation into a cruel Hollywood feud, but she also never sold fans a sweet best-friend fantasy.

Behind "Cheers" (1982), Carla Tortelli and Diane Chambers were not the only ones carrying tension. The work was brilliant, the comedy was sharp, and the comfort was not always cozy.

That is what makes the old bar feel even more interesting now. Fans remember Carla glaring at Diane like she had just walked into Cheers carrying a perfume bottle full of judgment. But off screen, the real story was not that Rhea and Shelley were enemies. It was messier than that. It sounded more like talented people with different temperaments, different rhythms, and one pressure-cooker sitcom becoming one of TV’s biggest hits.

Years later, Rhea was asked about the old talk that Shelley had friction with the cast. She did not give a long speech. She did not turn it into a dramatic attack. She simply answered, “Yeah.” Then she softened it, saying, “There was a little bit. She left, and then we had Kirstie, and life moved on.” That tiny answer said a lot. Not hatred. Not friendship. Just a workplace that had its own heat.

Shelley’s side of the story always carried a different feeling. She knew people thought she was difficult, especially after leaving the show in 1987. But she also explained why Diane had started to feel heavy on her shoulders. “Diane was...a pain in the butt...and I think the people of Cheers got me confused with that. Maybe I did too, which convinced me it was time to let go of that persona.” That sounds less like a villain and more like an actress trapped inside a character everyone loved, hated, and judged at the same time.

That is the part fans sometimes miss. Diane was built to irritate the room. She was smart, proud, poetic, sensitive, and often exhausting. Carla was built to puncture that balloon with one look. When the cameras rolled, Rhea could make one insult feel like a beer glass hitting the floor. Shelley could make one offended pause feel like a Shakespeare audition in a Boston bar.

But when the cameras stopped, the same ingredients that made comedy gold could also make the room tense. Shelley was known for being precise and intense about the work. The show’s oral history later captured that complicated feeling around her departure. One writer described the situation perfectly, saying, “There were actors who said that she drove them nuts, yet they were also mad that she was leaving.” That is such a human line. She frustrated them, but they also knew what she brought.

Shelley herself never sounded like someone who thought Cheers was beneath her. She once said, “The Cheers writers were the finest in television. But I felt like I was repeating myself. It bothered me a little bit. And I was getting movie offers, which made people think, ‘Oh, she’s so snooty.’” That quote gives the story more shape. She was not simply walking away from coworkers. She was trying to escape a box that fame had built around her.

Rhea, meanwhile, stayed with the bar for all 11 seasons. Carla became one of those sitcom characters who felt born knowing everyone’s weakness. After Shelley left, Kirstie Alley arrived as Rebecca Howe, and the show found a different rhythm. Rhea later remembered the transition warmly, saying it was “truly one of the greatest first days,” comparing it to Woody Harrelson joining after Nicholas Colasanto’s death. That was Rhea’s practical side speaking. The bar changed, people adjusted, and the machine kept moving.

Still, Diane’s exit mattered. Even people who found Shelley challenging knew the early show had depended on her. Ted Danson later credited Shelley with helping him land and shape Sam Malone, saying, “I think I got Cheers because of Shelley Long because she just really nailed that part right out of the gate.” That is a big compliment from the man who shared the show’s central spark with her.

So no, Rhea Perlman and Shelley Long were not a cozy sitcom friendship story. They were two gifted women inside a legendary comedy, carrying different energies, different pressures, and one unforgettable clash that began on screen but did not feel completely fake off screen.

Not enemies, not best friends, but unforgettable together.

15/06/2026

Tom Cruise remembered Val Kilmer’s return as the kind of moment that did not need noise, big dialogue, or a heavy setup. It needed Val in the room. That was enough for Cruise, because after decades of knowing him, he still saw the same rare actor who could walk into silence and make people feel history. Talking about Val’s return in "Top Gun Maverick" (2022), Cruise said, “I really rallied hard for him to make the movie. The kind of talent that he has, and you see that scene, it’s very special.”

That line is the real heart of the story. Cruise was not saying Val came back because fans wanted a familiar face. He was saying Val belonged there. He wanted him there. He fought for that return because, in his mind, Val still carried something no one else could replace. It was not only about Iceman. It was about the actor behind Iceman.

Cruise’s words always came back to talent first. He did not talk about Val with pity. He did not make the story only about illness. He talked about ability, presence, command, and emotional truth. That matters because Val’s health had changed after throat cancer, but Cruise looked at him and still saw power. He saw an actor who could become the character again without forcing anything.

When Cruise described filming their reunion, he opened a door into something private. “I just want to say that was pretty emotional. I’ve known Val for decades, and for him to come back and play that character.” That was not a casual memory. That was a man remembering a friend stepping back into a shared chapter of their lives. The years between them were sitting inside that scene.

Then Cruise went even deeper. He said Val was “such a powerful actor” and that he “instantly became that character again.” That is a huge compliment coming from Cruise, who is known for precision, discipline, and pushing every movie moment as far as it can go. For him to say Val instantly became Iceman again means he believed the old energy never left.

The most touching part is that Cruise admitted the reunion broke through his own control. “I was crying. I got emotional. He’s such a brilliant actor, and I love his work.” That is the kind of sentence fans remember because it does not sound like promotion. It sounds like truth. Cruise was not only watching a scene happen. He was watching Val Kilmer return to something they had built together years earlier in "Top Gun" (1986).

Only a small part of the story needs the role itself. Maverick and Iceman began as rivals, but their screen relationship grew into respect. That made Val’s return powerful, because Cruise’s Maverick was not meeting an enemy. He was meeting the one person who understood him without needing too many words. That is why Cruise’s real emotion fit the scene so naturally. The friendship on screen had the weight of friendship off screen.

After Val died in April 2025, Cruise’s tribute made his feelings even clearer. Standing before a crowd, he said, “I really can’t tell you how much I admired his work, how much I thought of him as a human being.” That sentence separated the actor from the role in the most respectful way. Cruise admired the work, but he also cared about the man.

He also said he felt grateful and honored that Val joined the original film and came back for the sequel. Then he asked for a moment of silence. His final public words in that tribute were simple and gentle. “Thank you, Val. I wish you well on your next journey.”

That is what Tom Cruise kept saying in every form. Val Kilmer was gifted. Val was powerful. Val was loved. Val mattered to the movie, but more than that, he mattered to the people who made it.

Some actors return for a scene. Val returned with a lifetime.

14/06/2026

Gene Shalit died on June 12, 2026, at 100, closing a century-long life that had made movie criticism feel personal, funny, and wonderfully human.

For millions who grew up watching NBC’s "Today" (1952), his death felt like losing a familiar morning voice from the family kitchen.

Shalit’s family said he “passed away peacefully today after 100 years of an amazing life,” a simple line that fit the man. He did not leave behind the image of a cold critic. He left behind the feeling of a storyteller who walked into America’s homes with movies, jokes, curiosity, and that unmistakable presence.

Gene was born on March 25, 1926, in New York City and grew up in New Jersey. Long before television found him, words had already found him. He wrote in school, graduated from the University of Illinois in 1949, worked in print, and built himself one sentence at a time. He wrote for magazines including Look, Ladies’ Home Journal, TV Guide, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Seventeen, and The New York Times before morning television turned him into a national face.

He joined "Today" as a contributor in 1970 and became a regular arts voice in 1973. For nearly four decades, he reviewed films, books, theater, and popular culture in a way that did not sound like homework. He could be sharp, but he also wanted people to enjoy the ride. His "Critic’s Corner" became his little stage, and from there, he made puns, praised performances, poked at weak movies, and somehow made viewers feel invited instead of judged.

His longtime producer Guy Ludwig once captured why Gene worked so well, saying, “What resonated above his unusual appearance was his incredible wit, his remarkable intelligence. But he didn’t pound you over the head with it.” That was the secret. Gene knew a lot, but he did not make people feel small for knowing less.

He understood that a review could guide people without ruining the story. Gene once said, “Many critics will give so much of the plot of a movie away that they destroy the movie for the viewer.” Then he added the simple rule that explained his whole style. “I just don’t give away the story.”

That respect for the audience helped him survive changing times. He reviewed through the years of "Stand By Me" (1986), "The Color Purple" (1985), "Brokeback Mountain" (2005), "Frozen" (2013), and "Shrek Forever After" (2010). Some reviews were loved. Some brought criticism. Gene was not perfect, and he did apologize when his words hurt people. But his long run showed something rare. He kept showing up, kept talking about art, and kept believing that movies mattered because people mattered.

Away from the camera, his life carried private heartbreak. Gene married Nancy Lewis in 1950, and she remained his wife until her death from cancer in 1978. Together they had six children. Publicly known among them are artist and entrepreneur Willa Shalit, physician Peter Shalit, and daughter Emily Shalit, who died in 2012. His family life was not turned into a performance. He protected it.

Willa once remembered that privacy with a beautiful honesty. “When we were growing up, no one knew we existed. My father kept us very private. At home there was a lot of reading, education and art, and a lot of ‘you can do anything you want.’” That line tells you something deeper than any television clip. Behind the big personality was a father trying to give his children room to become themselves.

Gene retired from "Today" in 2010, but people did not forget him. He had become part of American morning memory. The hair, the mustache, the bow ties, the wordplay, the laughter, the interviews, the strange little magic of making criticism feel warm. Even parodies on "Saturday Night Live" (1975), "Sesame Street" (1969), "Family Guy" (1999), and "SpongeBob SquarePants" (1999) proved how deeply his image had entered pop culture.

At 100, Gene Shalit leaves a story full of wit, work, family, loss, and stubborn joy.

He made mornings brighter, one movie at a time.

14/06/2026

Lauren Bacall never pretended her beginning with Humphrey Bogart was calm. He was 25 years older, already famous, already complicated, and already living inside a troubled marriage. But when Bacall looked back, she did not speak about him like a publicity dream or some polished studio romance. She remembered something bigger, messier, and much more alive. “There was no way Bogie and I could be in the same room without reaching for one another, and it wasn’t just physical,” she wrote in her memoir.

That was the heart of Bacall’s story about him. The world saw Bogart as hard-boiled, sharp, smoky, and dangerous. Bacall saw all of that too, but she kept returning to the tenderness most people never got to see. She pushed back against the idea that his toughness was the whole man. “He was a very gentle soul. He was very strong, and very sure about what he believed in and what he thought was important,” she said while remembering the private Bogart.

That is why her memories still feel so warm. Bacall did not erase his edge. She simply knew what lived underneath it. To her, Bogart was not only the famous actor older audiences adored. He was a man with standards, honor, loyalty, and a serious dislike for phoniness. She said he had the kind of values her mother had, which meant something deep to a young woman who had grown up watching her mother work hard, stay firm, and expect truth from people.

The age difference followed them from the beginning, but Bacall later treated it almost like a gift. She told Vanity Fair, “I knew everybody because I was married to Bogie, and that 25-year difference was the most fantastic thing for me to have in my life.” That line was not just about Hollywood glamour. It was about the doors he opened, the people he brought into her world, and the education she received beside a man who had already lived hard, worked long, and learned what mattered.

Their wedding carried the same mix of movie magic and real emotion. On May 21, 1945, they married at Malabar Farm in Ohio, far from the usual Hollywood ballroom. Bacall remembered being nervous enough to shake. Then she saw Bogart standing there, vulnerable and handsome, and when the ceremony began, tears ran down his face. This was the tough screen man America thought it knew, crying openly while marrying the young woman he called Baby.

Bacall’s most touching memories were never about applause. They were about the feeling of being loved with full force. She once described it this way, “What it felt like to be so wanted, so adored. No one had ever felt like that about me. It was all so dramatic, too.” In that sentence, you can still hear young Betty Bacall inside the legend, stunned that a man like Bogart could love her with that much urgency.

She also understood what their marriage cost her professionally. She was honest enough to say that once she became Mrs. Bogart, the industry began seeing her differently. “Well, I think the minute I married Bogie I was just considered his wife. My career kind of stopped,” she said years later. But even that memory did not sound bitter. It sounded like truth from a woman who had survived the label, carried the love, and kept going.

When Bogart died in 1957, Bacall was only 32, with two children and a name forever tied to his. She kept working, kept raising her family, kept rebuilding herself, but she never acted as if the past had vanished. “I don’t live in the past, although your past is so much a part of what you are that you can’t ignore it,” she said.

For Bacall, Bogart was never only a legend.

He was love that stayed.

14/06/2026

Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick married on September 4, 1988, after falling in love while making "Lemon Sky" (1988).

Their son Travis arrived in 1989, daughter Sosie in 1992, and the marriage kept growing around work, laughter, children, and the quiet choice to keep coming home.

Their love did not begin like a perfect Hollywood postcard. Kyra had first crossed Kevin’s path years earlier as a young fan in a New York deli, but the real spark came when they worked together in the late 1980s. At first, she did not see him as the obvious romantic hero of her life. That makes the story sweeter. Sometimes forever does not arrive with violins. Sometimes forever looks a little too confident, a little annoying, and somehow impossible to forget.

Then came that first date, the kind that changes the air in a person’s life. Kyra later remembered the morning after with words that feel like the heart of their marriage. "I remember waking up and going, 'I feel like home.' I realized, 'Oh, that was him.' We've always been each other's biggest support and fans." She was not describing glamour. She was describing safety.

They married young, Kevin in his late twenties and Kyra in her early twenties, and they built a life while both careers were moving fast. He was tied to the electricity of "Footloose" (1984). She later became one of television’s most admired actresses. But at home, the story was about two people learning how to stay kind when schedules got loud, work got demanding, and parenthood changed everything.

Kyra has never made their long marriage sound effortless. That honesty gives the romance depth. "You know it's work, it's always going to be work. A partnership for that long demands a lot of you." That does not take the magic away. It makes it more beautiful. Their love lasted because it was treated like something living, something that needed humor, patience, forgiveness, and two people willing to choose each other again after hard days.

Their family became the soft center of that choice. Travis Sedgwick Bacon was born on June 23, 1989, and grew into a musician, producer, composer, and performer. Sosie Ruth Bacon was born on March 15, 1992, and built her own acting career. Kyra once put motherhood at the center of her identity when she said, "Motherhood really defines me. I mean I've been an actor forever and you know I have my own career, my own life." It reveals the home behind the fame.

Kevin has spoken about fatherhood with the same grounded tenderness. "When I go home, I try to raise my children with honesty and integrity and teach them to take care of the world." That tells you a lot about the Bacon Sedgwick family. They did not try to raise children inside a fantasy. They tried to raise them with values, privacy, creativity, and room to become themselves.

One of the sweetest parts of Kevin and Kyra’s marriage is how much laughter still lives inside it. She has called humor crucial and Kevin very funny. He has described the simple joy of walking down the street together late at night, still talking like two people who genuinely like each other. That may be the most romantic detail of all. After decades, the person beside you is still the person you want to wander with.

Even their work has become a family language. They have acted together, directed each other, supported their children’s creative lives, and later worked with Travis and Sosie as adults. By 2026, the family was still finding new ways to create together. That says something deeper than any perfect anniversary caption. The love story kept expanding. It made space for children, careers, music, acting, farms, city life, jokes, memories, and all the seasons a long marriage has to survive.

Some love stories grow quieter, and become even stronger.

Forbidden stories

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