You have to live before you die, or you'll die before you live.
Clouseau: Does yer dewg bite? Inn Keeper: No Clouseau: Nice Doggy (bends down to pet a dachshund - it snarls and bites him) I thought you said yer dewg did not bite! Inn Keeper: Zat . . . iz not my dog!
Some forms of reality are so horrible we refuse to face them, unless we are trapped into it by comedy. To label any subject unsuitable for comedy is to admit defeat.
It won't be easy, that is why I have always failed where others have succeeded.
I am here to fix the problem with yer pheaun.
Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room.
Vocal music is an attempt to take the whole human being and project it into space. It is the ultimate gesture of getting out of yourself. You take a part of you that is most private, most personal, most inward and you hurl it out into space - you project it as far as you can. That gesture of opining this whole region of the body results in an enormous spiritual release, and is felt by other people with tremendous impact.
Finally, in conclusion, let me say just this.
To label any subject unsuitable for comedy is to admit defeat.
If I can't really find a way to live with myself, I can't expect anyone else to live with me.
François: Do you know what kind of a bomb it was? Clouseau: Yes, the exploding kind.
There is no me. I do not exist. There used to be a me but I had it surgically removed.
Facts - behind them lies the whole fabric of deductive truth.
When you have been killed as many times as I have, you get used to it.
Women are more difficult to handle than men. It's their minds.
Criticism should be done by critics, and a critic should have some training and some love of the medium he is discussing. But these days, gossip-columnist training seems to be enough qualification. I suppose an ability to stand on your feet through interminable cocktail parties and swig interminable gins in between devouring masses of fried prawns may just possibly help you to understand and appreciate what a director is getting at, but for the life of me I can't see how.
If you ask me to play myself, I will not know what to do. I do not know who or what I am.
Now then, what do we know? One, that Professor Fassbinder and his daughter have been kidnapped. Two, that someone has kidnapped them. Three, that my hand is on fire.
Is there anybody hiding there in the dark?
I'm a classic example of all humorists - only funny when I'm working.
Conversation like television set on honeymoon... unnecessary.
I writhe when I see myself on the screen. I'm such a dreadfully clumsy hulking image. I say to myself, "Why doesn't he get off? Why doesn't he get off?" I mean, I look like such an idiot. Some fat awkward thing dredged up from some third-rate drama company. I must stop thinking about it, otherwise I shan't be able to go on working.
You'll catch your death of cold. Clouseau: Yes, yes I probably will but . . . its all part of life's rich pageantry, you kneau.
Relax, I'll get it. (said to Kato after Clouseau knocks him unconscious)
Ecstatic over the total annihilation of the Earth, Dr. Strangelove "resurrects" himself, miraculously regaining his ability to walk. His mechanical, robot-like body rises out of his wheelchair, crying exultantly: "Sir! I have a plan. Heh." (He realizes he is standing up.) "Mein Fuehrer, I can walk!"
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