[on pop idol Donny Osmond] He has Van Gogh's ear for music.
What critics call dirty in our pictures, they call lusty in foreign films.
Ever notice how these European trains always smell of eau de cologne and hard boiled eggs?
Happiness is working with Jack Lemmon.
I had one life. And what did I do? Wasted it in some palooka preliminaries in Spain, just before Hitler and Chamberlain warm up for the main event.
When Chaplin found a voice to say what was on his mind, he was like a child of eight writing lyrics for Beethoven's Ninth.
The forest of Compiegne. Look at it. Like a kind grandmother dozing in her rocking chair. Old trees practicing curtsies in the wind because they still think Louis XIV is king.
Jerry: Oh, you don't understand, Osgood! Ehhhh... I'm a man. Osgood: Well, nobody's perfect.
You know, that stuff about pink elephants, that's the bunk. It's little animals. Little tiny turkeys in straw hats. Midget monkeys coming through the keyholes.
[about the Hotel Marmont on Sunset Blvd., a piece of Hollywood history] I would rather sleep in a bathroom than in another hotel.
I am big. It's the pictures that got small.
I'm delighted with it, because it used to be that films were the lowest form of art. Now we've got something to look down on.
I'm not happy. I'm not happy at all.
I hate that word. It's return--a return to the millions of people who've never forgiven me for deserting the screen.
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