I ain’t got nooo body, cha cha chacha cha CHA!
What did you expect? You’re dead.
You’ve got a way of starting conversations that ends conversations.
I was beginning to realize that the only way to make this evening bearable, would be to ask Andre a few questions. Asking questions always relaxes me.
If my answers frighten you then you should cease asking scary questions.
Do you want to see something really scary?
You’ve never covered yourself with Vaseline?
Do you use the glow-in-the-dark kind?
What’s the matter, smartass, you don’t know any fuckin’ Shakespeare?
My careereth is over. I am making a horseth asseth of myselfeth. Mark, I’m begging you. I’m BEGGING you. You want this kind of performance? Let me play Lady Anne.
I didn’t ask for this role, but I’ll play it. Now go do your best. Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid. Goethe said that. It’s not too late for you to become a person of substance.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus, but use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant. It out-Herods Herod. Pray you, avoid it.
No, listen to me L.B., I have been BEGGING YOU… begging you for a good script. Now you’ve always given me my share of bad movies because you knew I’d make them work. Well I can’t keep doing it, L.B.!
This story’s gonna grab people. It’s about this guy, he’s crazy about this girl, but he likes to wear dresses. Should he tell her? Should he not tell her? He’s torn, Georgie. This is drama.
I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t want to win awards. Give me pictures that end with a kiss and black ink on the books.
Your work is puerile and under-dramatized. You lack any sense of structure, character and the Aristotelian unities.
Plato? Aristotle? Socrates??
Morons.
The details of my life are quite inconsequential… very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we’d make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum… it’s breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
Goddamn, you play a mean banjo.
I speak Spanish to God, French to women, English to men, and Japanese to my horse.