Best 631 quotes in «theatre quotes» category

Men jeg drister mig, uden Vanitet, at sige, at vore Nordiske Tilskuere, helst af Middelstand, ere langt beqvem-mere Dommere herudi, end de Parisiske: Thi hvis de første ikke have saa fiin Smag som de sidste, saa have de den dog ikke saa selsom og fordærved.

Men, mine damer og herrer, De må ikke derfor tro at jeg agter definitivt at nedlægge min teaterpen. Nej, den agter jeg ty tilbage til og holde fast til det sidste. Jeg har nemlig endnu diverse galskaber på lager.

Men, naar Comoedier ere moralske og opbyggelige, kand jeg ikke see, med hvad Føye man kand kaste Foragt paa Acteurs, som forestille dem. Comoedianter ere vel udi de Roman-Catholske Lande excommunicerede: men, saasom paa mange saadanne Steder Skiøger offentligen tillades, lærer man intet andet deraf, end at den Canon er giort hen i Taaget, eller forfattet af Hypocriter, hvilke ere de eeneste lastværdige Comoedianter; Thi en Øyenskalk spiller de hæsligste Comoedier. Den Forskiel imellem ham og en anden Acteur er denne, at skiønt begge agere forstilte Personer, saa forstiller den første sig, for at bedrage Verden, og den sidste, for at legge Bedragerie og falske Dyder for Lyset.

No actor is a success unless he feels inside himself, as long as he lives, that he is good.

Nous ne sommes pas libres. Et le ciel peut encore nous tomber sur la tête. Et le théâtre est fait pour nous apprendre d'abord cela

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire Crouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object: can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt? O, pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; Into a thousand parts divide on man, And make imaginary puissance; Think when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

Oh, God, I though, this is like two people in a play, in a moment the curtain will come down, we shall bow to the audience, and go off to our dressing-rooms.

Que les poètes morts laissent la place aux autres. Et nous pourrions tout de même voir que c'est notre vénération devant ce qui a été déjà fait, si beau et si valable que ce soit, qui nous pétrifie, qui nous stabilise et nous empêche de prendre contact avec la force qui est dessous, que l'on appelle l'énergie pensante, la force vitale, le déterminisme des échanges, les menstrues de la lune ou tout ce qu'on voudra.

Oh, where is it, where did my past go, when I was young, happy and intelligent, when my dreams and thoughts had some grace, and the present and future were lit up with hope? Why is it, that when we've just started to live, we grow dull, gray, uninteresting, lazy, useless, with flattened-out souls?

On suffoquait, les chevelures s'alourdissaient sur les têtes en sueur. Depuis trois heures qu'on était là, les haleines avaient chauffé l'air d'une odeur humaine. Dans le flamboiement du gaz, les poussières en suspension s'épaississaient, immobiles au-dessous du lustre. La salle entière vacillait, glissait à un vertige, lasse et excitée, prise de ces désirs ensommeillés de minuit qui balbutient au fond des alcôves. Et Nana, en face de ce public pâmé, de ces quinze cents personnes entassées, noyées dans l'affaissement et le détraquement nerveux d'une fin de spectacle, restait victorieuse avec sa chair de marbre, son sexe assez fort pour détruire tout ce monde et n'en être pas entamé.

People in America, they're getting dumber, they're getting less able to analyze something and think critically, and pick apart the underlying elements. And more and more ready to make a snap judgment regarding something at face value, which is too bad.

Puis-je aller plus loin quand mon coeur est ici?

On sait pas comment faire pour jamais oublier parce que j'pense que le vrai problème c'est ça c'est pas qu'on s'aime pus c'est qu'on oublie pis qu'on a pas appris comment faire vieillir la manière de se dire qu'on s'aime.

Ô Roméo ! Roméo ! pourquoi es-tu Roméo ? Renie ton père et abdique ton nom ; ou, si tu ne le veux pas, jure de m'aimer, et je ne serai plus une Capulet.

Roméo : Si j'ai profané avec mon indigne main cette châsse sacrée, je suis prêt à une douce pénitence : permettez à mes lèvres, comme à deux pèlerins rougissants, d'effacer ce grossier attouchement par un tendre baiser. Juliette : Bon pèlerin, vous êtes trop sévère pour votre main qui n'a fait preuve en ceci que d'une respectueuse dévotion. Les saintes mêmes ont des mains que peuvent toucher les mains des pèlerins ; et cette étreinte est un pieux baiser. Roméo : Les saintes n'ont-elles pas des lèvres, et les pèlerins aussi ? Juliette : Oui, pèlerin, des lèvres vouées à la prière. Roméo : Oh ! alors, chère sainte, que les lèvres fassent ce que font les mains. Elles te prient ; exauce-les, de peur que leur foi ne se change en désespoir. Juliette : Les saintes restent immobiles, tout en exauçant les prières. Roméo : Restez donc immobile, tandis que je recueillerai l'effet de ma prière. Vos lèvres ont effacé le péché des miennes. Juliette : Mes lèvres ont gardé pour elles le péché qu'elles ont pris des vôtres. Roméo : Vous avez pris le péché de mes lèvres ? Ô reproche charmant ! Alors rendez-moi mon péché. Juliette : Vous avez l'art des baisers.

That's something we all want to know, isn't it? Is there a "purpose" to our form and substance? Or are we simply the random result of billions of years of chemical reactions and accidents influenced by pressures from the environment?..." -Jules, BOOM

Sans un élément de cruauté à la base de tout spectacle, le théâtre n'est pas possible.

Small boys often produce their own plays; but usually the parts are not written out. They hardly need to be, for the main line of each character is always "Stick 'em up!" In these plays the curtain is always rung down on a set of corpses, for small boys are by nature through and uncompromising.

So always avoid banality. That is, avoid illustrating the author's words and remarks. If you want to create a true masterpiece you must always avoid beautiful lies: the truths on the calender under each date you find a proverb or saying such as: "He who is good to others will be happy." But this is not true. It is a lie. The spectator, perhaps, is content. The spectator likes easy truths. But we are not there to please or pander to the spectator. We are here to tell the truth.

TEN [exploding]. Bright! He's a common ignorant slob. He don't even speak good English! ELEVEN [slowly]. He doesn't even speak good English.

Theatre is pure teleportation by means of suspension. It’s a voyage into the archives of the human imagination. A passport to all what ifs.

Theatre is a voyage into the archives of the human imagination

The closer they come to transcending technique and the memorization of lines--the closer to really beginning to act, in short--the more Chinese they begin to seem. Happy now approaches Miss Forsythe to pick her up in the restaurant with a wonderful formality, his back straight, head high, his hand-gestures even more precise and formal, but with a comic undertone that ironically comes closer to conveying the original American idea of the scene than when he was trying to be physically sloppy and "relaxed"--that is, imitating an American. I think that by some unplanned magic we may end up creating something not quite American or Chinese but a pure style springing from the heart of the play itself--the play as a nonnational event, that is, a human circumstance.

The Director's Role: You are the obstetrician. You are not the parent of this child we call the play. You are present at its birth for clinical reasons, like a doctor or midwife. Your job most of the time is simply to do no harm. When something does go wrong, however, your awareness that something is awry--and your clinical intervention to correct it--can determine whether the child will thrive or suffer, live or die.

The gateway to the underworld is seen as part antiquity and part theatre. Welcome to the lower depths.

The earth is an orbiting speck in incomprehensible vastness. The histories of our civilizations, our accomplishments and secrets, great good and evil—these are no more significant than the single twinkle of a star. Perhaps, this is why we try to outshine the heavens with our cities and make theatrical events of our simple lives.

The first few weeks of school were always surreal, like you landed on an alien planet with strange teachers and unfamiliar classrooms, even though the lockers and cafeteria seemed familiar.

The Magician makes the visible, invisible. The Scientist makes the invisible, visible. The Artist stands in between, indivisible.

The Greeks believed that it was a citizen's duty to watch a play. It was a kind of work in that it required attention, judgement, patience, all the social virtues." "And the Greek were conquered by the more practical Romans, Arthur." "Indeed, the Romans built their bridges, but they also spent many centuries wishing they were Greeks. And they, after all, were conquered by the barbarians, or by their own corrupt and small spirits.

The intoxication with the theatre, with its limelight, costumes, and masks, and with its passions and conflicts, accords well with the adolescence of a man who was to act his role with an intense sense of the dramatic, and of whose life it might indeed be said that its very shape had the power and pattern of classical tragedy.

The midgets acted all of the tragedies and many of the comedies. They acted them all at once, and it was fortunate that Tetrahedron had so many faces, otherwise he might have died of fatigue. They acted them all at once, and the emperor, walking round his theatre, could see them all at once, if he wished. Round and round he walked, and so learned a very valuable thing: that no emotion is the final one.

The Greeks think they justly honor players, because they worship the gods who demand plays; the Romans, on the other hand, do not suffer an actor to disgrace by his name his own plebeian tribe, far less the senatorial order. And the whole of this discussion may be summed up in the following syllogism. The Greeks give us the major premise: If such gods are to be worshiped, then certainly such men may be honored. The Romans add the minor: But such men must by no means be honoured. The Christians draw the conclusion: Therefore such gods must by no means be worshiped.

The Hulk before intermission, Bruce Banner after it.

The imagination is closer to the actor than real life-more agreeable, more comfortable.

There’s nothing that makes me cry harder than fiction. There’s nothing that makes me weep, nothing that holds my breath and brings tears stinging to my eyes more than fiction. And all those sad realities which filter through my days. They leave no lasting impression. All they serve is small reminders of my busy life. Small purposes: remember the pain of the world. Okay, alright. I remember it all. Then I go watch a movie. I listen to the classical music station in my car at five-thirty pm where they always play that same song. I watch a play, watch the performance. Watch the smoke descend upon the stage. This fiction. It’s the only thing that affects me. Funny, isn’t it?

The play was a great success, but the audience was a disaster.

The theatre is an attack on mankind carried on by magic: to victimize an audience every night, to make them laugh and cry and suffer and miss their trains. Of course actors regard audiences as enemies, to be deceived, drugged, incarcerated, stupefied. This is partly because the audience is also a court against which there is no appeal.

These days, you could stage a three-point orgy in the garden and nobody would bat an eye...

The theatre is a machine of transformations: everything is transformed into another thing; a bald man has thick hair on his head; a man with strong legs gains a limp and a sharp-eyed person becomes blind; an actor who is an atheist immediately turns into the most pious priest on earth! ~

the theater is one of the few places left in the bright and noisy world where we sit in the quiet dark together, to be awake.

The theatre is a tragic place, full of endings and partings and heartbreak. You dedicate yourself passionately to something, to a project, to people, to a family, you think of nothing else for weeks and months, then suddenly it's over, it's perpetual destruction, perpetual divorce, perpetual adieu. It's like éternel retour, it's a koan. It's like falling in love and being smashed over and over again.’ 'You do, then, fall in love.’ 'Only with fictions, I love players, but actors are so ephemeral. And then there’s waiting for the perfect part, and being offered it the day after you've committed yourself to something utterly rotten. The remorse, and the envy and the jealousy. An old actor told me if I wanted to stay in the trade I had better kill off envy and jealousy at the start.

The Theatre of the Absurd, in the sense that it is truly the contemporary theatre, facing as it does man's condition as it is, is the Realistic theatre of our time; and that the supposed Realistic theatre—the term used here to mean most of what is done on Broadway—in the sense that it panders to the public need for self-congratulation and reassurance and presents a false picture of ourselves to ourselves is … really and truly The Theatre of the Absurd.

The trick to loneliness is to spend a lot of time inside one’s head.

Thi enhver Skribent kand nu agere Comoedie Skriver og ingen frygter at see sit Arbeide spildt, i hvor mavert, elendigt og ilde sammenhængende det end er naar han tager den Præcaution at det endes med Sang og Dantz, hvilket man og seer at vor Alders Autores nøye i agttage. Man seer heraf, at en forderved Smag ogsaa har sin Nytte i Verden, og at det, som jeg derom skiemteviis har skrevet udi mine Moralske Tanker er ikke gandske ugrundet.

THE VOICE OF SALOME: Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, Iokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood?... Nay; but perchance it was the taste of love... They say that love hath a bitter taste... But what matter? What matter? I have kissed thy mouth, Iokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth.

This simple theatre production had caused the Great American Ruckus of the century. How would the chaos pan out? Would there be public drama, hair-raising speeches, epic face-offs or brawls? And what of the Patriot Protesters? Would they commit self-immolation, shave their heads or do running cartwheels outside the premises? Would there be attempts at sabotage?

This was awkward to infinity. Alex living here would change my entire routine. I was sharing a bathroom with my boyfriend. How scary was that? I had tampons and pads and everything in there. He was going to be naked in the shower on the other side of my bedroom wall. And I was going to be naked in the shower with him in my house.

This was our last night. We only had one curtain call, Bree. And I thought they were going to give us a standing ovation, but no-o-o-. Do you know why half the audience stood up?" "To get a head start on the traffic," Bree said. "To get a head start on the traffic," Antonia agreed in indignation. "I mean, here we are, dancing and singing our little guts out, and all those folks want to do is get to bed early. I ask you, whatever happened to common courtesy? Whatever happened to decent manners? Doesn't anyone care about craft anymore? And on top of that, it's not even nice.

...tilstaaer jeg gierne, at Charactererne ere outrerede udi visse Stykker; men maa derhos sige, at Agt er skeed af heel beraad Hu, og af en pur Fornødenhed, saasom jeg saavel som andre af Erfarenhed haver mærket, at Skuespill uden outrerede Characterer, eller uden det, som Academiske Censores ansee som Feil, ingen Virkning have.

Voglio solo che sia chiaro che..." bisbigliò, direttamente al mio orecchio. Trattenni il respiro. "Quando ti bacio... quando ti sfioro... quando ti tocco... sono io. E voglio te.