Best 631 quotes in «theatre quotes» category

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Theatre is a voyage into the archives of the human imagination

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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 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 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.

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.

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.

...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.

We are reaching levels of high experiential comfort and our standards will keep rising. We want to feel, we want to experience, we want to connect, we want intelligence, and we want to play; Ladies and Gentlemen: A new theatre is on its way.

We know the Arts are the archives of our human history, the wind of invention and the heartbeat of humanity

We number nothing that we spend for you; Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without accompt. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

Tranquilla, miciotta. Sarò un fidanzato modello" ammiccò. Sarebbe finita in tragedia.

What are all the thoughts rattling in your mind when you're not listening to the answers to questions you ask?" -Jo, Boom

What silly little things sometimes take on meaning in life, suddenly, out of nowhere. And you know they're little nothings, and you laugh at them, but all the same, you go on feeling them, you can't stop...

When you read a novel, it seems that everything is clear, trite and understandable. But when you yourself fall in love, you understand that nobody knows anything and everyone must decide for themselves.

When you snatch happiness in little bits, fits and starts, and lose it, like me, you become coarse, little by little, you become hateful.