Errol Flynn Quotes

It isn't what they say about you, it's what they whisper.

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income.

From David Niven's autobiography, Bring on the Empty Horses. Director Mike Curtiz to David Niven & Errol Flynn: "You lousy bums, you and your stinking language, you think I know fuck nothing, well let me tell you— I know FUCK ALL!

Any man who dies with more than $10000 to his name is a failure.

if you're dealing with monkeys, you got to expect some wrenches.....

Had a big trial. It was like an Errol Flynn movie.

How’s that? Do I look like Errol Flynn?” “You are a dashing motherfucker,” she told him. She

After studying the great ones,    I found little to sustain me.       Then I read about Errol Flynn,          who said, as he died,             “This isn’t so damn bad,”                and that gave me courage. —Jean Arnold, “The Ridiculous,” Walking on Cork (The Maecenas Press, 1991)

Then there was a major disruption with Errol Flynn, who arrived at rehearsal in the midst of a heated argument with his wife Lili Damita. The couple kept bickering through the reading until Woodruff erupted. “It was magnificent,” said Flynn’s costar, Olivia De Havilland, in Radio Mirror. “Never in all my life have I seen such wrath. I stood before my mirror night after night, trying to register anger like that.

It was inevitable that Flynn would notice her. It wasn't her figure that attracted him, because Beverly is a small-bosomed girl. It was her legs, of course - her long legs in those black net stockings. Later, when Errol and I became good friends, he told me why: "I'm not a breast man," he said. "I'm a leg man. You can't make love to a breast.

All I had to do was stick my face into this gruesome mess and bite off the young sheep's testicles. Dag a hogget. I had good teeth. I put my nose into this awful-smelling mess, my teeth solidly around the balls of the six-month-old sheep, and took a bite while I held him upside down. My nose was in fur and ordure. I bit and spat out the product into a pile of what they called prairie oysters. We have them in America too: delicious to eat, but not delicious to remove. They said this was the most sanitary way to de-ball a sheep. After I was done, I passed the sheep onto the next man, who put a little coal tar on the same spot for purposes of cleansing and closing up the wound. The sheep never let out a bleat.

Piracy, Hollywood Style: An Ode to Errol Flynn His galleon emblazoned and beckoned to the coral’s black mire, And ol’ wispy eyed Errol, the pirate, stiffened his lip: Her Majesty’s Rogue Navy may have set ol’ Bessie afire— But I’d be a fool to go down and drown with me ship!” “Fer, a pirate I am, and A pirate I’ll be, I don’t need to die ‘proper’ with false dignity— All I need is a new ship, and a flagon of ale. The latter to drown in, the former to sail! “Aye! Give me a strong wind, and twenty good men, And I’ll take to the high seas, and pirate again! And should I be lucky to spot a Royal ship in me scope— I’ll hang her good captain from ten yards of rope! “Aye! And when her cowardly crew gives me their lip, I’ll give them the ‘dignity’ to go down with their ship! Aye! Give me a strong wind and twenty good men, And I’ll take to the high seas, and pirate again!

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs. Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolph Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person . . . or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did . . . and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies. The man who cremated William Holden. The man who encased the body of Alexander the Great in gold so it would not rot. The men who mummified the Pharaohs. Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.

As I've stated before, there is no truth to the stories that Errol and Beverly spent two years of debauchery together. Their life was nothing like that. But it's easy to understand how stories of debauchery grew up around a man like Errol. Let me present an example. Once, while we were in New York, Errol and Beverly attended a party at a country estate. At the party were two other couples. They were all very good friends. During the course of the evening they went swimming. In the nude. Now to someone who wasn't there that party had all the marks of an orgy. But it wasn't like that a bit. Beverly later told me all about it. Errol, Beverly and his wealthy friends simply went swimming in the pool for a few minutes. And that was all there was to it. Nothing else happened. They weren't riotously drunk or mad with passion. It was an unconventional but casual swim. Afterward they got out, dressed and enjoyed some porkchops and applesauce together.

Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tenniel’s Alice, same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this most godawful clanking, snarling, crunching of wood, girls come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into the house and right behind them what comes crashing now into the pallid lights of the garden but—why the Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm cannon swivels until it’s pointing through the French windows right down into the room. “Antoine!” a young lady focusing in on the gigantic muzzle, “for heaven’s sake, not now. . . .” A hatch flies open and Tamara—Slothrop guesses: wasn’t Italo supposed to have the tank?—uh—emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo, Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. “But now,” she screams, “I have you all! One coup de foudre!” The hatch drops—oh, Jesus—there’s the sound of a 3-inch shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blinking, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub of black-market Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped cream on top. “Aw, no . . .” Slothrop having about decided to make a flanking run for the tank when YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody against the far walls. A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over partygoers, can’t hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps running through the smoke at the tank—leaps on, goes to undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle which shouldn’t be without its erotic moments, for Tamara is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves, Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, look—he doesn’t seem to have an erection. Hmm. This is a datum London never got, because nobody was looking. Turns out the projectile, a dud, has only torn holes in several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy head, a little bewildered. The burning drape’s been put out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his life, wringing Slothrop’s hands and kissing his cheeks, leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamara is escorted away by Raoul’s bodyguards. Slothrop has just disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder. “You were right. You are the man.” “That’s nothing.” Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. “I saved a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about that?” “With one difference,” sez Blodgett Waxwing. “This really happened tonight. But that octopus didn’t.

In those days the typical Hollywood mother ran around looking like Eleanor Roosevelt, wearing a hat with a feather in it to attract attention. I never wore a hat and I never looked like Eleanor Roosevelt.

Fidel Castro becomes a Sex Symbol “After entering Havana on January 8, 1959 as the conquering hero, women threw themselves at the normally quiet Fidel Castro. Much to his own surprise, he became a sex symbol and was tempted by the many bikini-clad young ladies at the as the conquering hero, women threw themselves at the normally quiet Fidel. Much to his own surprise, he became a sex symbol and was tempted by the many bikini-clad young ladies at the hotel pool of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba. Errol Flynn, the famous movie star and ladies’ man of that era, met Castro and had a number of Hollywood beauties with him, expecting to make a movie in Havana. For the most part Fidel was preoccupied with the affairs of government, but he always made time for the chosen few.

But the Butler-Brennan collaboration splendidly informs The Prince and the Pirate, a Samuel Goldwyn million-dollar Technicolor production that spoofs the swashbuckling pictures of the 1930s that made Errol Flynn a star. Butler seems to have given Brennan free rein in bringing to life one of his most exuberant and ribald roles. As Featherhead, a scuzzy pirate, he convinces the malicious Captain Barrett, “the Hook” (Victor McLaglen) to spare a female gypsy fortune-teller, impersonated by “The Great Sylvester” (Hope) from walking the plank. The pirate crew is perplexed by Featherhead’s lascivious designs on this none too appetizing dish, but he practically slavers over his prize, which he bears away with great glee. Brennan plays Featherhead with devouring relish. But as soon as he has Hope to himself, Featherhead confesses he has known all along that she is a he. The shocked Sylvester recovers enough to say, “If you don’t tell anybody I’m not a gypsy, I won’t tell anybody you’re not an idiot.” Featherhead has appropriated the performer in a scheme to outwit The Hook and to capture a buried treasure. Brennan takes out his teeth for this role, and either through added weight or makeup, presents a rubicund complexion and a robust, rounded face that is startlingly different from the gaunt and rickety Eddie of To Have and Have Not.

Jack Warner’s metaphoric comparison to the Gold Rush was no exaggeration. People came in droves from every town and city on a journey filled with high hopes and endless heartache. Then as now, Hollywood attracted gypsies and con men, shysters and dreamers, and—very occasionally—people with talent.

my

The best part of life is spent in earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it. To hell with money! Pursuit of it is not going to mould my life for me. I am going to live life sturdily and Spartan-like, to drive life into a corner and reduce it to its lowest terms, and if I find it sublime I shall know it by experience … Time, for example, just one hour of time is far more important than money. Whenever you waste your time over printed words that neither enlighten nor amuse you, you are in a sense committing suicide.

Errol Flynn was a film actor whose performances gave pleasure to many millions. On June 20, 1909, he was born in Hobart, Tasmania, and on October 14, 1959, he died in Vancouver, British Columbia. When he was seventeen he was expelled from school in Sydney, and in the next 33 years he lived a life which was full, lusty, restless and colourful. In his career, in his three marriages, in his friendships, in his quarrels, and in bed with the many women he took there, he lived with zest and irregularity. The lives of film stars are not cast in the ordinary mould, and in some respects Errol Flynn’s was more stellar than most. When he died, he posed the only question that I have to decide: where was he domiciled at the date of his death?

Alcohol is a far greater killer than all opiates. You can buy alcohol on any street corner throughout the world. It gets your brain, your liver. It destroys your morals, destroys your vitality, kills the sexual potential, and you become sluggish. It was a great pity that Prohibition failed. The experiment was too radical. Instead of barring it altogether, the dispensation of alcohol should have been under prescription, or some other control. Prohibition was one of the worthiest attempts of a group to impose their will upon the rest of the people. But of course if you prohibit something you deprive people of an essential liberty; when you deny the right of choice you oppose the greatest gift in the world. People will not stand for it. Alcohol makes man mad, leads to such strange behaviourism. Yet beer and liquor ads maintain newspapers, television, some huge portion of the national and the world economy. Drinker that I am, I think essentially I am the victim of an addiction that is here in the world, revealed to all, exposed to all. It is there. We who are weak take to it and are destroyed by it, but is essentially a weakness of governments everywhere to allow this poison to circulate like a river through the bloodstream of the human race. As one of the heartiest drinkers in the world, I speak with a voice of authority.

Someday, if we’re lucky, an entirely new industry will steal from us. They’ll transform our work into something so unimaginably different, we’ll feel like Errol Flynn confronted with his future pixelated form.

La Habana era una locura: yo creo que era la ciudad con más vida de todo el mundo. ¡Qué carajo París ni Nueva York! Demasiado frío... ¡Vida nocturna la de aquí! Verdad que había putas, había drogas y había mafia, pero la gente se divertía y la noche empezaba a las seis de la tarde y no se acababa nunca. ¿Te imaginas que en una misma noche podías tomarte una cerveza a las ocho oyendo a las Anacaonas en los Aires Libres del Prado, comer a las nueve con la música y las canciones de Bola de Nieve, luego sentarte en el Saint John a oír a Elena Burke, después irte a un cabaret a bailar con Benny Moré, con la Aragón, con la Casino de Playa, con la Sonora Matancera, descansar un rato vacilando los boleros de Olga Guillot, Vicentico Valdés, Ñico Membiela... o irte a oír a los muchachos del feeling, al ronco José Antonio Méndez, a César Portillo y, para cerrar la noche, a las dos de la mañana, escaparte a la playa de Marianao a ver el espectáculo del Chori tocando sus timbales, y tú ahí, como si nada, sentado entre Marlon Brando y Cab Calloway, al lado de Errol Flynn y de Josephine Baker. Y después, si todavía te quedaba aire, bajar a La Gruta, ahí en La Rampa, para amanecer metido en una descarga de jazz de Cachao con Tata Güines, Barreto, Bebo Valdés, el Negro Vivar, Frank Emilio y todos esos locos que son los mejores músicos que ha dado Cuba? Eran miles, la música estaba en la atmósfera, se podía cortar con un cuchillo, había que apartarla para poder pasar...