Film Casablanca Quotes

I watched as Humphrey Bogart’s character used beans as a metaphor for the relative unimportance in the wider world of his relationship with Ingrid Bergman’s character, and chose logic and decency ahead of his selfish emotional desires. The quandary and resulting decision made for an engrossing film. But this was not what people cried about. They were in love and could not be together. I repeated this statement to myself, trying to force an emotional reaction. I couldn’t. I didn’t care. I had enough problems of my own.

Falling in love: how does it work? Over the years we gather the odd clue, but nothing adds up. We’d like to think we have a picture of our future partner projected in our mind, all their qualities recorded as if on film, and we just search the planet for that person until we find them, sitting in Casablanca waiting to be recognised. But in reality our love lives are blown around by career and coincidence, not to mention lack of nerve on given occasions, and we never have respectable reasons for anything until we have to make them up afterwards for the benefit of our curious friends.

Don’t go to Casablanca expecting it to be like the film. In fact, if you’re not too busy, and your schedule allows it, don’t go to Casablanca at all.

Two clichés make us laugh,” writes Umberto Eco in his essay on Casablanca, “but a hundred clichés move us because we sense dimly that the clichés are talking among themselves, celebrating a reunion.” Just

Popular film misquotes. “Play it again, Sam”: Casablanca, allegedly, except neither Bogie nor Bergman ever said it. “He’s alive”: Frankenstein doesn’t gender his monster; cruelly, it’s just “It’s alive.” “Elementary, my dear Watson” does crop up in the first Holmes film of the talkie era, but appears nowhere in the Conan Doyle canon.

sum up Casablanca in just four clipped, declarative sentences: “Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back again. Boy gives up girl for humanity’s sake.

Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment. Now, movies that postdate Hitch: The Vanishing, with its sucker-punch finale. Frantic, Polanski’s ode to the master. Side Effects, which begins as a Big Pharma screed before slithering like an eel into another genre altogether. Okay. Popular film misquotes. “Play it again, Sam”: Casablanca, allegedly, except neither Bogie nor Bergman ever said it. “He’s alive”: Frankenstein doesn’t gender his monster; cruelly, it’s just “It’s alive.” “Elementary, my dear Watson” does crop up in the first Holmes film of the talkie era, but appears nowhere in the Conan Doyle canon.

In September 1941, a set of hearings was convened by a U.S. Senate Subcommittee on War Propaganda, chaired by Idaho Democrat Senator D. Worth Clark. The hearings were designed to address a resolution sponsored by two hard-nosed isolationist senators, Republican Gerald P. Nye of North Dakota and Democrat Bennett Champ Clark of Missouri, calling for “an investigation of any propaganda disseminated by motion pictures and radio or any other activity of the motion picture industry to influence public opinion in the direction of participation of the United States in the present European war.

I decided to begin with romantic films specifically mentioned by Rosie. There were four: Casablanca, The Bridges of Madison County, When Harry Met Sally, and An Affair to Remember. I added To Kill a Mockingbird and The Big Country for Gregory Peck, whom Rosie had cited as the sexiest man ever. It took a full week to watch all six, including time for pausing the DVD player and taking notes. The films were incredibly useful but also highly challenging. The emotional dynamics were so complex! I persevered, drawing on movies recommended by Claudia about male-female relationships with both happy and unhappy outcomes. I watched Hitch, Gone with the Wind, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Annie Hall, Notting Hill, Love Actually, and Fatal Attraction. Claudia also suggested I watch As Good as It Gets, “just for fun.” Although her advice was to use it as an example of what not to do, I was impressed that the Jack Nicholson character handled a jacket problem with more finesse than I had. It was also encouraging that, despite serious social incompetence, a significant difference in age between him and the Helen Hunt character, probable multiple psychiatric disorders, and a level of intolerance far more severe than mine, he succeeded in winning the love of the woman in the end. An excellent choice by Claudia.

I turned on the television screen and computer and fast-forwarded Casablanca for one last try. I watched as Humphrey Bogart’s character used beans as a metaphor for the relative unimportance in the wider world of his relationship with Ingrid Bergman’s character and chose logic and decency ahead of his selfish emotional desires. The quandary and resulting decision made for an engrossing film. But this was not what people cried about. They were in love and could never be together. I repeated this statement to myself, trying to force an emotional reaction. I couldn’t. I didn’t care. I had enough problems of my own.

A Manuela dissonava ao abraçar os antagonismos longe da frente. Enamorava-se sem estorvos por um E Tudo o Vento Levou, com as senhoras apresadas nos estilhaços das escaramuças dos homens. Abalava-se com um Casablanca, em que a subordinação face a outro povo traz um fantasma nostálgico que lamuria o hino da França. Cantarolava, de olhos gotejados, todo o Música No Coração, onde a perfídia nazi desalojava o núcleo central do filme. Tudo isto açucaradamente envolto em histórias de amor intemporais (simplórias), traziam-lhe distensões aos lábios, aparições de dentes alvos, clap clap, prantos de comoção. Para a Manuela a guerra não era mestiere de tecnologia, estratégia, tanques, carnificina, estropiados, tripas e sangue. Para a Manuela, também a guerra era um assunto de mulheres – cartas, lágrimas, saudade. A guerra era o reflexo no semblante da enfermeira, sombrio, inconfessado, a nuvem nos seus olhos, as vigílias de cotovelos no parapeito a aguardar o regresso do soldado. Às vezes a tua mãe resultava-me bastante obtusa. Então fi-la implodir e, como consequência, quase me vi sem ela. Não me tinha dado conta de que a sua força fosse tão marcescível.

that if one is intent on colorizing a film like Casablanca one may as well add arms to the Venus de Milo.

Whatever solace he sought was generally found in the tranquility of the 380-acre farm that he bought in Chester County, Pennsylvania in 1941.

its ink running down the page with each drop of rain, does the crying for a man not able to shed tears. Ilsa

its ink running down the page with each drop of rain, does the crying for a man not able to shed tears.

She eschewed the conventional star makeover, refusing to pluck her eyebrows, wear thick makeup, or change her name, and she maintained a level of assertiveness quite uncommon to female actors of her generation.

Are you seriously going to kiss her for the first time on an airplane? That has to be the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard. Even Humphrey knew to kiss Bergman outside the plane. You need to follow the classics like Casablanca.

Annette says I’m precocious because I always have my nose buried in a book. But then she rarely reads anything more taxing than the latest Hollywood movie magazine and I’d rather be precocious than only ever thinking about film stars and boys and hairdos.

I was intrigued by the idea of the “Hollywood ending,” people always associating the term with meaning a happy ending, when in reality it seemed to me that the truly classic Hollywood films—like Casablanca, The Graduate, Chinatown—often had endings that were, at the very least, more uncertain than happy.

They wrote the play, as Burnett later told a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, in “the white heat of anger—anger at stupid people who refused to acknowledge that Hitler and Nazism were a threat.

Bogart’s a hell of a nice guy until around 11:30 pm,” former comedian and Hollywood restaurant owner Dave Chasen famously remarked. “After that, he thinks he’s Bogart.

I know that somewhere under the sickening face of a shit—is a real shit.