Logan Movie Quotes

All billionaire kids have bodyguards--at least that's what Max's dad had told him. But none were more qualified than Logan, who was a martial arts expert (with more black belts than one could count on tne fingers), a stunyt man (who had credits in no less than a dozen blockbuster action movies), a champion race-car driver (with a choice collection of exotic sports cars), and who could make a seriously mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Here it comes,” I say gleefully. “The levelheaded reason for why they stay in the house.” “Watch, the ghost won’t let them leave,” Logan guesses. He guesses wrong. On the screen, the characters argue about whether they should go, and one of the girls announces, “We’re doing important work here, guys! We’re proving the existence of paranormal entities! Science needs this. Science needs us.” I burst out laughing, shuddering against Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Did you hear that, Johnny? Science needs them.” “I fucking hate you,” he grumbles. “Five bucks…” I say in a singsong voice. His hand slides down to pinch my butt, making me squeak in surprise. “Go ahead and gloat. You win the battle by getting five bucks out of me, but I win the war.” I sit up. “How do you figure?” “Because you still have to sit through the rest of this movie, and you’re going to hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, am enjoying it immensely.” The jerk is absolutely right. Unless…

You have no idea what I had to go through to get to where I am now...So I can look at you and feel nothing.

I step out of Bourbon Bandits onto the sidewalk of Geary Street and take my place among the zombies and psychopaths. How do I tell the difference? The psychopaths wear suits. The zombies have skin peeling off their faces and reek of rotting teeth and were likely the extras in a movie we were all in but forgot about.

So what's your story?" Maddie didn't try to hide the singsong lilt of her voice as she spoke. She didn't want to. She'd learned at a very young age that nothing annoyed manly men more than girly girls, and if Maddie had one talent, it was truly exceptional girliness. "Shut up and be quiet," Stefan snapped. "That's just a tad redundant, FYI." "Shut up!" he hissed near her ear. Maddie couldn't help but shift her weight from foot to foot, almost pacing in place. She was careful of the ice and the snow, though. No use falling to the ground and having Stefan accidentally pull the trigger. "You really do give a lot of orders," she told him. He tightened his grip. "I'm the one with the gun." "Well, yeah. Sure. Technically. But I'm the one with the winning personality, and that should count for something." "You should be scared," he said in the same tone a movie villain might use to say You should be dead when the hero materializes five years later, hungry for vengeance. Stefan was confused, and Maddie couldn't blame him. So she turned back and shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't think you're a bad guy." He let her go and spun her around, grabbing Logan's unzipped coat and pulling her closer. "I. Have. The. Gun," he reminded her. Maddie smiled and pulled away. "And I have Taylor Swift's signature scent. Doesn't make me a pop star. It just makes me smell like Taylor Swift, which isn't as great as it sounds because, to a bear, Taylor Swift smells delicious. Stefan stuttered for a moment, then fell silent.

What happened?” Logan asks. He’s signing while he speaks. “I had a date to snuggle with your girl on the couch, and we were going to watch a movie,” Matt says. “Next thing I know, she has my head in her lap, instead.” He looks over at me, an impish twinkle in his eye. “If you wanted to hold me, Kit, you could have just asked.” He chuckles. “You remember?” I ask. He grins this unrepentant grin. “I’ll never, ever forget the day you threw Logan over to hold me in your arms.

I sprinkle some flour on the dough and roll it out with the heavy, wooden rolling pin. Once it’s the perfect size and thickness, I flip the rolling pin around and sing into the handle—American Idol style. “Calling Gloriaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .” And then I turn around. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Without thinking, I bend my arm and throw the rolling pin like a tomahawk . . . straight at the head of the guy who’s standing just inside the kitchen door. The guy I didn’t hear come in. The guy who catches the hurling rolling pin without flinching—one-handed and cool as a gorgeous cucumber—just an inch from his perfect face. He tilts his head to the left, looking around the rolling pin to meet my eyes with his soulful brown ones. “Nice toss.” Logan St. James. Bodyguard. Totally badass. Sexiest guy I have ever seen—and that includes books, movies and TV, foreign and domestic. He’s the perfect combo of boyishly could-go-to-my-school kind of handsome, mixed with dangerously hot and tantalizingly mysterious. If comic-book Superman, James Dean, Jason Bourne and some guy with the smoothest, most perfectly pitched, British-Scottish-esque, Wessconian-accented voice all melded together into one person, they would make Logan fucking St. James. And I just tried to clock him with a baking tool—while wearing my Rick and Morty pajama short-shorts, a Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt I’ve had since I was eight and my SpongeBob SquarePants slippers. And no bra. Not that I have a whole lot going on upstairs, but still . . . “Christ on a saltine!” I grasp at my chest like an old woman with a pacemaker. Logan’s brow wrinkles. “Haven’t heard that one before.” Oh fuck—did he see me dancing? Did he see me leap? God, let me die now. I yank on my earbuds’ cord, popping them from my ears. “What the hell, dude?! Make some noise when you walk in—let a girl know she’s not alone. You could’ve given me a heart attack. And I could’ve killed you with my awesome ninja skills.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, you couldn’t.” He sets the rolling pin down on the counter. “I knocked on the kitchen door so I wouldn’t frighten you, but you were busy with your . . . performance.” Blood and heat rush to my face. And I want to melt into the floor and then all the way down to the Earth’s core.

I wake up to the feel of being hoisted in the air. I reach for Logan’s neck, and he chuckles. “I got you,” he says to assure me. “Don’t drop her,” Matt warns. “I let you snuggle with her all through the movie,” Logan complains. But I can tell he’s not angry. “But she’s my girlfriend. And I’m not going to drop my girlfriend.” He nods toward Matt’s room. “You going to bed?” Logan asks. Matt stretches and groans. “In a minute.” He stretches his leg out in front of him and wiggles his feet. “My fucking leg’s asleep.” “That’s what you get for stealing my girl,” Logan scolds. Matt laughs. “It was fucking worth it.” He calls to me, “Love you, kid!” “Love you, too,” I say back. Matt’s voice is playful, but he means it. He does love me. I’ve become the honorary sister he never wanted.

A movie screening of Before Midnight? A Richard Linklater classic for sure, but watching a movie with a group doesn’t mean you connect with anyone; the only people talking are on-screen. That one goes in the bottom-right corner—high likelihood she’d enjoy it, low likelihood of interaction. Eventually, we discovered a book club discussing Ta-Nehisi Coates, the award-winning journalist who writes about culture, politics, and social issues. Ding-ding-ding. Alicia was a huge fan of his work. And book clubs are all about interaction.

Lake Mungo, Savageland, The Taking of Deborah Logan, Trollhunter, REC, The Blair Witch Project, the Hell House LLC movies, Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum, Cloverfield, Creep I and II, The Poughkeepsie Tapes, Afflicted… Okay, I’ll stop now.

He takes my hand and pulls me out of the room. Paul is in the lazy chair with Hayley in his lap, reading a book, and Sam and Pete are on one of the sofas. Matt is alone on the other, so I sit down beside him and lean into his shoulder. He reaches up to tousle my hair and smiles at me. “I’m glad you’re back, kid,” he says. I lean more heavily into him, and he lifts his arm to the back of the sofa so I can nestle into his side. I breathe him in. He’s so much softer than Logan. But the cancer took its toll. He’s lost weight, and he has dark shadows beneath his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?” I whisper to him. He looks down at me and tweaks my nose as Logan pulls my feet into his lap. I lay my head on Matt’s thigh and he leans down to whisper to me. “Quit worrying about me and enjoy being back.” His hand strokes absently down the length of my hair as someone presses “play” to start the movie. I love this gentle giant. The movie starts, and it’s not a thriller or a car chase. There’s no shooting. It’s a love story. My eyes well up with tears, and I scrub them on Matt’s leg. “There’s no place like home,” I say quietly.

And you shouldn’t have called me your boyfriend.” He looks down at me as he opens the door of the restaurant for me. “I’m sorry,” I start. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just wanted her to go away.” And I wanted to stake my claim, even though I had no right to one. He looks down at me beneath the street light. “You shouldn’t have said it because you gave me hope,” he says. I can’t speak. I can’t utter out a sound. “Come home with me,” he says. I shake my head. He sighs heavily. “You know how this is going to end.” “I shouldn’t.” I really, really shouldn’t. “Fine,” he says, and then he bends at the waist and tosses me over his shoulder, just like the night before. Only this time, his hand is on my ass, under my skirt, instead of holding the backs of my legs. It’s hot pressed against my panties. I can’t say a word to him because he wouldn’t hear me. So, I just hang there, all the way to his building and up the four flights of stairs. He opens the door and walks inside. His brothers are there, and they look up. Sam and Pete snicker, and Paul shoots them a look. Matthew is on the sofa, and he shakes his head. Logan puts me down. Apparently, I’m not a sideshow attraction tonight. “Hi,” I say tentatively to them all. “Hi,” they call back. They don’t get up and rush over to me, not even when he sets me on my feet. “You’re back,” Matthew says as he walks to the fridge. He looks better tonight. Not quite as green. Sam walks to the kitchen, and Paul snaps at him when he reaches for a beer. He takes a soda, instead, grumbling to himself. Logan signs something to them. Pete tells him the name of the movie they’re watching, and it’s one I haven’t heard of. Logan points to the TV and then to me asking me if I’ve seen it. I shake my head. He sets my bag and my guitar on the floor and laces his fingers with mine. He tugs me gently toward the couch. Logan bumps Sam’s and Pete’s knees until they scoot over. There’s barely enough space for him, much less for me. “I’m going to go take a shower,” I say. But he sits down and pulls me into his side, his arm around my shoulders. Matt gives me a look I don’t understand. He doesn’t seem completely pleased by my being there. Did I do something to offend him? But Logan looks down at me and smiles, and then he places his lips against my forehead. Matt gets up and goes to his room but not before shooting me a glance that I couldn’t help but take as a warning.

May 29: Marilyn finishes shooting Bus Stop. She appears on a Look cover and inside in “New Marilyn.” Josh Logan takes Marilyn to dinner at the home of William Goetz, who is producing Logan’s next movie, Sayonara.

The Englewood Library sat on Grand Avenue off Palisades Avenue like a clunky spaceship. When it was erected in 1968, the building had probably been praised for its sleek, futuristic design; now it looked like a rejected movie prop for Logan’s Run. Myron

I look at the world below us: the restless crowd, the glare of lights, the motes of sawdust in the air. 'Say you want to go,' he says. I think of babies and gardens and road trips. I think of staying up late to watch a midnight movie. I think not of running away, but running towards. Then I let go.

The high school had been built in the seventies and reeked of it. What had been considered sleek and modern had weathered like an old sci-fi movie set, like Logan’s Run or something. The building was gray with fading aqua trim. It was the edificial equivalent of Cheez Whiz or a hockey player’s mullet. There

Logan is far and away the best X-Men movie I’ve ever seen (I’m tempted to say it’s the best X-Men movie ever made, but I haven’t seen Apocalypse so who knows). The characterizations are deeper, their relationships more nuanced. The acting is better: you wouldn’t expect less from Patrick Stewart, who somehow managed to maintain his dignity and gravitas throughout even the most idiotic ST:TNG episodes (looking at you, “Skin of Evil”), but the rest of the cast keeps up with him and makes it look effortless.

still don’t think I’m ready to hear it just yet.” My heartbeat is in my ears. “She fought, Logan. She fought for her life, and it paid off. She caught him off guard enough that he made a mistake, and he died by his own knife. Ran right into it. I thought that only ever happened in the movies.” My lips twitch, but I say nothing. Hadley is keeping my secret if she’s spreading the lie to her friends. But why?