Once Upon A Time In Hollywood Quotes

Once upon a time, I wrote a book. People seemed to dig it, so I wrote another and one after that. That’s when Hollywood came knocking at my back door. As soon as I cashed that check, I wrapped my lips around the mighty erection that is the film industry and sucked hard, just like a good whore should. Unfortunately, I had to be taught not to orphan the balls.

Foreign films, Cliff thought, were more like novels. They didn't care if you liked the main character or not. And Cliff found that intriguing.

Life is a bleeding, screaming, violently jerking pig in your arms. And death is you holding a bunch of heavy unmoving meat.

No, he wants to help me get into Italian movies.” Quick comeback from Cliff: “Then what’s the problem?” Rick screams, “I gotta do fuckin’ Italian movies, that’s the goddamn fuckin’ problem!

Cliff never wondered what Americans would do if the Russians, or the Nazis, or the Japanese, or the Mexicans, or the Vikings, or Alexander the Great ever occupied America by force. He knew what Americans would do. They’d shit their pants and call the fucking cops.

When a man of principle battles a scoundrel, the scoundrel always at first has the upper hand. Because there are some things the man of principle won’t do.

Also, it’s a little odd to assume all your patrons are thieves.

cachet

But now comes the cold-war resentment. Sharon has such a sunny presence that whenever she blocks out the sun, the effect is chilling.

Ninety-seven percent of everybody you’ve ever met in your life, and ninety-seven percent of everybody you’ll ever meet in your life, have spent ninety-seven percent of their lives running away from fear.

Once upon a time there was a man with no heart. Drifting through black-and-white life, caring naught for those hurt, and never, ever allowing another near enough to hurt him. Until, on the least likely day, the most unlikely place, the man with no heart met the most surprising person. He was fearless. He was strength and power. He wore his heart boldly on his sleeve. The man with no heart began, shockingly, to feel a movement in his breast. A stretching, a slow, steady beat...

The Ox-Bow Incident, Body and Soul, White Heat, The Third Man, The Brothers Rico, Riot in Cell Block 11

When Cliff saw Belmondo in Breathless, he thought, That guy looks like a fucking monkey. But a monkey I like.

La Strada, Yojimbo, Ikiru, The Bridge, Rififi, Bicycle Thieves, Rocco and His Brothers, Open City, Seven Samurai, Le Doulos, Bitter Rice (which Cliff thought was sexy as hell).

Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?

Referring to the time Invasion of the Body Snatchers producer Walter Wanger shot Jennings Lang in the groin for fucking his wife, Joan Bennett,

Cliff putting out fires for Rick has been an essential part of their dynamic since the two became a team.

You might not want to do it, but you can do it. In fact, a case could be made, if you can’t do it, you don’t deserve to eat pork.

Now, many directors could and would say, So what? It’s just a movie. You don’t have to believe in giant monkeys to direct King Kong.

The directions say to add milk and butter, but Cliff thinks if you can afford to add milk and butter you can afford to eat something else.

the soles of her huge bare feet,

haunches.

You want me to look like some goddamn hippie? Rick thinks. “You want me to look like a goddamn hippie?” Rick questions with a skeptical face.

vacillated

artifice

anachronistic.

pragmatic

unabated

ensconced

righteous indignation.

But I want you to tell me what it is you think I do.” “Well,” Rick says, “the way it was explained to me is you put famous American talent in foreign films.” “Not bad,” Marvin says.

I’m okay now, just embarrassed. Sorry about this humiliating display.” “Display?” Marvin snorts. “What are you talking about? We’re human people; human people cry. It’s a good thing.

Коли принципова людина вступає в конфронтацію з негідником, то негідник спочатку завжди бере гору. Тому що є речі, яких принципова людина не зробить, — тоді як негідник готовий на все. I так триває доти, доки тиск на принципову людину не калічить ïï натури. Бiльшiсть грецьких трагедій, половина британських вистав і три чверті американського кіно базуються на цьому.

Cliff didn’t know enough to write critical pieces for Films in Review, but he knew enough to know Hiroshima Mon Amour was a piece of crap. He knew enough to know Antonioni was a fraud.

Do you like this cigarette case?” “It’s very nice.” “It’s a gift. From Joseph Cotten. One of my most cherished clients.” Rick gives Marvin the impressed expression the agent is demanding.

Espenson reflects on parallels between the fic-writing and television-writing processes:        To get a job as a writer in Hollywood—you write episodes of television shows [someone else has created]. And actually, the eventual job you get in television is writing for characters you didn’t create. I write fanfiction every day when I sit down to write something for the characters of Once Upon a Time in a way because I’m writing for characters that I didn’t create. I’m putting myself in Adam and Eddy’s shows and writing in as close to their voice as I can do. And that’s the same thing that fanfiction writers do.

Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.

Rick, who was in his floaty chair in the swimming pool at the time of the attack, was almost shot by the hippie girl with the pistol. He later told authorities, “That goddamn hippie almost blew my fuckin’ head off!

Okay, Marvin thinks, that’s the second time Rick has put down his Tanner co-star Michael Callan. That’s not a good sign. It suggests stinginess in spirit. It suggests a blamer. But Marvin keeps these thoughts to himself.

Well thank you, Trudi,” Now falsely modest again. “But I Don’t think I won the scene.” “Well, of course, you did,” dismissing his protest. “You had all the dialogue but,” she warns him. “In our big scene tomorrow, that’s another story. So watch out.

And for the first time in years, Rick realizes how fortunate he is and was. All the wonderful actors he's worked with through the years—Meeker, Bronson, Coburn, Morrow, McGavin, Robert Blake, Glenn Ford, Edward G. Robinson. All the different actresses he got to kiss. All the affairs he had. All the interesting people he got to work with. All the places he got to visit. All the fun stories he got to live. All the times he saw his name and picture in the papers and magazines. All the nice hotel rooms. All the fuss people made over him. All the fan mail he never read. All the times driving through Hollywood as a citizen in good standing. He looks around at the fabulous house he owns. Paid for by doing what he used to do for free when he was a little boy: pretending to be a cowboy.

Once upon a time, the American girl was a shining symbol of something fresh, spirited, and fully self-confident. Mark Twain said, “The average American girl possesses the valuable qualities of naturalness, honesty, and inoffensive straightforwardness; she is nearly barren of troublesome conventions and artificialities.

The Kids at the ranch weren’t hip to exactly how much Charlie wanted to be a rock star. How much he wanted fame, money, and recognition. Because to them, Charlie preached against those base desires. They thought Charlie was on a spiritual path to enlightenment. They thought Charlie’s true desire was to pass on that enlightenment. They thought Charlie’s goal was to create a new world order guided by that enlightenment and love for all Mankind. They believed Charlie had a higher purpose, because he told them he did, and they believed him. It never would occur to them that he’d ditch all that horseshit in a minute to put on revolutionary war outfit and trade places with Mark Lindsay.

What’s the secret?” Cliff asked. “Simple,” said the maq. “Fuck ’em good. Fuck ’em real good. And fuck ’em real good real often.” Cliff smiled, but the French fella assured him, “Hey, that’s harder than it sounds. You can’t fuck ’em like you fuck your girlfriend. You can’t fuck ’em like you fuck your best friend’s girlfriend. You can’t fuck ’em like you fuck your father’s mistress. That’s fucking for fun. This is work. For work, they fuck customers for money. For work, you fuck them for money. And trust me, they’re harder to please. If you want to keep ’em in line, you better fuck ’em good, and you better fuck ’em a lot. Which means you’re gonna hafta fuck ’em when you don’t wanna fuck ’em. But even when you don’t wanna fuck ’em, you hafta fuck ’em, and you hafta fuck ’em good. And the more bitches you have, the more fuckin’ you’re gonna do. More bitches means more fuckin’. ...

CLIFF’S TOP KUROSAWA FILMS (tie) Seven Samurai and Ikiru Yojimbo Throne of Blood Stray Dog The Bad Sleep Well (for the opening scene alone)

Cliff never wondered what Americans would do if the Russians, or the Nazis, or the Japanese, or the Mexicans, or the Vikings, or Alexander the Great ever occupied America by force. He knew what Americans would do. They’d shit their pants and call the fucking cops. And when they realized the police not only couldn’t help them but were working on behalf of the occupation, after a brief period of despair, they’d fall in line.

Before Charlie knew it, he was sharing a joint with the lead singer of the Raiders, Mark Lindsay, hobnobbing with Mike Nesmith of the Monkees and Buffy Sainte-Marie, and jamming on guitar with Neil Young. Neil fucking Young!

The truth of the matter is, the only real way Charlie can keep control of these kids is if he controls their environment, and their reality. Charlie isn’t worried about them watching TV shows.

But the guy in Breathless [Jean-Paul Belmondo] wasn't just a sexy stud prick. He was a little creep, petty thief, piece of shit. And unlike in a Hollywood movie, they didn't sentimentalize him. They always sentimentalized these pieces of shit in Hollywood movies, and it was the phoniest thing Hollywood did. In the real world, these mercenary fuck faces didn't hae a sentimental bone in their body.

Due to Cliff's good looks, he'd been manipulating women to do things against their best interests his whole life.

The share-and-share-alike anti-establishment ethos of the Topanga Canyon Hollywood hippie entertainment class of the late sixties was what Dennis Wilson offered these ragmuffins. However, pretty quickly, these garbage-eating, acid-tripping, clap-ridden, singsong-sounding runaways proved themselves to be a bunch of freeloading ingrates. They wrecked Wilson's pad and cost him thousands of dollars in venereal-disease medicine and lost, stolen, and damaged property. Until, finally, Wilson just moved out of the house and left it to his business manager to evict the squalid squatters.

Yes, it looks like this Charlie fella took the pimpin' playbook and ingeniously rewrote it for a generation of girls pissed off at their folks. As he watches Pussycat sincerely spew this fella's horseshit, Cliff tries to imagine where she came from. If in the fifties, he'd followed through with his intention to give the pimping game a whirl, he never would have gotten close to a pretty, obviously educated gal like this one. But this whole hippie shit put the whole world out of whack. Now she's offering up her snatch for a lift to Chatsworth. Girls who, before, maybe gave you a hand job at the drive-in will now fuck you and your friend. Where those French dudes supplied their girls with champagne, lipstick, pantyhose, and Max Factor, this Charlie dude supplies his with acid and free love and a philosophy that ties it all together.

Sharon has such a sunny presence that whenever she blocks out the sun, the effect is chilling.

so if all goes well with this audition and they want to sign me to a contract, I’m all by my lonesome. And you know that ain’t the best situation for an artist. Especially against some commercial giant like Columbia Records and Tapes.

Still, it’s dubious to think the untrained, undisciplined, loosey-goosey Manson would have ever gotten the hang of capturing his music in the pressure-filled, anxiety-inducing, sterile environment of a professional recording studio.