Reservoir Dogs Quotes

Quentin Tarantino is interested in watching somebody's ear getting cut off; David Lynch is interested in the ear.

In a way, what Tarantino has done with the French New Wave and with David Lynch is what Pat Boone did with rhythm and blues: He's found (ingeniously) a way to take what is ragged and distinctive and menacing about their work and homogenize it, churn it until it's smooth and cool and hygienic enough for mass consumption. Reservoir Dogs, for example, with its comically banal lunch chatter, creepily otiose code names, and intrusive soundtrack of campy pop from decades past, is a Lynch movie made commercial, i.e., fast, linear, and with what was idiosyncratically surreal now made fashionably (i.e., "hiply") surreal [...] D. Lynch is an exponentially better filmmaker than Q. Tarantino. For, unlike Tarantino, D. Lynch knows that an act of violence in an American film has, through repetition and desensitization, lost the ability to refer to anything but itself. A better way to put what I just tried to say: Quentin Tarantino is interested in watching somebody's ear getting cut off; David Lynch is interested in the ear.

You guys like to tell jokes and giggle and kid around, huh? Giggling like a bunch of young broads in a school yard. Well, let me tell you a joke: Five guys sitting in a bull pen, San Quentin. Wondering how the fuck they got there. What'd we do wrong? What should we've done? What didn't we do? It's your fault, my fault, his fault. All that bullshit. Finally, someone comes up with the idea, wait a minute, while we were planning this caper, all we did was sit around and tell fucking jokes. Got the message?

DISCOVERED Christian’s dirty little secret. In a dark corner of his den, tucked between DVDs of Reservoir Dogs and The Godfather, he owned a collector’s edition of Spice World.

Because it's a brilliant film. It's funny, and violent, and it's got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in it, and everything. And a cracking sound track. Maybe there's no comparison between Ian sleeping with Laura and Reservoir Dogs after all. Ian hasn't got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in him. And Ian's not funny. Or violent. And he's got a crap sound track, judging from what we used to hear through the ceiling. I've taken this as far as it will go.

Goddamn Lassiter. Dinner invite. Sal’s. WTF. The last thing he wanted to do was sit across from that angel and listen to a Reservoir Dogs opener about dick symbolism in Deadpool. The problem? His brother, iAm, did make the best Bolognese anywhere, and besides, if Trez didn’t show? Lassiter was just the flavor of asshole to turn up here in a clown costume and honk his nose until Trez lost his mind.

I’ve never considered myself a writer writing stuff to sell, but as a director who writes stuff for himself to direct.

I took a swallow of beer. “I’d put my wife in a chair when I’m supposed to pull off her garter, and I’d dance around her to ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’ like in Reservoir Dogs.” “Yes! And I’d want my husband to show up at the last minute all red like in The Hangover. The pictures would be awesome.” I turned back to the show with a smile. Thisis the date I should have been on tonight. This was a date I would have gone home with. “Hey,” she said, leaning her head back on the couch and looking at me. “I’m sorry I was rude to you when we first met.” I chuckled. “So you’re going to stop giving me shit about my driving?” “No. You’re a horrible driver. I meant that stuff.

He’s reading it pretty good, but he’s still reading it from the page, and every once in a while he stumbles over his words.

Barry, if I were to say to you that I haven’t seen Reservoir Dogs yet, what would that mean?” Barry looks at me. “Just…come on, what would it mean to you? That sentence? ‘I haven’t seen Reservoir Dogs yet?’” “To me, it would mean that you’re a liar. Either that or you’ve gone potty. You saw it twice. Once with Laura, once with me and Dick. We had that conversation about who killed Mr. Pink or whatever fucking color he was.” “Yeah, yeah, I know. But say I hadn’t seen it and I said to you, ‘I haven’t seen Reservoir Dogs yet,’ what would you think?” “I’d think, you’re a sick man. And I’d feel sorry for you.” “No, but would you think, from that one sentence, that I was going to see it?” “I’d hope you were, yeah, otherwise I would have to say that you’re not a friend of mine.” “No, but—” “I’m sorry, Rob, but I’m struggling here. I don’t understand any part of this conversation. You’re asking me what I’d think if you told me that you hadn’t seen a film that you’ve seen. What am I supposed to say?” “Just listen to me. If I said to you—” —“‘I haven’t seen Reservoir Dogs yet,’ yeah, yeah, I hear you—” “Would you …would you get the impression that I wanted to see it?” “Well…you couldn’t have been desperate, otherwise you’d have already gone.” “Exactly. We went first night, didn’t we?” “But the word yet… yeah, I’d get the impression that you wanted to see it. Otherwise you’d say you didn’t fancy it much.” “But in your opinion, would I definitely go?” “How am I supposed to know that? You might get run over by a bus, or go blind, or anything. You might go off the idea. You might be broke. You might just get sick of people telling you you’ve really got to go.” I don’t like the sound of that. “Why would they care?” “Because it’s a brilliant film. It’s funny, and violent, and it’s got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in it, and everything. And a cracking sound track.

By the time that paper appeared, the SARS epidemic of 2003 had been stopped, with the final toll at 8,098 people infected, of whom 774 died. The last case was detected and isolated in Taiwan on June 15. Hong Kong had been declared “SARS-free.” Singapore and Canada had been declared “SARS-free.” The whole world was supposedly “SARS-free.” What those declarations meant, more precisely, was that no SARS infections were currently raging in humans. But the virus hadn’t been eradicated. This was a zoonosis, and no disease scientist could doubt that its causal agent still lurked within one or more reservoir hosts—the palm civet, the raccoon dog, or whatever—in Guangdong and maybe elsewhere too. People celebrated the end of the outbreak, but those best informed celebrated most guardedly. SARS-CoV wasn’t gone, it was only hiding. It could return. In late December, it did. Like an aftershock to a quake, a new case broke in Guangdong. Soon afterward, three more. One patient was a waitress who had been exposed to a civet. On January 5, 2004, the day the first case was confirmed, Guangdong authorities reversed policy again, ordering the death and disposal of every masked palm civet held at a farm or a market in the province. Wild civets were another question, left unanswered.

Of course, no china--however intricate and inviting--was as seductive as my fiancé, my future husband, who continued to eat me alive with one glance from his icy-blue eyes. Who greeted me not at the door of his house when I arrived almost every night of the week, but at my car. Who welcomed me not with a pat on the arm or even a hug but with an all-enveloping, all-encompassing embrace. Whose good-night kisses began the moment I arrived, not hours later when it was time to go home. We were already playing house, what with my almost daily trips to the ranch and our five o’clock suppers and our lazy movie nights on his thirty-year-old leather couch, the same one his parents had bought when they were a newly married couple. We’d already watched enough movies together to last a lifetime. Giant with James Dean, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Reservoir Dogs, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, The Graduate, All Quiet on the Western Front, and, more than a handful of times, Gone With the Wind. I was continually surprised by the assortment of movies Marlboro Man loved to watch--his taste was surprisingly eclectic--and I loved discovering more and more about him through the VHS collection in his living room. He actually owned The Philadelphia Story. With Marlboro Man, surprises lurked around every corner. We were already a married couple--well, except for the whole “sleepover thing” and the fact that we hadn’t actually gotten hitched yet. We stayed in, like any married couple over the age of sixty, and continued to get to know everything about each other completely outside the realm of parties, dates, and gatherings. All of that was way too far away, anyway--a minimum hour-and-a-half drive to the nearest big city--and besides that, Marlboro Man was a fish out of water in a busy, crowded bar. As for me, I’d been there, done that--a thousand and one times. Going out and panting the town red was unnecessary and completely out of context for the kind of life we’d be building together. This was what we brought each other, I realized. He showed me a slower pace, and permission to be comfortable in the absence of exciting plans on the horizon. I gave him, I realized, something different. Different from the girls he’d dated before--girls who actually knew a thing or two about country life. Different from his mom, who’d also grown up on a ranch. Different from all of his female cousins, who knew how to saddle and ride and who were born with their boots on. As the youngest son in a family of three boys, maybe he looked forward to experiencing life with someone who’d see the country with fresh eyes. Someone who’d appreciate how miraculously countercultural, how strange and set apart it all really is. Someone who couldn’t ride to save her life. Who didn’t know north from south, or east from west. If that defined his criteria for a life partner, I was definitely the woman for the job.

The only sounds were footsteps and dogs barking along the road and faintly a helicopter from the reservoirs.

The missing girl's name was Rebecca, or Becky, or Bex. In the photo her face was half turned away from the camera as though she didn't want to be seen, as though she wanted to be somewhere else. She would be twenty years old by now but she was always spoken of as a girl. It had been seven years, and there was talk that now she would legally have to be declared dead. This turned out to have no basis in law, according to a statement released by the police. Any such declaration would always depend on the circumstances. The girl's parents had never stopped looking and the police statement confirmed that the case remained open. In the village people looked up to the hills and felt that they'd long known. She could have walked high over the moor and stumbled into a flooded clough and sunk cold and deep in the wet peat before the dogs and thermal cameras came anywhere near, her skin tanned leather-brown and soft and her hair coiled neatly around her. She could have fallen anywhere and be lying there still.

The three of us huddled together like dripping dogs, looking out over the reservoir. "How deep is it?" one asked. "Really, really deep," I answered. "Do you think it has fish?" asked the other. "Ponds always have fish." Seen from a distance, the three of us must have looked like an elegant memorial.

I took a swallow of beer. “I’d put my wife in a chair when I’m supposed to pull off her garter, and I’d dance around her to ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’ like in Reservoir Dogs.

The secret service agent smiled. He actually seemed like an easy-going fellow. If he was a Reservoir Dog, he’d be a Reservoir St Bernards.

Axl Rose is the ear-cutting scene from Reservoir Dogs in human form.

Gandhi spoke after the pandit. Describing the practice of untouchability as ‘a blot on Hinduism’, he noted that in Banaras and elsewhere in India, ‘a dog can drink from a reservoir, but a thirsty Harijan boy may not. If he goes, he cannot escape being beaten. Untouchability as practised today considers man worse than a dog'.

Hendra: from bats. Marburg: from bats. SARS-CoV: from bats. Rabies, when it jumps into people, comes usually from domestic dogs—because mad dogs get more opportunities than mad wildlife to sink their teeth into humans—but bats are among its chief reservoirs. Duvenhage, a rabies cousin, jumps to humans from bats. Kyasanur Forest virus is vectored by ticks, which carry it to people from several kinds of wildlife, including bats. Ebola, very possibly: from bats. Menangle: from bats. Tioman: from bats. Melaka: from bats. Australian bat lyssavirus, it may not surprise you to learn, has its reservoir in Australian bats.

MR. BROWN Ok, let me tell ya what "Like a Virgin"'s about. It's all about this cooze who's a regular fuck machine. I'm talking, morning, day,night, afternoon, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. MR. BLUE How many dicks is that? MR. WHITE A lot.

William Blake is dreaming of Jerusalem under that sod, and Daniel Defoe is probably dreaming about something a fair bit earthier. You’ve also got John Owen and Isaac Watts, the reservoir dogs of eighteenth-century theology. What can I tell you? I just feel at ease in their company.

Even though the cut was about twenty minutes longer than the ultimately released movie, Pulp Fiction was an even better movie than Reservoir Dogs. The structure was not only more audacious; the movie was funny as hell and had some extremely intense suspense sequences. Afterward, when Quentin asked me what I thought, remembering the Reservoir Dogs screening, I demurred and bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make a casual comment that might inadvertently influence this great movie. Even though a scene or two might have been tightened I just told him how much I loved it, which was true. As I was walking to my car I looked over and was surprised to find Dennis Hopper walking beside me. Usually I try to give celebrities their space and not bother them in public, but Hopper’s Easy Rider had made a huge impact on me at a very young age and it was hard to contain myself. I decided to keep it simple and just said, “I really loved Quentin’s film.” Hopper stopped in his tracks and suddenly it was like I was standing beside Francis Ford Coppola’s character the “photojournalist,” right out of his Apocalypse Now. Just him and me. “Yeah, man. Quentin really did it, man. I mean really. He really did it.” We both stood there in silent contemplation for a long moment, then wished each other good night and that was that.

Mr Pink looks at Mr White as if he’s retarded.

Mr White and Mr Pink have a very ungraceful and realistic fight. They go at each other like a couple of alley cats.

As he wait, he practically empties an entire bottle of ketchup on his French fries, not by mistake either- that’s just how he likes it.

Freddy shits a brick

I’d lost faith in anyone giving me money- and then that’s when I got the money.

It was weird when I first saw the movie because it was like looking at a big-budget version of my home movies, or memories.

He shakes the bats out of his belfry, opens the door, and finds the cutest couple in Los Angeles standing in his doorway.

Clarence looks at her closely. He picks up his soda and sucks on the straw until it makes that slurping sound. He puts it aside and stares into her soul.

Drexl socks him in the face: one, two, three! Then he kicks him hard in the balls.

She’s too stoned to run, but stoned enough to be terrified.

Clarence is completely taken aback. They meet in a long, passionate lovers’ kiss. Their kiss breaks and slowly the world comes back to normal.

A black panther, the four-legged kind, paces back and forth.

That wasn’t gorilla was it?

She’s been absentmindedly saying the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi.

Alabama’s so scared she pees on herself.