Rouge Moulin Quotes

The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn is to love and be loved in return

I do hope you’re using that thing to look at photographs of Moulin Rouge ladies as a young man your age should, and not hunting down another bothersome criminal.

Nature Boy There was a boy A very strange enchanted boy They say he wandered very far, very far Over land and sea A little shy And sad of eye But very wise Was he And then one day A magic day he passed my way And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings This he said to me “The greatest thing You’ll ever learn Is just to love And be loved In return

Why live life from dream to dream? And dread the day when dreaming ends.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

My gift is my song

Starting with a party scene for 600 cast and end up singing on top of a giant elephant...does it get any better than this?

Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amelie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I'm not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and it's shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the women missing her arms. And there are cafes and bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes. I've heard they don't like Americans, and they don't like white sneakers.

The greatest thing you will ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

I understand art and love, if only because I long for it with every fiber of my being

One day i'll fly away / Leave all this to yesterday...

The greatest thing you'll ever learn ... is just to love and be loved in return.

It looks like the house of Ali Baba! Or the Moulin Rouge! Or the Taj Mahal! If only she would decide on a country and have done with it. Is that what passes for modern décor?

The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return

The greatest thing you'll ever learn it just to love and be loved in return

Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amélie and Moulin Rouge.

He’d sit through me screaming along to Moulin Rouge and I’d sit through him reciting every line from Back To The Future. I tried to learn the guitar using his guitar, but gave up because I was shit. He helped me paint a night-time cityscape mural on my bedroom wall. We watched four seasons of The Office. We sat in each other’s rooms with our laptops on our legs; he kept falling asleep at random times of the day; I kept persuading him that Just Dance sessions were a good idea; we discovered that we were both very passionate about Monopoly. I didn’t do any homework when I was with him. He didn’t do any uni reading when he was with me.

During the last two decades of the nineteenth century and the first of the twentieth, France enjoyed an upsurge of artistic flourishing that became known as La Belle Epoque. It was a time of change that heralded both art nouveau and post impressionism, when painters as diverse as Monet, Cezanne and Toulouse Lautrec worked. It was an age of extremes, when Proust and Anatole France were fashionable along with the notorious Monsieur Willy, Colette's husband. On the decorative arts, Mucha, Gallé and Lalique were enjoying success; and the theatre Lugné-Poe was introducing the grave works of Ibsen at the same time as Parisians were enjoying the spectacle of the can-can of Hortense Schneider. Paris was the crossroads of a new and many-faceted culture, a culture that was predominately feminine in form, for, above all, la belle Epoque was the age of women. Women dominated the cultural scene. On the one hand, there was Comtesse Greffulhe, the patron of Proust and Maeterlinck, who introduced greyhound racing into France; Winaretta Singer, Princesse de Polignac, for whom Stravinsky wrote Renard; Misia Sert, the discoverer of Chanel and Diaghilev's closest friend. On the other were the great dancers of the Moulin Rouge, immortalised by Toulouse lautrec — Jane Avril, Yvette Guilbert, la Goulue; as well as such celebrated dramatic actresses as the great Sarah Bernhardt. It would not be possible to speak of La belle Epoque without the great courtesans who, in many ways, perfectly symbolized the era, chief of which were Liane de Pougy, Émilienne d'Alençon, Cléo de Mérode and La Belle Otero.

Inside, she vibrated with a passion to discover life’s secrets, a passion to right wrongs, a passion to unfold the petals of the heart. But even I didn’t know that then. Rebellious, she accepted his offer to accompany him to the Moulin Rouge. 

Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amelie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I'm not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and it's shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman missing her arms. And there are cafes or bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.

Obscene and the perversion of my poetry, was touched.

Direct streep door de Moulin Rouge.

Not because she read my name on an anonymous posting board, but because I was in Paris and had seen Moulin Rouge far too many times to let such an opportunity go to waste.

Music is in the air Rhythm is everywhere Dancing in Moulin Rouge Beats New Year’s in Times Square MATT SANG: Paris is the place to see New York is the place to be Paris versus New York City Maude sang: New York’s the place to see Paris is the place to be I’d choose Paris over New York any day So just give up and walk away MAUDE PAUSED AND SANG slowly: Let’s agree to disagree My heart belongs to Paris You love New York City Come to Paris some time I’m sure I’ll change your mind Matt walked towards Maude and ended the song softly: Paris versus New York City Where you are is where I’ll be Forget Paris versus New York City You’re all that matters to me Then they sang together softly: Forget Paris versus New York City You’re all that matters to me

i started to feel less embarrassed about all the weird things i did, like suddenly singing songs with absolutely no context, and my bottomless database of random encyclopaedic facts and that one time i started a four-hour-long text conversation about why cheese was a food. i kept teasing him for having such long hair until he said one day, quite decisively, that he actually wanted it to be long, so i stopped teasing him after that. we played video games or board games or watched youtube videos or films or tv shows, we baked cakes and biscuits and ordered takeaway. we could only do stuff at his house when his mum wasn’t in, so we were at my house most of the time. he’d sit through me screaming along to moulin rouge and i'd sit through him reciting every line from back to the future. i tried to learn the guitar using his guitar, but gave up because i was shit. he helped me paint a night-time cityscape mural on my bedroom wall. we watched four seasons of the office. we sat in each other’s rooms with our laptops on our legs; he kept falling asleep at random times of the day; i kept persuading him that just dance sessions were a good idea; we discovered that we were both very passionate about monopoly. i didn’t do any homework when i was with him. he didn’t do any uni reading when he was with me. but at the heart of it was universe city. 

i started to feel less embarrassed about all the weird things i did, like suddenly singing songs with absolutely no context, and my bottomless database of random encyclopaedic facts and that one time i started a four-hour-long text conversation about why cheese was a food. i kept teasing him for having such long hair until he said one day, quite decisively, that he actually wanted it to be long, so i stopped teasing him after that. we played video games or board games or watched youtube videos or films or tv shows, we baked cakes and biscuits and ordered takeaway. we could only do stuff at his house when his mum wasn’t in, so we were at my house most of the time. he’d sit through me screaming along to moulin rouge and i'd sit through him reciting every line from back to the future. i tried to learn the guitar using his guitar, but gave up because i was shit. he helped me paint a night-time cityscape mural on my bedroom wall. we watched four seasons of the office. we sat in each other’s rooms with our laptops on our legs; he kept falling asleep at random times of the day; i kept persuading him that just dance sessions were a good idea; we discovered that we were both very passionate about monopoly. i didn’t do any homework when i was with him. he didn’t do any uni reading when he was with me. but at the heart of it was universe city. 

Grace leaned forward, studying him up close, able to make out some of his facial features in the clay mask: strong brow, broad cheekbones, prominent jawline and chin. As a flavorist, she was familiar with kaolin clay, a virtually tasteless edible mineral often used as an anti-caking agent in processed foods, various toothpastes, and originally kaopectate. But she'd never encountered the raw product out of the lab, and certainly not like this. She leaned closer to him. He smelled of sediment and mostly sweat, a decidedly masculine note, the precise replication of which one could base an entire career, and then some. Even the most skilled perfumers in the world, experts in the animal secrets of civet and ambergris, couldn't get it just right. It was a human thing. And she'd studied it, androstadienone and most of the known male pheromones, and she knew the effects certain concentrates could have on certain women. She'd written the reports and seen the CT scans of activity in women's brains. Still, knowing about it intellectually and rationally did not in any way lessen what it was doing to her right now, the effect it was having on her senses and her body. 'Can he tell?' she wondered. Lean and broad-shouldered, he had the build of a man who spent his days using his body in labor. She could see it in the way the mud set into the ridged musculature of his forearms, like the russeting across a firm apple. Still, the inner details of him escaped her. His hair was caked with dry clay, and she thought of the figures she'd seen artists craft in their hillside studios in Montmartre, with the Sacre-Coeur church on the summit above and the bawdy Moulin Rouge crowds teeming below. He looked like that, an unglazed unfinished sculpture of a man, but for his eyes, vast and deep, and very much alive, as if he were trapped inside his statued body.

Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers. "I am sorry," she said. "I am not." He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral. The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night. "No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier." He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden." The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her. "You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife." "I love you," she said and finally meant it. 'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them.

He does not, even, know how to spell 'Moulin Rouge' or Maria, Magdalena.

« mouli de la mouline » et le « pouli de la pilo de la poulette ».

While timing was only part of the issue with Doris Day, it would be a key reason why, from the mid-1950s onward, good people were unable to appear in good musicals. An original like Never Steal Anything Small was unsuccessful on every level—and heinous in its waste of Jimmy Cagney’s talent—while skillful adaptations like Silk Stockings and Bells Are Ringing flopped resoundingly. As fewer opportunities arose, they were sometimes attended by the questionable notion that dubbing solves all problems. This is why Rossano Brazzi and Sidney Poitier could look great, in South Pacific and Porgy and Bess, and sound ostensibly like the opera singers who were doing the actual vocalizing. While dubbing had been present from the very beginning, it achieved some kind of pinnacle from the mid-fifties to the late sixties. Hiring nonsinging names like Deborah Kerr and Rosalind Russell and Natalie Wood and Audrey Hepburn, even nonsinging non-names like Richard Beymer, was viewed as a form of insurance, conviction be damned.8 Casting for name recognition instead of experience has long been part of the film equation, and it cuts both ways. It may, for example, have seemed more astute than desperate to put Lee Marvin and Clint Eastwood into Paint Your Wagon, despite the equivocal results. Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge! was far less a musical player than a photogenic, aurally enhanced artifact, and many people left Mamma Mia! wondering if Pierce Brosnan’s execrable singing was intended as a deliberate joke. In contrast with these are the film people who take the plunge with surprising ease.

La Belle Époque was a cabaret dance hall, much like the famous Moulin Rouge and Folies Bergere. We didn’t know that the evening's Beauty Pageant was a competition for The Lady Boy of Paris. The winner would proceed to compete at a flamboyant gala Lady Boy of the Year Award, held in Berlin on New Year's Eve.

have had to pay for a visit to the discreet mansion near the Opéra—into a fund. And tonight they were going to draw lots to discover which of them was to take the money and visit La Belle Hélène. But before the lottery took place, they would drink champagne and enjoy the show at the Moulin Rouge. Roland de Cygne had never been to the Moulin Rouge before. He’d often meant to go. But as a regular patron of the rival Folies-Bergère, which was nearer the center of town and whose first-rate comedy and modern dance had always satisfied him, he’d somehow never got around to the Moulin Rouge with its saucier fare. Needless to say, as soon as his companions had discovered this fact, he’d had to endure some teasing, which he did with good humor. His brother officers liked Roland. He’d shown a fine aptitude for a military career right from the start. When he’d attended the military academy of Saint-Cyr, he’d come out nearly top of his class. Perhaps even more important to his aristocratic companions, he’d shown such prowess at the Cavalry Academy at Saumur that he’d almost made the elite Cadre Noir equestrian team. He was a good regimental soldier, respected by his men, a loyal friend with a kindly sense of humor. He could also be trusted to tell the truth. And he certainly looked the part of the cavalryman. He

el corazón hambriento de cualquier migaja se alimenta

Ah, qu'elle fut bien la reine des Iles, du Labyrinthe et du Moulin à vent! Ce qui était royal, c'était son rire. C'était une grande fille souriante qui avait l'air tendre, intelligent, ironique et grave des Françaises. Elle sentait la pipe, la lavande, l'eau de Javel et l'herbe mouillée. Et on aimait ce mélange dès qu'on approchait d'elle. Je n'oublierai jamais non plus ses mains trop longues, ses cheveux lourds et ses dents blanches. Mais on ne la connaissait pas tant qu'on ne l'avait pas entendue rire. Car son rire ne lui ressemblait pas, du moins se le figurait-on la première fois qu'on l'entendait. Parce qu'elle avait l'air d'un maigre adolescent, on s'attendait à un rire âpre, aigu, ou même méchant, ou ironique tout au moins, qui eût senti, comme ses mains, le chlore et la lavande. Et c'était tout le contraire. Il s'épanouissait comme des grappes de lilas, et quand il éclatait en plein c'était comme un jardin de juin, de pivoines, de roses, de fleurs rouges, avec des timbres d'instruments, dorés, ambrés, des cuivres et des cordes, un carillon et un reposoir de Fête-Dieu, un rire de reine, je ne sais comment dire. Si bien que son corps de plante grimpante, son menton de chat, ses yeux de félin, tout ce qu'il y avait en elle de pâle et d'anguleux, son regard vert, son teint d'aquarelle, n'avaient plus l'air que de l'alibi de la femme inattendue qui se cachait en elle, - et qui devait être la vraie, car le rire est une chose sérieuse, - et que l'harmonie du tout rappelait celle d'une eau verte qui reflète le grand soleil (il fallait de l'eau pour l'expliquer, sa fluidité, ses contrastes). Si son fiancé avait fait d'elle, je ne sais trop pourquoi, la reine des Choses qui Volent, elle ne m'est jamais apparue que comme la reine des Choses Liquides, celles qui coulent et qui s'enfuient, - mais qui reflètent les châteaux et les villes, - la reine des brumes, des eaux, des algues. Et son rire, au milieu de cet océan vert, était comme une île de corail.

The city has dealt with the likes of Toulouse Lautrec, Van Gogh, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, not to mention Mr. Bonaparte. And the Moulin Rouge is there as well. Really, Parisians have seen it all, if you know what I mean. I should be just a tiny bleep on their emotional radar, which is perfectly fine with me.