The Chorus Movie Quotes

…Sam [Raimi] wanted the climactic sword fight to play out as elegantly as a Fred Astaire movie and he wanted it all in one crane shot. I must have rehearsed the routine for three weeks, but when it came time to shoot, the rigors of running up and down steps, fighting with both hands, and flipping skeletons over my head was too much to pull off without cuts. After ten takes, I knew Sam was pissed off, because he yanked the bullhorn from John Cameron. ‘Okay, obviously, this is NOT WORKING, and it’s NOT GOING TO WORK, so we’re going to break it up into A THOUSAND LITTLE PIECES.’ When Sam gets upset, he lets you know it, and he’ll torture you for days afterward because he’s one of those guys who never forgets. The first ‘little piece’ of the sequence was a shot of me ducking as a sword glances off the stone wall behind me. ‘So, you think you can do this, Bruce?’ he’d say, loud enough for the entire crew to hear. ‘Or should I break this ONE shot into THREE MORE SHOTS?’ Sam also threatened to put Ash in a chorus line with skeletons.

From the race’s conception, the press viewed it with skepticism. Sportswriters argued that the rich event was a farce arranged to pad Seabiscuit’s bankroll. Del Mar, conscious of the potential conflict of interest for the Howards and Smiths, barred public wagering on the race. But the press’s distrust and the absence of gambling did nothing to cool the enthusiasm of racing fans. On the sweltering race day, special trains and buses poured in from San Diego and Los Angeles, filling the track with well over twenty thousand people, many more than the track’s official capacity. Lin plastered a twenty-foot LIGAROTI sign on the wall behind the “I’m for Ligaroti” section, and scores of Crosby’s movie friends, including Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Spencer Tracy and Ray Milland, took up their cerise and white pennants and filed in. “Is there anyone left in Hollywood?” wondered a spectator. Dave Butler led a chorus of Ligaroti cheers, and the crowd grew boisterous. Crosby perched on the roof with Oscar Otis, who would call the race for a national radio broadcast. In the jockeys’ room, Woolf suited up to man the helm on Seabiscuit while Richardson slipped on Ligaroti’s polka dots. Just before the race, Woolf and Richardson made a deal. No matter who won, they would “save,” or split, the purse between them.

They’re all about being the special one, the chosen one. ‘Only you can save the world from Evil.’ That kind of thing. And never mind that specialness stops meaning anything when every kid is special. I remember watching those movies and thinking about all the unspecial characters in the chorus or whatever. The people just doing the hard work of belonging to society. They’re the ones my heart really goes out to. The movie should be about them.

nine-hour flight to California aboard a TWA Super Constellation, with room for no fewer than sixty-four passengers. Next we see the simple funfair of the original Disneyland. At the hotel, the Barstows are jubilant that the chic swimming pool is open to them. Yes, the days when such luxury was reserved for the stylish elite are over. The family deals with its budgetary constraints by not eating in restaurants but picnicking outdoors. There is no hint of any doubt or cynicism. Every minute of the movie is filled with sun, innocence and boundless enthusiasm. It’s true, Barstow says at the end, Walt Disney is right: Disneyland is ‘the happiest place on earth’. The entire family is ‘forever grateful to Scotch brand cellophane tape’ for the experience. The closing chorus of this charming cantata

We ate dinner and talked, and I sipped chilled wine slowly, savoring every single swallow, even as I savored every single moment with the man sitting next to me. I loved looking at him when he talked, loved the movement of his mouth. He has the best mouth, I’d think to myself. His mouth drove me absolutely wild. We wound up on his couch, watching a submarine movie and making out, with the chorus of “The Navy Hymn” in the background. And just like that, it happened: the executive officer had just relieved the captain of command of the ship. It was a tense, exciting moment in the movie, and I was suddenly so overcome with emotion, I couldn’t control myself. My head rested on his shoulder, my heart rested entirely in his hands. And in a whisper, my words escaped: “I love you.” He probably hadn’t heard them. He was too focused on the movie. But he had heard me; I could tell. His arms enveloped me even further; his embrace tightened. He breathed in and sighed, and his hand played with my hair. “Good,” he said softly, and his gentle lips found mine.

If any actress best represents the snappy 1930s dame, it’s Joan Blondell. During that era she played a lively assortment of chorus girls, waitresses, golddiggers, reporters and secretaries in a total of 53 movies, 44 of them for Warner Bros. “Yet, for all that overwork,” Mick LaSalle writes in Complicated Women, “Blondell hardly ever had a false moment. Self-possessed, unimpressed, completely natural, always sane, without attitude or pretense … the greatest of the screen’s great broads. No one was better at playing someone both fun-loving yet grounded, ready for a great time, yet substantial, too.” She was fun-loving, but sometimes there were limits. As a flip waitress in Other Men’s Women (1931), Joan puts the breaks on a fresh customer: BLONDELL: Anything else you guys want? CUSTOMER (checking her out as she bends over): Yeah, give me a big slice of you—and some french fried potatoes on the side. BLONDELL: Listen, baby, I’m A.P.O. CUSTOMER (turning to friend): What does she mean, A.P.O.? BLONDELL: Ain’t Putting Out. “I was the fizz on the soda,” she once said. “I just showed my big boobs and tiny waist and acted glib and flirty.” While that’s a fair assessment of most of her early roles, it wasn’t the whole story.

Based on a 1934 play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, Merrily We Roll Along tells the story of three friends—Franklin Shepard, a composer; Charley Kringas, a playwright and lyricist; and Mary Flynn, a novelist—who meet in the enthusiasm of youth, when everything seems possible. The play traces what happens to their dreams and goals as time passes and they are faced with life’s surprises, travails, successes, and disappointments. The trick here is that the play moves chronologically backward. It begins on an evening in 1976 at a party for the opening of a movie Frank has produced. The movie is apparently a hit, but Frank’s personal life is a mess. His second wife, Gussie, formerly a Broadway star, was supposed to have starred in the movie but was deemed too old; she resents being in the shadows and suspects, correctly, that Frank is having an affair with the young actress who took over her part. Frank is estranged from his son from his first marriage. He is also estranged from Charley, his former writing partner—so estranged, in fact, that the very mention of his name brings the party to an uncomfortable standstill. Mary, unable to re-create the success of her one and only novel and suffering from a longtime unreciprocated love for Frank, has become a critic and a drunk; the disturbance she causes at the party results in a permanent break with Frank. The opening scene reaches its climax when Gussie throws iodine in the eyes of Frank’s mistress. The ensemble, commenting on the action much like the Greek chorus in Allegro, reprises the title song, asking, “How did you get to be here? / What was the moment?” (F 387). The play then moves backward in time as it looks for the turning points, the places where multiple possibilities morphed into narrative necessity.

Zane continued to look at her. Even better, he kept her hand in his, his thumb rubbing up and down the length of her fingers. Over and over. Up and down. It was very rhythmic. And sexual. Her thighs took on a life of their own, getting all hot and shaking slightly. Her mouth went dry, her breasts were jealous of the attention her hand was getting and her hormones were singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Obviously she needed intensive therapy…or maybe just sex. Zane’s eyes darkened. The muscles in his face tightened, and he stared at her with a hawkish expression. Had he been anyone else, she would have sworn that he’d just had a physical awakening of his own. Awareness crackled around them, like self-generated lightning. The tightness in her chest eased just enough for her to suck in a breath, which was really good, because the next second it all came rushing out again when he kissed her. Just like that. With no warning, Zane Nicholson bent his head and claimed her mouth. It wasn’t a movie-perfect kiss. They didn’t magically melt into each other. Instead their noses bumped, and somehow the hand still holding hers got trapped between them. But all that was fairly insignificant when compared with the intense, sensual heat generated by the pressure of his lips on hers. That part was exactly right. Not too hard, not too soft. When he moved against her, need shot through her body. Had she been breathing again, she would have whimpered. Had he tried to pull away, she would have fallen at his feet and begged him not to stop. Somehow he released her hand and pulled his free. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled her against him so her entire body pressed against his. The man was a rock. Big, unyielding and warmed by the sun. She wanted to snuggle even closer. She wanted to rip off her clothes and give the goats something to talk about. She wanted-- He licked her lower lip. The unexpected moist heat made her gasp as fire raced through her. Every singed nerve ending vibrated with need for more. The masculine, slightly piney scent of him surrounded her. Operating only on instinct, she parted her lips to allow him entry. She had a single heartbeat to brace herself for the power of his tongue touching hers. Then he swept inside and blew her away.

It is not surprising that music can incite a broad range of motions, including passion, serenity, and fear. Most of us can recall instances when music caused changes in our own emotional levels, perhaps when we listened to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus or the background music in a movie thriller. The reason for the emotional arousal appears to be that music affects levels of several brain chemicals, including epinephrine, endorphins, and cortisol, the hormone involved in the “fight-or-flight” response. In Chapter 9, we saw that one of the links between emotion and memory involves these same neurotransmitters and hormones. Perhaps this is why a mere snippet of a song from our past can trigger highly vivid memories.

It is not surprising that music can incite a broad range of emotions, including passion, serenity, and fear. Most of us can recall instances when music caused changes in our own emotional levels, perhaps when we listened to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus or the background music in a movie thriller. The reason for the emotional arousal appears to be that music affects levels of several brain chemicals, including epinephrine, endorphins, and cortisol, the hormone involved in the “fight-or-flight” response. In Chapter 9, we saw that one of the links between emotion and memory involves these same neurotransmitters and hormones. Perhaps this is why a mere snippet of a song from our past can trigger highly vivid memories.

I don't know where I'm going but I'm making great time.

But after all, there was no alternative. I just had to make the best of it, and lie here like a lox until I was discovered—which seemed to me to be a long-overdue event. I had been sprawled here in direct sunlight for at least half an hour: Can a corpse get a sunburn? I was certain dead people avoided tanning booths—even in zombie movies—but here in the midday sun, was it possible for dead skin to tan? It didn’t seem right; we all like to think of cadavers as pale and ghostly, and a healthy sun-kissed epidermis would certainly spoil the effect. But now I hear a rising chorus of fuss and bother nearby: A metallic door thumps shut, hushed voices murmur urgently, and finally I hear the sound for which I have been yearning: the hurried clatter of approaching footsteps. They stutter to a stop beside me and a woman gasps and cries out, “Nooo!” At last: some real concern for my tragic condition. A trifle melodramatic, perhaps, but it’s touching, and would even be heartwarming, if only Dexter had a heart to warm. The woman bends over me, and in the bright halo of sunlight surrounding her head, I can’t make out her features. But there is no mistaking the shape of the gun that appears in her right hand. A woman with a gun—could this be Dexter’s dear sister, Sergeant Deborah Morgan, stumbling across her beloved brother’s tragically murdered self? Who else could possibly put on such a rare display of well-armed grief for me? And there is real tenderness in her left hand as it drops to my neck to feel for a pulse: in vain, alas, or whatever it is we say instead of “vain” nowadays. Her left hand drops away from my neck and she raises her head to the heavens and says through a tightly clenched jaw, “I’ll get the bastards who did this. I swear it.…” It is a sentiment I approve completely—and actually, it does sound a little bit like Deborah, but not quite enough. There is a hesitant, musical fluctuation in the voice that my sister would never permit. No,

Somewhere between college graduation and your second job, a chorus enters your internal dialogue: Be realistic and stop pretending. Life isn’t like the movies.

I looked at the slum children dancing like a movie chorus and capering like temple monkeys. I was teaching some of those children to speak, read, and write English. Already, with just the little they'd learned in three months, a few of them were winning work from foreign tourists. Were those children, I wondered, the mice that fed from my hand? Would their trusting innocence be seized by a fate that wouldn't and couldn't have been theirs without me, without my intervention in their lives? What wounds and torments awaited Tariq simply because I'd befriended and taught him?

The next morning, Francine, Muffy, and Buster stood before Arthur. They weren’t taking any chances. “Do we have a turkey?” they asked. Arthur just smiled. The whole school filed into the auditorium. “OOOoo!” said the kids when the lights went out. “Shhhh!” said the teachers as the curtain went up. “In 1620, we sailed to America on the Mayflower,” recited Buster, proudly. “Phew!” said Arthur. The play continued smoothly. Muffy didn’t drop the cranberries. The Brain had his costume on correctly. Sue Ellen said her lines in a loud, clear voice. And Francine had even taken off her movie-star glasses. Then it came time for Francine’s big speech. She crossed her fingers and began. “When the Indians and Pilgrims finally found a turkey, there was great rejoicing. Today, when we think of Thanksgiving, we think of turkey.” There was a lot of fumbling behind the curtain. Arthur took a deep breath. He walked onstage. As soon as he did, the audience began to laugh. Arthur turned bright red. This was going to be even worse than he had thought it would be. “The turkey,” Arthur began, “is a symbol, a symbol of…of…” “Of togetherness and Thanksgiving!” said a chorus of voices behind him. Arthur turned around and smiled. “I guess Mom was right. The world is full of turkeys! Okay, turkeys, all together now. Let’s hear that last line, loud and clear.” “Happy Thanksgiving!

Try a little experiment. Sit on the couch and tell yourself you deserve to do absolutely nothing for ten minutes. Put your feet up and exhale. Then listen as your home bursts into life like an animated movie. You’ll begin to hear demands from different tasks around your home. The gutters say clean me. The dishes say wash me. The closet says, Marie Kondo me. This rising chorus becomes louder until it yanks you up two-fisted by your collar and you begin to do. And that’s just the voices of the inanimate objects! When flesh-and-blood humans join in the cacophony of requests, you’ll be running in six directions before you realize it. You don’t believe in the basic permission to stop. I wish I had the power to grant this permission to you. If there was an incantation or potion that I could bequeath to you, I’d crawl on my knees to get it. The best I can do is tell you, “I, Juliet Funt, imperfect mother and businesswoman, give you permission to stop.

Daddy's Girl' (from 'Three Men and a Baby'): This song is about the love a daughter feels for her father. Sweet, right? Wrong! Here's the chorus: 'Little baby wanna hold you tight / She don't ever wanna say good night / She's a lover, she wanna be Daddy's Girl.' I love the movie but someone needs to call CPS, stat.