Finally, In Conclusion, Let Me

I Writhe When I See Myself On The Screen. I'm Such A Dreadfully Clumsy Hulking Image. I Say To Myself, "why Doesn't He Get Off? Why Doesn't He Get Off?" I Mean, I Look Like Such An Idiot. Some Fat Awkward Thing Dredged Up From Some Third-rate Drama Company. I Must Stop Thinking About It, Otherwise I Shan't Be Able To Go On Working.

If You Ask Me To Play Myself, I Will Not Know What To Do. I Do Not Know Who Or What I Am.

François: Do You Know What Kind Of A Bomb It Was? Clouseau: Yes, The Exploding Kind.

You'll Catch Your Death Of Cold. Clouseau: Yes, Yes I Probably Will But . . . Its All Part Of Life's Rich Pageantry, You Kneau.

Criticism Should Be Done By Critics, And A Critic Should Have Some Training And Some Love Of The Medium He Is Discussing. But These Days, Gossip-columnist Training Seems To Be Enough Qualification. I Suppose An Ability To Stand On Your Feet Through Interminable Cocktail Parties And Swig Interminable Gins In Between Devouring Masses Of Fried Prawns May Just Possibly Help You To Understand And Appreciate What A Director Is Getting At, But For The Life Of Me I Can't See How.