If You Ask Me To Play Myself,

Some Forms Of Reality Are So Horrible We Refuse To Face Them, Unless We Are Trapped Into It By Comedy. To Label Any Subject Unsuitable For Comedy Is To Admit Defeat.

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.

Now Then, What Do We Know? One, That Professor Fassbinder And His Daughter Have Been Kidnapped. Two, That Someone Has Kidnapped Them. Three, That My Hand Is On Fire.

Clouseau: Does Yer Dewg Bite? Inn Keeper: No Clouseau: Nice Doggy (bends Down To Pet A Dachshund - It Snarls And Bites Him) I Thought You Said Yer Dewg Did Not Bite! Inn Keeper: Zat . . . Iz Not My Dog!

If I Can't Really Find A Way To Live With Myself, I Can't Expect Anyone Else To Live With Me.