Bullets Over Broadway

Rita:
For me, love is very deep, but sex only has to go a few inches.

Cheech:
It stinks on f***ing hot ice.

Olive:
Hey, didn't I tell you to make "horse durves"?

Venus:
I don't make nothin' out of horses, especially "horse durves", 'cause I don't know what they are, and neither do you.

Sid Loomis:
You're a star because you're great and you are a great star, but let me tell you something, Helen. In the last couple of years you're better known as an adulteress and a drunk. And I say this in all due respect.

Helen Sinclair:
Look, I haven't had a drink since New Year's Eve.

Sid Loomis:
You're talking Chinese New Year's.

Helen Sinclair:
Naturally. Still, that's two days, Sid! You know how long that is for me?

Nick:
Open your gift.

Olive:
You open it, can't you see I'm dressing?

Nick:
Here.

Olive:
What is it?

Nick:
Pearls. What the hell do you think they are?

Olive:
Pearls are white.

Nick:
These are black pearls.

Olive:
Oh, don't give me that. I never heard of black pearls.

Nick:
Just becaus you never heard of them don't mean it don't exist.

Olive:
What do think I am, some kind of chump? They're black for God's sake. They probably came from defective oysters.

Helen Sinclair:
Two martinis please, very dry.

David Shayne:
How'd you know what I drank?

Helen Sinclair:
Oh, you want one too? Three.

Cheech:
She ruins everything she's in. She ruins things she's not even in.

Helen Sinclair:
You stand on the brink of greatness. The world will open to you like an oyster. No... not like an oyster. The world will open to you like a magnificent vagina.

Helen Sinclair:
She's perky all right. She makes you want to sneak up behind her with a pillow and suffocate her.

Olive:
Can't you see? You're living out the exact same pattern your mother lived out with your father.

Cheech:
I am? Pray tell.

Olive:
In some way you're trying to relive it and in the process of reliving it, correct it. As if that were possible. HA.

Cheech:
It don't say "ha."

Olive:
I know it don't say "ha," I added that.

Cheech:
Are you allowed to do that? I don't think you're allowed to do that.

Olive:
We're allowed to add things. It's called ad-libbing.

Cheech:
Well, I think the whole thing stinks.

Olive:
Well, I think you're a degenerate zombie so shut up and read.

Cheech:
You shut up.

Olive:
You shut up and read.

Cheech:
you're lucky you're Nick's girl.

Olive:
You're lucky you're an idiot.

Olive:
Ain't you the big mouth since you hit your number.

Sheldon Flender:
Let's say there was a burning building and you could rush in and you could save only one thing: either the last known copy of Shakespeare's plays or some anonymous human being. What would you do?

Helen Sinclair:
Please forgive me. My pedicurist had a stroke. She fell forward onto the orange stick and plunged it into my toe. It required bandaging.

David Shayne:
Maybe Olive's got stage fright. Maybe she won't show.

Julian Marx:
Not Olive. That dame doesn't have a nerve in her body. I don't think her spinal cord touches her brain.

Venus:
Do you want the blue stuff or the green?

Olive:
The imported, dummy.

Venus:
Oh, you mean from the *clean* bathtub.

David Shayne:
Suddenly I'm taking suggestions from some strong-arm man with an IQ of minus 50.

Helen Sinclair:
Oh, Julian. Julian Marx. I do plays put on by Balasco, or Sam Harris, not some Yiddish pant salesman turned producer. My ex-husband used to say, "If you're gonna go down, go down with the best of them."

Sid Loomis:
Which ex-husband?

Helen Sinclair:
Oh, I don't know which ex-husband. The one with the moustache.

Helen Sinclair:
She's dowdy. Sid, the ingenue has all the hot lines. Even the female psychiatrist is a better role.

Sid Loomis:
But the role of Sylvia Poston is the lead.

Helen Sinclair:
"Sylvia Poston." Even the *name* reeks of Orbach's. I do Electra. I do Lady Macbeth. I do plays by Noel and Phil Barry, or at least Max Anderson.

Helen Sinclair:
I'm still a star. I never play frumps or virgins.

Venus:
You better get in the mood, honey, 'cause he's payin' the rent.

Helen Sinclair:
No, no, don't speak. Don't speak. Please don't speak. Please don't speak. No. No. No. Go. Go, gentle Scorpio, go. Your Pisces wishes you every happy return.

David Shayne:
Just one...

Helen Sinclair:
Don't speak.

Cheech:
Sylvia Pincus. Big fat Jewish broad, had a little tiny husband. She chopped him up with an ax and mailed his pieces all over the country. I don't know what she was tryin' to prove.

David Shayne:
You're gonna write it?

Cheech:
What am I? A f***in' idiot? They taught me how to read and write in school before I burned it down.

David Shayne:
You burned down your school?

Cheech:
Yeah, it was Lincoln's birthday. There was nobody there.

David Shayne:
You thought my first draft was c-cerebral and tepid?

Helen Sinclair:
Only the plot and the dialogue. But this...

David Shayne:
Was-was-was there nothing in the original draft that you feel was worth saving?

Helen Sinclair:
The stage directions were lucid. Best I've ever seen... and the color of the binder. Good choice.

David Shayne:
Thank you. I've always had a flair for stage directions.

David Shayne:
I studied playrighting with every teacher, I read every book...

Cheech:
Let me tell you somethin' about teachers. I hate teachers. Those blue-haired b*tches used to whack us with rulers. Forget teachers.

David Shayne:
London.

Sid Loomis:
It's a little idea she's wanted to do for years. She plays Jesus' mother.

Sid Loomis:
It's a whole Oedipal thing - he loves her, wants to do in the father. Well, you can see the complications. Of course, we're talking to Ira Gershwin about a modern musical version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. "Quasimodo Jones."

Sid Loomis:
I know. The monkey glands are working.

Helen Sinclair:
Make love to me.

David Shayne:
Here? Now?

Helen Sinclair:
I see no reason to wait.

David Shayne:
Jerome Kern is on the other side of the door.

Helen Sinclair:
Yes, he's a wonderful composer. You'll have to meet him. Now hang up your pants.

Olive:
Don't tell me you still think the world revolves around...

Olive:
... you.

Eden Brent:
There you are. Mr. Purcell, you have been stealing our dog yummies and eating them.

Warner Purcell:
Absolutely not. That's an outrageous suggestion.

Eden Brent:
Then let me see in your pockets.

Warner Purcell:
Would I eat dog food?

Eden Brent:
You'd eat anything that didn't eat you first, you big fat pot of helium.

Olive:
Why do you have to be so masso... masso...

David Shayne:
Masochistic.

Olive:
Masochistic? What the does that mean?

David Shayne:
It means someone who enjoys pain.

Olive:
Enjoys pain? What is she, *retarded*?

Nick:
Sorry you guys had to hear that. Some problems with the firm.

David Shayne:
Really? What type of firm is it, Nick?

Nick:
It's a "don't stick your nose in other people's business and it won't get broken" type of firm.

Cheech:
Olive, I think you should know this: you're a horrible actress.

David Shayne :
Your taste is exquisite .

Helen Sinclair :
No, my taste is superb, my eyes are exquisite .