Won’t you sit down?
I think this went onto the cutting room floor about fifty years ago. I’d never heard it said in real life.
I’m walking here, I’m walkin.
Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman) slamming a taxicab, stopping traffic in Times Square to cross the street. I wouldn’t advise trying this on the 405 but he is the least among us, those words an anthem for the marginalized.
Shall we risk the trifle?
Delivered to Jean Moreau by Joan Plowright, in a half-giggle, conspiring over high tea, both no longer young. Naughty, naughty.
I want to say one word to you, Benjamin. Plastics.
You mean those plastics that have clogged our oceans and choked our fish. The plastics disallowed in markets in favor of canvas bags, replaced by paper straws. That plastic!
Such a spot of bother.
Words which could have come of out of the mouth of Lord Grantham in Downton Abbey when told his valet was arrested for dubious reasons.
The problems of three people don’t amount to a hill of beans.
So said Bogey to a bewildered Ingrid, the words having been written by the Epstein brothers at a stop sign on their way to the studio, nowhere near Casablanca.
I like to talk to a man who likes to talk.
Sydney Greenstreet speaking to Bogey in the Maltese Falcon, followed by an enormous belly laugh filling the room while Peter Lorre mutters something inaudible.
There is a specialist in Vienna who has developed an experimental surgery. It’s our only chance.
The bearded doctor with a monocle declares success as he removes the bandages to the chagrin of the greedy nephews imagining new-found riches unaware the rich mogul has left his fortune to his pet turtle.
It’s not what it looks like. I can explain everything.
Actually, it is what it looks like, Cary. It’s about time you and Grace or Audrey or Eva Marie came clean. Suave and debonnaire can take you just so far.
Now look here waiter, I asked you for more Pinot Noir ten minutes ago. Do you realize who you’re talking to? I’m the guest of honor in charge of North American Operations.
I heard you. Do you realize who you are talking to? I’m Vito, the sommelier, in charge of the wine cellar.
We have to talk.
Uh, oh, this can mean only one thing and it isn’t about the burnt toast; more like your life is about to become toast.
You’re probably wondering why I called you all here today.
Brace yourself for a transfer to South Dakota where that raise promised eleven years ago will never happen.
How long has it been since your last confession?
Trump: I never confess to anything. If I replace your old organ and repair the stained-glass window will that buy me absolution?