Is There Anybody Hiding There In The

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.

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!

There Is No Me. I Do Not Exist. There Used To Be A Me But I Had It Surgically Removed.

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.

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