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I did theatrical caricatures.

quote by Martin Landau
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I use cinematic things in a theatrical way on stage, and in film I use theatrical techniques in a cinematic way.

quote by Julie Taymor
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When I started in the late 1950s, every film I made - no matter how low the budget - got a theatrical release. Today, less that 20-percent of our films get a theatrical release.

quote by Roger Corman
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A Manager's Perplexities

Were I a king in very truth,
And had a son - a guileless youth -
In probable succession;
To teach him patience, teach him tact,
How promptly in a fix to act,
He should adopt, in point of fact,
A manager's profession.
To that condition he should stoop
(Despite a too fond mother),
With eight or ten "stars" in his troupe,
All jealous of each other!
Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,
Each member a genius (and some of them two),
And manage to humour them, little and great,
Can govern a tuppenny-ha'penny State!

Both A and B rehearsal slight -
They say they'll be "all right at night"
(They've both to go to school yet);
C in each act MUST change her dress,
D WILL attempt to "square the press";
E won't play Romeo unless
His grandmother plays Juliet;
F claims all hoydens as her rights
(She's played them thirty seasons);
And G must show herself in tights
For two convincing reasons -
Two very well-shaped reasons!
Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team,
With wheelers and leaders in order supreme,
Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin,
All Europe and Asia - with Ireland thrown in!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Death of Fred Marsden, the American Playwright

A pathetic tragedy I will relate,
Concerning poor Fred. Marsden's fate,
Who suffocated himself by the fumes of gas,
On the 18th of May, and in the year of 1888, alas!

Fred. Marsden was a playwright, the theatrical world knows,
And was highly esteemed by the people, and had very few foes;
And in New York, in his bedroom, he took his life away,
And was found by his servant William in his bedroom where he lay.

The manner in which he took his life : first he locked the door,
Then closed down the window, and a sheet to shreds he tore
And then stopped the keyholes and chinks through which air might come,
Then turned on the single gas-burner, and soon the deed was done.

About seven o'clock in the evening he bade his wife good-night,
And she left him, smoking, in his room, thinking all was right,
But when morning came his daughter said she smelled gas,
Then William, his servant, called loudly on him, but no answer, alas!

Then suspicion flashed across William's brain, and he broke open the door,
Then soon the family were in a state of uproar,
For the room was full of gas, and Mr Marsden quite dead,
And a more kind-hearted father never ate of the world's bread.

And by his kindness he spoiled his only child,
His pretty daughter Blanche, which made him wild;
For some time he thought her an angel, she was so very civil,
But she dishonoured herself, and proved herself a devil.

Her father idolised her, and on her spared no expense,
And the kind-hearted father gave her too much indulgence,
Because evening parties and receptions were got up for her sake,
Besides, he bought her a steam yacht to sail on Schroon Lake.

His means he lavished upon his home and his wife,
And he loved his wife and daughter as dear as his life;
But Miss Blanche turned to folly, and wrecked their home through strife,
And through Miss Marsden's folly her father took his life.

She wanted to ride, and her father bought her a horse,
And by giving her such indulgences, in morals she grew worse;
And by her immoral actions she broke her father's heart;
And, in my opinion, she has acted a very ungrateful part.

At last she fled from her father's house, which made him mourn,
Then the crazy father went after her and begged her to return,
But she tore her father's beard, and about the face beat him,
Then fled to her companions in evil, and thought it no sin.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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All cartoon characters and fables must be exaggeration, caricatures. It is the very nature of fantasy and fable.

quote by Walt Disney
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Sometimes we tend to focus more on the personalities and the conflicts, and it really caricatures the issues.

quote by Mitchell Reiss
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No shortcomings of other people cause us to be more intolerant than those which are caricatures of our own.

quote by Franz Grillparzer
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He always describes his characters' voices and their physique so brilliantly. As people have said, they are cartoons, caricatures. They're grotesques really.

quote by Simon Callow
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Every man sees in his relatives, and especially in his cousins, a series of grotesque caricatures of himself.

quote by H.L. Mencken
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In other words, the people who populate my books are more than caricatures.

quote by Jeffery Deaver
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Zoos are becoming facsimiles - or perhaps caricatures - of how animals once were in their natural habitat. If the right policies toward nature were pursued, we would need no zoos at all.

quote by Michael J. Fox
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What is called good society is usually nothing but a mosaic of polished caricatures.

quote by Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel
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They're all based on factual characters. Well, a good amount of them. That's why I was attracted to this genre anyways, because these characters are so large and cartoonish, they're like caricatures, I just felt that there had to be a film made about them.

quote by Guy Ritchie
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The Children Look At The Parents

We being so hidden from those who
Have quietly borne and fed us,
How can we answer civilly
Their innocent invitations?

How can we say "we see you
As but-for-God's-grace-ourselves, as
Our caricatures (we yours), with
Time's telescope between us"?

How can we say "you presumed on
The accident of kinship,
Assumed our friendship coatlike,
Not as a badge one fights for"?

How say "and you remembered
The sins of our outlived selves and
Your own forgiveness, buried
The hatchet to slow music;

Shared money but not your secrets;
Will leave as your final legacy
A box double-locked by the spider
Packed with your unsolved problems"?

How say all this without capitals,
Italics, anger or pathos,
To those who have seen from the womb come
Enemies? How not say it?

Submitted by Stephen Fryer

poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Baudelaire

When I fall asleep, and even during sleep,
I hear, quite distinctly, voices speaking
Whole phrases, commonplace and trivial,
Having no relation to my affairs.

Dear Mother, is any time left to us
In which to be happy? My debts are immense.
My bank account is subject to the court’s judgment.
I know nothing. I cannot know anything.
I have lost the ability to make an effort.
But now as before my love for you increases.
You are always armed to stone me, always:
It is true. It dates from childhood.

For the first time in my long life
I am almost happy. The book, almost finished,
Almost seems good. It will endure, a monument
To my obsessions, my hatred, my disgust.

Debts and inquietude persist and weaken me.
Satan glides before me, saying sweetly:
“Rest for a day! You can rest and play today.
Tonight you will work.” When night comes,
My mind, terrified by the arrears,
Bored by sadness, paralyzed by impotence,
Promises: “Tomorrow: I will tomorrow.”
Tomorrow the same comedy enacts itself
With the same resolution, the same weakness.

I am sick of this life of furnished rooms.
I am sick of having colds and headaches:
You know my strange life. Every day brings
Its quota of wrath. You little know
A poet’s life, dear Mother: I must write poems,
The most fatiguing of occupations.

I am sad this morning. Do not reproach me.
I write from a café near the post office,
Amid the click of billiard balls, the clatter of dishes,
The pounding of my heart. I have been asked to write
“A History of Caricature.” I have been asked to write
“A History of Sculpture.” Shall I write a history
Of the caricatures of the sculptures of you in my heart?

[...] Read more

poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Alley littered with Yesterdays news

hanging on the high brow off urbans nocturne,
Impotent bowels weigh down the boulevard,
there is too much shit with no place to go.

how it stinks

Boulevard
has its dirty mouth, no clean clothes, and a taste for liquor
Boulevard
Has no job, and a hangover that leaks when it storms,

Decency is rotting under milk crates with the rest of them.
The harlequin all meet on the corner cafe
ready to eat up your baby dolls,
oh what sad girls walk up and down the boulevard.

Spotlights show vermin through projector still screens,
chalk white bone painted caricatures on alley walls.
By day its worse,
dried up like a desert.

In the glass the flash bulbs
hold this city captive,
under lock and key
and the alleys
are littered with yesterdays news

poem by Jerome Moore
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Home And Love

sweetie swishy doggie
a meowing cat
black as charcoal
under a rickety house
spraying elephant
its trunk perpendicular
to its bulbous head
tiger and all the lines
that spread like reeds
bright red apple,
golden banana
a child's exaggerated world
that outshines ours
blazes through ours
mom and dad
in crazy crayon
where their lips
are bright red as chillies
faces palsy yellow
with tiny white blurry space
that one smoothens
skiing the crayon
over the white paper
the family's theatre
opens immediately
as boy's burst of art is complete
mom and dad
colour their own
home sweet home
- injecting life into all son's caricatures
good or bad with sweet rhymes

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Deadly Whispers

Insidious vapours hang
Pressure cookers in the air
Weaved by an arachnids tongue
Telling tales with satin truths
It's in the cafe killer's drink
Sentences with "I heard..."
Depicting facts for their concoctions
Until their elementary denouncements

Sometimes it is the wind
Hitting repute like a knife
From a cold war armistice
Leaving short change on a life
Small talk doesn't leave scars
Just craters for caricatures
For what is said in subdued tones
Can lead to passive violence

Yes it is a syndrome of sociopaths
The mark of deadly whispers

poem by Kevin Patrick
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Caricatures

Bad mouthing others,
Seems to be always done by those...
Who believe they are on the rise,
Of some social circuit acceptance.

Until they realize,
They have become caricatures...
In an environment of people,
Seeking only to be entertained.

No interest is given,
To create or leave anything that sustains...
Or maintains an historic substance.
Unless what is being created,
'Is' historic and valued as having substance.

And that usually is not determined,
By those staring at entrances and exits...
To approve the arrival of who enters.
With a glance of a nearby clock to acknowledge,
The exact time someone who is talked about...
Leaves and with whom,
If not alone!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Selective Realities

No one believes...
The blood they bleed these days
Is of treason crazed,
Diced with sacrificed lives for lifestyles
Long gone, outdated, forgottened.
Instigating but a few,
Stewing pain.

A few who could care less who's name
Announces
A louder call
For more appalling
Patriot games.

No one believes...
Peacekeepers come
Bearing a quick peace up their sleeves.
Or a Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton debate
About the relevance of political correctness,
On crime infested streets.
Are they competing amongst themselves?
In a practice of 'ghetto is good'
But not in my surburban neighborhood!
And nothing what is 'fed' feeds the 'hood'.

They are caricatures of a capsuled time...
In minds of those reliving 'selective realities'.

And no believes,
What is spoken convinces the one speaking!
Since the delivery is done with stature...
But the dignity of it lacks sincerety that's pure!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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