Carey Mulligan Quotes

When you do a remake, there's a lot of pressure because people always love the original.

If you write an original, it's like you went in and dug a well, and you hit oil. But an adaptation, it's like the oil well's on fire, and they bring you in to put the fire out and get it working again - or something like that.

Whenever you're trying to do your own take on a classic piece of literature, it's almost like you're trying to swim up your own stream or drive down your own path.

I mean they're making remakes of my films and I'm not even dead yet! Why would you want to make a remake?

I hate remakes of TV shows - I didn't like the new Charlie's Angels at all - and I just don't see the point of going back and doing the same thing over again. Baywatch was fun and successful, probably because we didn't know what the heck we were doing.

Filmmakers often tell me to watch the original version. I never do.

When you're remaking a classic, you don't want it to lose steam.

You know you are old when what you still think of as recent films are remade.

People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of Prim. Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep her alive.

You have your wonderful memories," people said later, as if memories were solace. Memories are not. Memories are by definition of times past, things gone. Memories are the Westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. Memories are what you no longer want to remember.

Sometimes people graduate but they don't leave. They hang around for years, for no reason. I would think of ghosts like that, I decided.

The past doesn't matter. People cling to it because it allows them to ignore the present.

I have nothing from my childhood. I think you carry those books with you. It's like in [Ray] Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451." Books are outlawed in this future society so people become the book they love by memorizing it.

The reason you can never go home again isn't necessarily that places change, but people do. So nothing ever looks the same.

I'm sick of remakes, how about something different. That's the thing - people always come to me and are like 'what do you want to remake, we know we can get that greenlight, what do you want to make?' I don't want to remake a g-d damn focking think.

I'm not a big fan of remakes. And even if they are good, they're still not as good as the original, so what's the point?

You're making a fantasy. You're making something real out of a fantasy. And then it no longer exists. It's heartbreaking to leave behind. I was devastated after Waiting for Guffman. I had never gotten so close to people I've worked with.

I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all.

Home! With what different sensations different people pronounce and hear that word pronounced!

I don't feel so strongly against remakes, but if I don't like it, I guess I just don't do it. It is what it is. Hollywood is driven by the financial system, so if they think that it has a brand and people are going to go see it because it's a recognizable property, they're going to remake it.

Actually that’s my secret — I can’t even talk about you to anybody because I don’t want any more people to know how wonderful you are.

Those were the people who made her something, and without them she was different. She'd held on to them and to that old self tenaciously, though. She clung to it, celebrated it, worshipped it even, instead of constructing a new grown-up life for herself. For years she'd been eating the cold crumbs left over from a great feast, living on them as though they could last her forever.

What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us wind up in parentheses.

For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.

It seemed as though he gave way all at once; he was so languid that he could not control his thoughts; they would wander to her; they would bring back the scene,- not of his repulse and rejection the day before but the looks, the actions of the day before that. He went along the crowded streets mechanically, winding in and out among the people, but never seeing them, -almost sick with longing for that one half-hour-that one brief space of time when she clung to him, and her heart beat against his-to come once again.