“When I was young I was pretty … and it’s interesting when you’re in your thirties and you’re not the same pretty boy that you were when you were 21. I think people’s anger at themselves getting older is projected onto you because you become a symbol of that. I’m a middle-aged man now. I mean, someone … said something to me the other day. And I just said,”Well, that might be upsetting to you but it doesn’t upset me. Just because you don’t want to fuck me any more it doesn’t upset me.””
Rupert Graves in 2002 interview in Evening Standard (via jaynedolluk)
“Well, that might be upsetting to you but it doesn’t upset me. Just because you don’t want to fuck me any more it doesn’t upset me.”
Classic, classic interview (by Andrew Billen, London Evening Standard, 27 Mar 2002). Always reblog.
So many great quotes, but here’s a fuller version of the passage above:
“But it’s only when your fame dwindles that you start appreciating the expectations other people have. They get angry with you for not sustaining the image they had of you.” Which was? “Well, I did Maurice and I did a couple of gay plays and I think it was because when I was young I was pretty and I was a pin-up for a lot of gay people. It’s interesting when you’re in your thirties and you’re not the same pretty boy that you were when you were 21. I think people’s anger at themselves getting older is projected on to you because you become a symbol of that.
“I’m a middle-aged man now. I mean, someone, not working on the show [The Elephant Man, Broadway, NYC] but around the show, said something to me the other day. And I just said, ‘Well, that might be upsetting to you, but it doesn’t upset me. Just because you don’t want to fuck me any more, it doesn’t upset me.’
“I just think the older I get, actually, the better I feel. It’s given me the strength to say, ‘If I get older and you don’t like me any more, fuck you!’ I’m kind of happy with that. Much more happy, much less vulnerable. As a young actor I felt like prey because I didn’t know the business. I have much more confidence to be obnoxious now.”
I can’t be the only one boggling at the fact that he doesn’t think people want to fuck him anymore. Because seriously, Rupert? Seriously?
I’ll just be over here, on my knees. Waiting in a pretty fucking long queue. *coughs*
You can’t write without a lot of pressure. Sometimes the pressure comes from anger, which then changes into a pressure to write. It’s not so much a matter of getting distance as simply a translation. I felt a lot of pressure writing some of those stories about women. Writers are lucky because when they’re angry, the anger—by habit almost—I wouldn’t say transcends but becomes an acute pressure to write, to tell. Some guy, he’s angry, he wants to take a poke at someone—or he kicks a can, or sets fire to the house, or hits his wife, or the wife smacks the kid. Then again, it’s not always violent. Some people go out and run for three hours. Some people go shopping. The pressure from anger is an energy that can be violent or useful or useless. Also the pressure doesn’t have to be anger. It could be love. One could be overcome with feelings of lifetime love or justice. Why not?
People have always fucked, hence people.
If you’re an aspiring author, director, musician, startup founder, these long stretches of nothing are a huge reason why it’s important to pick something personally meaningful, something that you actually love to do. When external rewards and validation are nonexistent; when you suffer through bouts where of jealousy, wondering “How come so-and-so got signed/is successful/got a deal/etc?”; when every new development seems like a kick in the stomach, the love of what you are doing gives you something to hang onto.
The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.