The Birdcage


Albert: Don’t use that tone to me.
Armand: What tone?
Albert: That sarcastic contemptuous tone. That means you know everything because you’re a man, and I know nothing because I’m a woman.
Armand: You’re not a woman.
Albert: Oh, you bastard!

Male Dancer: Chewing gum helps me think.
Albert: Sweetie, you’re wasting your gum.

Albert: I was adorable once. Young and full of hope. And now look at me: I’m this short, fat, insecure, middle-aged thing!
Armand: I made you short?

Armand: So this is Hell. And there’s a crucifix in it.

Armand: No! You do an eclectic celebration of a dance! You do, Fossie, Fossie, Fossie. Or Martha Grahm, Martha Grahm, Martha Grahm. Or Twi-la, Twi-la, Twi-la. Or Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd, Michael Kidd. Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna. But you keep it all inside.

Agador: Good morning.
Armand: Not yet. Ooh, what is this? Sludge?
Agador: Yes, it’s sludge. I though it’d make a nice change from coffee.

Agador: Armand, why won’t you let me be in the show? What? Are you afraid of my Guatemalan-ness?
Armand: Your what?
Agador: My Guatemalan-ness. My natural heat. You are afraid I am too primitive, right, to be on the stage with your little estrogen rockettes, right?
Armand: Oh, yes, I’m afraid of your heat!

Albert: Oh, thank you Agador. If it wasn’t for the Pirin I couldn’t go on.
Armand: Are you giving her drugs?
Agador: No. It’s Aspirin with the A and the S escraped off.
Armand: Genius!
Agador: I know.