Actors in any capacity, artists of any stripe, are inspired by their curiosity, by their desire to explore all quarters of life, in light and in dark, and reflect what they find in their work. Artists instinctively want to reflect humanity, their own and each other's, in all its intermittent virtue and vitality, frailty and fallibility.

— Tom Hiddleston

A fan club is a group of people who tell an actor he is not alone in the way he feels about himself.

— Jack Carson

A Film has the potential to kindle such a spark of inspiration in an individual that it can alter the course of human progress.

— Abhijit Naskar

A film is never perfect unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet.

— Orson Welles

A good actor must never be in love with anyone but himself.

— Jean Anouilh

A good drama critic is one who perceives what is happening in the theater of his time. A great drama critic also perceives what is not happening.

— Kenneth Tynan

All the movies used to be 'colossal'. Now they're all 'frank'. I think I liked 'colossal' better.

— Beryl Pfizer

All the world's a stage.

— William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

— William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the part, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and skippered Pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

— William Shakespeare