Interiors (1978)
Diane Keaton: Renata
Photos
Quotes
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Renata : We never see Marion and Gail. I don't understand. You used to like them!
Frederick : I can't stand them. They're so enthusiastic. College kids. I get embarrassed!
Renata : Oh, well, don't get embarrassed. Don't come. Stay home, drink yourself unconscious. That's one of the cliches of being a novelist you've had no problem with.
Frederick : Yeah, I sure can drink.
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Renata : Do you have any children, Pearl?
Pearl : Oh, yes. I have two sons. Lewis and John. Lewis is in real estate. John runs an art gallery.
Renata : Oh?
Pearl : In the lobby in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. It's not exactly a gallery. It's more - a concession.
Joey : Paintings of clowns on black velvet?
Pearl : That's right. Junk. Oh, I tell you, it's pure junk. But people like it. They get a kick out of it. He does very nicely.
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Renata : I can't seem to shake the real implication of dying. It's terrifying. The intimacy of it embarrasses me.
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Renata : She has all the anguish and anxiety of the artistic personality without any of the talent.
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Renata : I look in the mirror every day and I feel discouraged. Now I see you, and you don't change at all.
[Flyn laughs]
Renata : No, you don't change! Your skin is like cream. Look at your skin. I'm so envious.
Flyn : I work at it.
Renata : No, I don't think that's it.
Flyn : I have a few good years, then my youth will be frozen on old celluloid for TV movies.
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Renata : Have you spoken with Mother?
Flyn : Oh, yes. We're having dinner one night this week. How's she holding up?
Renata : I don't know. Better than we all expected. Isn't that right, Joey?
Joey : She took it very badly at first, but after the initial shock she seemed to come out of it.
Renata : Joey feels that all of her Jesus Christ nonsense is actually somewhat of a help.
Flyn : Well, whatever works.
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Renata : My impotence set in a year ago. My paralysis. I suddenly found I couldn't bring myself to write anymore. I shouldn't say "suddenly." Actually, it started happening last winter. Increasing thoughts about death just seemed to come over me. These... A preoccupation with my own mortality. These feelings of futility in relation to my work. Just what am I striving to create, anyway? To what end? For what purpose, what goal? I mean, do I really care if some of my poems are read after I'm gone forever?
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Frederick : Flyn suffers from the same thing my last book suffered from. She's a perfect example of form without any content.
Renata : That's very profound. You haven't even started drinking yet.
Frederick : Yeah, I am profound. And I'm not the award-winning writer. You're the one who's supposed to be giving me insights into sex and other world-shattering phenomenon.
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Renata : Do I really care if a handful of my poems are read after I'm gone forever? Is that supposed to be some sort of compensation?