Sometimes I wish I were a cannibal – less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him.

Without discipline and detachment, an actor is an emotional slob, spilling his insides out. This abandonment is having an unfortunate vogue. It is tasteless, formless, absurd. Without containment, there is no art. All this vomiting and wheezing and bursting at the seams is no more great acting than the convulsions of raving maniacs.