With a horror movie most of the actual jumps and scares are made in the edit. It's often not very scary on set and then you watch the film and suddenly it's very scary because the way the jump scares fit together building up the suspense in the audience because it's making them jump when they're least expecting it.
Anyone can rise from obscurity and make a few breakout plays when no one's expecting them to. But when a guy you've got your eye on jumps out and shows you what he's made of, that he's ready to compete at the highest level at the most crucial time - that guy's the real deal.
All his life he [the American] jumps into the train after it has started and jumps out before it has stopped; and he never once gets left behind, or breaks a leg.
And that's where I think vulnerability comes in - the fact that we're figuring out that there is strength in actually being vulnerable to one another, there is strength to letting go of grief, or at least processing grief more helpfully than we've necessary seen, particularly in these corseted upper class dramas before.
I feel like certainly there are people expecting 'Looking' to be representative of everyone that's gay, the entire gay community. And it's a dangerous expectation to come in watching the show expecting that. Expecting that out of any show.
At the end of the day, you just have to focus on winning. No one can take a win away from you. That's what I focused on. Life is not fair, so I don't go out there expecting it to be. I don't think any of us should go out expecting life to be fair. I think that's expecting too much, and I remind myself of that sometimes. You can get on with your life after that.
When you are wanting to comfort someone in their grief take the words 'at least' out of your vocabulary. In saying them you minimise someone else's pain...Don't take someone else's grief and try to put it in a box that YOU can manage. Learn to truly grieve with others for as long as it may take.
I think grief is a step towards strength because it allows you to be porous and take everything in, and have it transform you. What will sit within you is despairing, but at least it's feeling. You're not numb. Grief is sort of the allowance of feeling.
A door jumps out from shadows, then jumps away. This is what I've come to find: the back door, unlatched. Tooled by insular wind, it slams and slams without meaning to and without meaning.
I don't think grief of grief in a medical way at all. I think that I and many of my colleagues, are very concerned when grief becomes pathological, that there is no question that grief can trigger depression in vulnerable people and there is no question that depression can make grief worse.
I was in New York City on 9/11. Grief remains from that awful day, but not only grief. There is fear, too, a fear informed by the knowledge that whatever my worst nightmare is, there is someone out there embittered enough to carry it out.
With Bolshoi technique, the movements are quite large, the jumps are big, and I'm a tall dancer, so I've learned to use my height more, to elongate my moves, jumps and positions. I'm physically using my body more to my advantage.
But the wild is unpredictable, stuff does happen, and it's always when you're least expecting it.
Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.
There are moods in which we court suffering, in the hope that here, at least, we shall find reality, sharp peaks and edges of truth. But it turns out to be scene-painting and counterfeit. The only thing grief has taught me is to know how shallow it is.
We collected in a group in front of their door, and we experienced within ourselves a grief that was new for us, the ancient grief of the people that has no land, the grief without hope of the exodus which is renewed in every century.