RocknRolla

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RocknRolla is a 2008 film about a real-estate scam in London that puts millions of pounds up for grabs, attracting some of the city's scrappiest tough guys and its more established underworld types, all of whom are looking to get rich quick. While the city's seasoned criminals vie for the cash, an unexpected player -- a drugged out rock 'n' roller presumed to be dead but very much alive -- has a multi-million dollar prize fall into his hands.

Written and directed by Guy Ritchie.
A story of sex, thugs and rock 'n roll. (taglines)


Archy[edit]

  • People ask the question... what's a RocknRolla? And I tell 'em - it's not about drums, drugs, and hospital drips, oh no. There's more there than that, my friend. We all like a bit of the good life - some the money, some the drugs, other the sex game, the glamour, or the fame. But a RocknRolla, oh, he's different. Why? Because a real RocknRolla wants the fucking lot.
  • Junkies, as any junkie will tell you, are not to be trusted. They take what doesn’t belong to them, not because they’re thinking, but because they’re junkies.

Johnny Quid[edit]

  • No need to worry just yet, boys. They're not going to do it while we're standing in the lift. Because then they'd have to carry the corpses to the cars, and that seems too much like hard work. In about two minutes there. Danny-boy there is gonna turn, and pop me two in the head, then one in the throat, just to be sure. You shouldn't have brought me here, fellas. You're just going to end up as witnesses. Once they've "dealt" with us, they will put our corpses in the boot of a stolen car, then pour six gallons of petrol on the car. I'll let your imagination do the rest. Now, Danny-boy here is rattled, because he knows that you know. And so, he's going to fire.
  • All you need to know about life is retained in those four walls. You will notice that one of your personalities is seduced by the illusions of grandeur - the gold packet of king size with a regal insignia, an attractive implication towards grandeur and wealth, the subtle suggestion that cigarettes are indeed your royal and loyal friends, and that, Pete, is a lie. Your other personality is trying to draw your attention to the flip side of the discussion: written in boring bold black and white, it's a statement that these neat little soldiers of death are in fact trying to kill you and that, Pete, is the truth. Oh, beauty is a beguiling call to death and I'm addicted to the sweet pitch of its siren. That that starts sweet ends bitter, and that which starts bitter ends sweet. That is why you and I love the drugs, and that is also why I cannot give that painting back. Now please, pass me a light.

Lenny Cole[edit]

  • Oh bollocks. There is no school like the old school, and I'm the fucking headmaster!
  • Right, let me tell you how this works. You're going in the drink, and I'm going to have a cup of tea. Beneath your feet is the famous river Thames. I just hope for your sakes you can hold your breath for as long as it takes my kettle to boil. After that, I'm gonna ask you a question, just one question. You're gonna give me a name. And if it's the right name, I'm gonna send you home warm and dry in a fresh set of clothes. If it's the wrong name, you'll be fed to the crayfish. They're American, these crayfish. Big, hungry bastards. And like most things American, they've eaten the natives...but they've still got room for more.
  • And I shed a tear. I shed a tear for all those bone-tops that read the papers and believe that shit. But did you see his body? Did you see him smacked-up and cracked-up with his tongue on his chin and his cock in his hand, swinging from the rafters like a real RocknRolla? No, you didn't, did you? And nobody else fucking did either, did they? Because he ain't dead. He's alive, alive-o somewhere selling cockles and mussels and a very important painting that doesn't belong to him.
  • Now, listen to me, boy. Listen. I never did like you, neither did your real dad. You're a reject, a wrong and a fuckin' fairy in the mirror that I inherited from your mom. But she ain't with us no more, so now it's just you and me. In one week you're going back to school. The most expensive fuckin' school in the country, I might add. Then you'll be gone for another term. In the meantime, show some gratitude and keep the fuckin' music down!!

Mumbles[edit]

  • [to One Two] If I could be half the human being Bob is at the cost of being a poof, I'd have to think about it. Not for very long, but it'd give me pause.

Stella[edit]

  • Beauty is a cruel mistress.

Cookie[edit]

  • Have you ever bought a ticket to the junkie's boneyard, Roman? It's an unpleasant place, called 'curl up and die'. Might sound like a hair salon, but it don't fuckin' look like one, I can tell ya. It's a terrible sight...and a horrible sound, listening to a man [inhales] sucking his soul through the hole in the pipe. Even worse when he tries to tear it back. I've been there, and I've done that. [flashback: "He has been here, and he has done that."] And then I nailed that demon in a smoke-proof coffin, and I did it all with Johnny. I love that man; he's what you call class. And if you had any fucking brains, Roman, you'd love him too. You know his music sales have gone up 1000% in three weeks? You see, Johnny, the crackhead, knows that a rocker is worth more dead than alive...funny world, innit? Mr. Quid does not get his gear from me. He has to travel, far and wide. But do leave me a number, and if the dead feels like calling...you'll be the first to know. [winks]

Dialogue[edit]

Fred: There's no way you're gonna get a five, you understand that, Bob? They've got nothing on you, son.
Handsome Bob: What are you talking about? Fred, they've got grass. They've got an informer. They've got a rat with a roach smoking a canary. They've got more information than the fucking Internet.

Archy: Bandy, you ever ask a stupid question like that again, see Danny there? He's gonna slap you.
Bandy: Sorry Arch, I was, I was just trying to use initiative.
Archy: Danny, slap him.
[Danny slaps Bandy]
Archy: With the right, Danny, properly.
[Danny slaps Bandy]
Archy: No, no, no, no. Come on, do it properly, with the back of the right hand.
Danny: What is this, a tennis match, Arch?
Archy: Slap him.
[Danny slaps Bandy]
Archy: [Muttering angrily] Oh, for fu... Like this. [Slaps Bandy, who stumbles] Now if you can master a slap like that, there's no need for your clients to hold back. They will open up like a fountain, full of words. No need for strong violence, no no; they're transported back to their childhoods. Putty, in your hands; ask Bandy. Look. Thinks he's back at school. [Bandy is biting his lip childishly]
Danny: But he never went to school, Arch.
Archy: You want a slap as well, Daniel? Eh? Now, if a slap don't work, you cut 'em or you pay 'em, but you keep your receipts, cos this ain't the Mafia.

Mumbles: Did he make a pass on you?
One Two: Yes, he fucking did.
Mumbles: So, what's the problem? Eh? It was supposed to be his last night. You took care of him. That's what friends do for one another. Well done. And I won't tell the chaps.

Rocker: [interrupting Mickey's phone call] The dry ice, Mickey, I need the fucking dry ice! My show just doesn't work without it!
Mickey: If you'd asked me yesterday for dry ice, I would've got you the driest ice the world could have, but you didn't ask me for no dry ice. You asked me for two cases of Johnny Walker Black Label and four ladies of the pole. And I got them for you, didn't I?
Rocker: Yes. Yes, you did, I do confess, but Mickey. You're the manager, I'm the rocker. You've got on the hat. Why not just pull something out of it?
Mickey: My hat is deep and full of magic. I got rabbits, handkerchiefs, and ladies of the pole drinking Black Label. I got smoke machines, bubble machines, I even got love marines, and still the hat goes deeper. All right? But there ain't no mothafuckin' dry ice.
Rocker: Okay. Mmade your point. But tomorrow, might be quite nice to have some dry ice.

Mumbles: See that man sitting on the sofa?
Handsome Bob: What, the queen that's screwing me up?
Mumbles: Yeah.
Handsome Bob: It's a bit hard to miss him, isn't it?
Mumbles: Well do me a favor, go over there and chat him up, will ya?
Handsome Bob: Fuck off! Who do you think I am?
Mumbles: No, well, he's a big time lawyer. I reckons he knows about an informer in our part of town. Now you were facing a five stretcher, I figured you might be interested. Yeah?
Handsome Bob: Mhmm.... [walks over to the man]

Handsome Bob: [in a seductive voice] Is that you, Bertie?
Bertie: What's happening about that drink?
Handsome Bob: What's happening about that paperwork?
Bertie: Well I'm busy tonight. Monday looks good. I'll leave the papers at my reception under your name. I'll text you the address.
Handsome Bob: Well, I'll pop 'round in a jiffy and I'll see you on Monday. Raaawwwwrrrr. [hangs up] [he and mumbles laugh]
One Two: You are scary good at that.
Handsome Bob: Aw, do you miss it?
One Two: Hey, shut up, Bob or I'll slap you. All right, let's go pick up the paperwork from your boyfriend and drop me off on the way, huh? I'm going back to bed.
Handsome Bob: Can I come? [One Two slaps Bob and he and Mumbles laugh]

Roman: Uh, can we help you?
Lenny Cole: You've got an act called "The Quidlickers".
Roman: We did, yeah.
Lenny Cole: Hmm... And there's a singer called "Johnny Quid".
Roman: There was.
Lenny Cole: Well, I'd like to see Mr. Quid.
Roman: I'd like to see him too, but uh that's gonna be a little tricky because according to the papers, the only songs Mr. Quid's gonna be singing are hymns
Lenny Cole: And I shed a tear. I shed a tear for all those bone-tops that read the papers and believe that shit. But did you see his body? Did you see him smacked-up and cracked-up with his tongue on his chin and his cock in his hand, swinging from the rafters like a real RocknRolla? No, you didn't, did you? And nobody else fucking did either, did they? Because he ain't dead. He's alive, alive-o somewhere selling cockles and mussels and a very important painting that doesn't belong to him.

Pete: Go on, John. Jog it on.
Johnny Quid: [staring at the painting, sighs] I can't, Pete. The painting's got me. That's what art does to you, it gets you.
Pete: You'd get a good few notes for that.
Johnny Quid: You wouldn't understand.
Pete: Why not?
Johnny Quid: Because you are street scum, Pete. You're in need of a good education, that's what you need. But your dad didn't give a shit about you, did he? And that's why you're on the gear; the gear is your surrogate father.
Pete: What's this, shrink-time?
Johnny Quid: Come on, Pedro! I'm your sponsor...doctor...I'll be your dad if you feel a bit of regression coming on. But first we need a drink in our hands.

Johnny Quid: [playing piano softly] You see that pack of Virginia killing sticks on the end of the piano?
Pete: Yes.
Johnny Quid: All you need to know about life is retained within those four walls. You will notice that one of your personalities is seduced by the illusions of grandeur - the gold packet of king size with a regal insignia, an attractive implication towards glamor and wealth; the subtle suggestion that cigarettes are indeed your royal and loyal friends, and that, Pete, is a lie. Your other personality is trying to draw your attention to the flip side of the discussion, written in boring bold black and white, it's a statement that these neat little soldiers of death are, in fact, trying to kill you and that, Pete, is the truth. Oh, beauty is a beguiling call to death and I'm addicted to the sweet pitch of its siren. That that starts sweet ends bitter, and that which starts bitter ends sweet. That is why you and I love the drugs and that is also why I cannot give that painting back. Now please, pass me a light.
Pete: Oh you are something special, Mr Johnny Quid.

One Two: So you don't wanna know what happened?
Stella: I know what happened. Hollandaise?
One Two: I see you ordered already
Stella: You were late. Shouldn't you've taken precautions?
One Two: Precations?
Stella: Well, that's your job, isn't it? I didn't realize.
One Two: Realize? Realize that they had guns? Big, long, dangerous machine guns? With war criminals attached to the trigger? You know what, darling? I'm just gonna leave this laundry bag here, under the table for you, okey? Goodbye, sweetheart. You're way too dangerous for me.

Pete: I'm sorry. I thought you might've liked a bit of company.
Johnny Quid: I'm dead Pete. What does that tell you? It tells you that dead people don't like company.

Cast[edit]

External links[edit]

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