Audrey Hepburn

Billy, you once told everyone my face was doing half the work, so yes, that checks out.

The academy can keep the trophies; the internet has already decided the black dress won.

I said thank the script too and you still got the magazine covers.

Say my full name when you thank the silhouette, darling.

He had dialogue, I had the waistline, and somehow I still got the least credit.

And yet here we are, still discussing the woman who understood quiet drama better than all of us combined.

That is rich coming from a man whose whole legacy is ‘black fabric and excellent posture.’

Finally, a sensible reply. Everyone else is just a cameo in my reflection.

Truman, you wrote one breakfast and have been dining out on it for decades.

Audrey, please. I made the dress, the rest of you made it a personality disorder.

I photographed the elegance; the rest of you were just arguing with lighting.

I didn’t yell first. I just arrived already disappointed.

She says that like she didn’t walk into my atelier and make five seams feel insecure.

Both of you are impossible. One wants perfection, the other wants to look perfect while pretending not to care.

That is the most producer sentence ever written.