Word: blends
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...tingling and dignified rhapsodies, but one special word about Procul Harum. They played two flawless sets on successive nights in front of the maedow. I remember them illuminated by the silvery-pink lights of the light show in the dark heat of the night crashing out their rapturous blend of music. Gary Brooker's expansively soulful singing, Robin Trower's eerie guitar, B. J. Wilson's deftly brilliant drumming, Fisher's streaking organ, and above it all the presence of Keith Reid who writes all the words, an enigmatic intricate personality, quite possible a troubled genius. Procul Harum are sobering...
Thus went one of the nightly prayer meetings of a new and fast-growing U.S. religious cult, the American version of Japan's Soka Gakkai, or "Value Creation Society." An odd blend of militant Buddhism, the power of positive thinking and showbiz uplift, Soka Gakkai in the U.S. has grown from some 30,000 members in 1965 to more than 170,000 today. The sect, which is known in the U.S. as Nichiren Shoshu of America (The True Church of Nichiren), claims to be gaining at least 2,000 converts a month. In the New York general chapter alone...
Godard is partly right; wanton flow is the film's main source of entertainment. But the melodramatic sluice-of-life interludes-based on Lionel White's novel Obsession-are what ultimately swamp the film's modest blend of whimsy and melancholy...
...turned out truly mediocre, the same restless cutting that compels in Lylah Clare working against him in Sister George. Aldrich is a heavy-handed man, and Lylah Clare deals in heavy-handed mysticism, heavy-handed acting stylization, heavy-handed melodrama, heavy-handed tragedy, and heavy-handed meaning. This ideal blend, strange-but-true, results in something less than heavy-handed, perhaps because Aldrich has been able to adapt his style to fit the many different eras of movie-making the film describes. His black-and-white-and-red-all-over flashbacks do evoke the twenties; the flagrantly overdirected love scene...
...film, yet for all its style and detail, I'm not sure it amounts to very much, and prefer the romantic perception of Soft Skin, Truffaut's best film to date. But you have to give him points: the scenes between Julie (Jeanne Moreau) and the artist (Charles Denner) blend exposition and characterization as cinematically as anything this side of Chabrol. Also Truffaut's obsession with Hitchcock has finally left the realm of shot-copying, resulting in some interesting notions about audience identification, point-of-view cutting, and flashback structure...