Word: chinned
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...Cohen's small offices and backdropped by a fountain and Spanish courtyard, Waits needn't have inquired "Giorgio who?" to debunk that fiction. One look was enough: pointed black shoes (leather cracked), tight, wrinkled straight black pants, a haphazardly-buttoned off-white white shirt, his goatee more under his chin than on it, and wavy brown hair jutted high on top, seemingly propped upright by a pair of oversized sideburns...
...story begins with Sir Robert Walpole, the first Prime Minister. Englishmen had had country houses before Walpole, of course, but it was he, in the 1720s and '30s. who first used one to bring men together to mix fun and politics. "Up to the chin in beef, venison, geese, turkeys, etc.," wrote one of the guests at Walpole's stag affairs, "and generally over the chin in claret, strong beer and punch." As roads and transportation improved, being a guest became more convenient. Women joined the fun, and the weekend house party began its long and bleary-eyed...
Americans might even honor the exuberant, slightly bizarre poetry of their commercial muse. Two or three generations ago, the national laureate might have been the anonymous bard who wrote the Burma Shave roadside quatrains ("In this vale/ Of toil and sin/ Your head grows bald/ But not your chin/ Burma Shave.") The beer commercial ("You've danced all day on a pool of fire," or some such: "Now Comes Miller Time!") has invented a sort of macho haiku that might turn into a national verse form...
Patrick Dawaere plays the reluctant hero of this comedy of rape and revenge. He is a marvelously simple and impulsive actor, last seen here in the overrated Get Out Your Handkerchiefs, where he played the lover with the pocketbook library. In his latest film, he scratches his grizzly chin and narrows his tired eyes with the charm of a runty mutt who must scrounge to survive on a diet of crabgrass and crusty bread. Dawaere's puppylike affability extends to his awkwardly rolling gait, which takes him down highways, through bathroom windows and across manicured gardens on a quest...
...them. But he withdraws, becomes frantic or engulfed in icy loneliness (all too heavily underscored by a set that looks like an ice floe along which curtains have somehow been hung). In the end he walks slowly into a void. She is left, head bowed, her hand cupping her chin. Both dancers give bold performances. One expects Von Aroldingen to be Balanchine's perfectly tuned instrument. Lüders, an elusive and sometimes awkward presence, has his best role...