Word: cliches
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What's So Bad? is the kind of fantasy comedy that depends heavily on the audience's suspension of disbelief for success. This time, disbelief is almost impossible to overcome, thanks to a clumsy script that features such antique devices as a shoe-banging Russian U.N. delegate, cliché-spouting admen and a sound track that plays The Dragnet Theme whenever the fuzz appear...
Grade B westerns have to look to their clichês, grade A's to their archetypes. Firecreek has archetype trouble. In an anomaly of casting, Henry Fonda-strained, sensitive and introverted as ever beneath a bad-guy black hat and a stubble beard-is called upon to play the leader of a menacing band of desperadoes. This troubled outlaw seems to be in need of a shrink more than a sheriff...
Least Inhibited. Far out, flashy, mod, mind-binding-that is dance today, the most inventive and least inhibited of the lively arts. Not even the new cinema has done as much as dance has to free itself from the rules, clichés and conventions of the past. In the regal prime of classical ballet, the dancer's craft was devoted to polishing and perfecting an established series of formalized gestures; choreography was as structured as a French garden. Today, however, a ballerina may have to arch on point in one sequence, boogaloo in another, then writhe...
...much of a cliché to be true? Not quite. It is exactly what the first issue of Eye, a new Hearst magazine, has to offer. The latest in a line of Hearst magazines (Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, Harper's Bazaar), Eye is the first to peer exclusively at youth. It boasts a stripling management, sort of: Editor Susan Edmiston, who used to write a teen column, is 27; Executive Editor Howard Smith, who writes for the Village Voice, is 31. Its staff is also young and intrepid, sort of. A writer-photographer team jumped with the skydivers; another photographer...
...illegitimate son of a Glasgow tearoom waitress, Ian Brady had a gift for making even his tastes in the varieties of evil seem a cliché. As a boy, he buried a cat alive, collected Nazi souvenirs, stole shillings from gas meters around Manchester. After early crushes on such villains as Josef Kramer, commandant of the Belsen concentration camp, and Harry Lime of The Third Man, Ian finally met his true soul mate in the Marquis de Sade-a literary encounter that Williams recklessly compares to Keats's stumbling upon Chapman's Homer...