Word: drunkenness
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...killing men was not our custom," says Avinga, "and it had not been done in living memory." With no reasonable solution possible, the Eskimo simply withdraws. He is never seen again. Soon afterward, the whalers ferment some berry wine, ply the remaining Eskimos with it and so produce a drunken dance that becomes a bewildered travesty of the first. When the final tragedy comes, it is clear that something as fragile as a principle of civilization-the Eskimos', not the whites' -has been shattered...
...drunken older brother, James Jr., Stacy Keach lacks something of Jason Robards' Broadwayish flamboyance but inflects the role with more guilt-racked anguish. James Naughton has the same difficulty that Bradford Dillman had in the original in suggesting the steely resolve that the tubercular young Edmund (really Eugene O'Neill himself) must have possessed to wrest his genius from these stricken souls...
...here we get, in all the bloody detail, much of the exciting poop about the years when Fitzgerald was a struggling and forgotten artist: his fight with Hollywood director-writer-producer Joe Mankiewicz, his failed screen test, his drunken weekend with the young Budd Schulberg at Dartmouth while working on a picture called Winter Carnical . The hard-core gossip is laced with memory portraits provided by such Fitzgerald comrades as screenwriters Nunnally Johnson, Frances and Albert Hackett, and Anita Loos, and friends like actress Helen Hayes and director George Cukor...
...Gene Nelson), an oil-rigging salesman, who married Sally (Dorothy Collins), also an ex-Follies girl. We swiftly learn that both marriages are empty failures. Younger versions of the foursome sing, dance and mime their yesteryear courtship rituals. Sally has always worshipped Ben, but we see him making a drunken pass at another old flame (Yvonne de Carlo). Buddy rather brutally tells Sally that he has a girl in Dallas who is everything to him that Sally is not. Phyllis is essentially the married widow of the philandering...
...Kurt Vonnegut's God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, our drunken hero crashes a convention of science-fiction writers. "I love you sons of bitches," he says. "You're the only ones with guts enough to really care about the future, who really notice what machines do to us, what wars do to us, what cities do to us, what tremendous misunderstandings, mistakes, accidents and catastrophes do to us. You're the only ones zany enough to agonize over time and distances without limit, over mysteries that will never die, over the fact that we are right...