Word: foreheads
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Mizoguchi's use of deep-focus and high-angle lets him shoot every situation economically and directly. When one slave is to be branded on the forehead, the camera looks down on his head beside the roaring fire where the iron lies. Sansho walks up; the camera tracks out, framing him and a few behind him. He grasps the iron and presses it to the man's temples. We only need hear his scream, for the first image established the man's plight indelibly. And by avoiding a sensational treatment, by refusing to show the man's head being branded...
...stands before a mirror painting his face. "Strange how everything is turning out to be larger and smaller at the same time," he says. Applying the color to his forehead, he looks in the mirror with fascination. "Now I'm seeing windows all over, windows, windows. Suddenly, my face becomes like a window picture." He quickly fills in his blank cheeks with a network of lines. "What I'm painting now are the nerves beneath my face. I feel I can see through myself, look through my head, perceive its back. It expresses my innermost self. Funny...
...understand that he wasn't Lowell. Hippies talked to me about Brautigan, and they rarely mention Lowell. Still, I was going to a Poetry Reading, and Lowell's erudite gruffness remained in my mind. I'd have to put on my cultural sport coat and practice furrowing my forehead. It seemed reasonable when the friend that I'd invited asked me, "Do I really want to see this man read?" I told her I thought...
...strong is the trait that a century ago, Anthony Trollope waspishly noted that every New Yorker "worships the dollar and is down before his shrine from morning to night." To preserve the spirit of the place, he suggested, every man walking down Fifth Avenue should have affixed to his forehead a label declaring his net worth. No such label is really needed: a Parisian is a Parisian and a New Yorker a New Yorker, with no mistake possible. But a man who lives in Detroit or Cleveland is not necessarily identifiable as a Detroiter or a Clevelander...
...life of Thomas à Becket, together with scenes from the Passion of Christ and the life of the Virgin, achieving a peak of dramatic intensity hitherto unrealized in North German painting. In The Martyrdom of St. Thomas, the kneeling archbishop half turns toward his attackers. Blood streams down his forehead and splashes onto his white cassock; his miter rolls away across the tile floor. The decorative flatness of Thomas' cope and the star-spangled, scarlet sky are in striking contrast to the bold modeling of his face...