Word: fustianeer
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...beer carelessly dumped into a mug too small for it so that a turbulent foam froths over. And yet, by some strange madness in his playing he gave his technical vagaries the air of having been written for him by Wagner; he tumbled a sunset thunder-mountain into the fustian stalls of Carnegie Hall; he rocked the hearts of shriveled critics so that they swore no one who ever lived had an equal magic in his finger tips. He was Ignace Jan Paderewski...
...Barrymore's memoirs were neither rowdy nor pornographic, but the measured attempt of an intelligent man to comment cool-mindedly upon his own career. None of the fustian sentiment, like the smell of an old stage wardrobe-none of the gasconnading, the pomposities, the how-well-I-remember-the-night that clutter most actors' reminiscences-nor yet the blatancy that distinguishes those of certain editors-were discoverable in the suave, faintly amused memories of John Barrymore...
...tilted with the windmill, he did his best to focus his crumbling and erratic faculties on the proper maneuvering of his rusty shield, the inclination of his little lance, while his gigantic opponent, being without a brain, threshed its huge flails stupidly, and glared with idiotic rancor upon the fustian battler. Harry Greb, middle-weight pugilistic champion of the world, is called the "Pittsburgh Windmill." Like the onetime opponent of Quixote, he swings his arms about and around, jerks them up from below, slams them down from above. But, unlike that mindless creature, he employs in his Sailings...
...translations of Meltzer were adept, painstaking, vigorous; they paraphrased the originals as closely as it is possible for the verse of one country to paraphrase that of another. Nevertheless, they were abominable poetry Some of the lines possessed a certain insipid grace; far more of them had the stilted, fustian air that can only be characterized by the adjective "operatic." Such lines as "Naught my sweetheart from me shall sunder," "Thou'dst best beware," "I know not what I'm saying or what I'm doing" were hackneyed when Alfred Lord Tennyson was a litle boy in Lincolnshire and completely...
...wastes gestures; she talks at the top of her voice, always out of turn; she overacts magnificently?and makes you like it. Thereafter the play runs down a trifle. There are other good performances, notably Will Deming's difficult drunkard. Yet without Miss Arnold the play would be fustian. With her it seems eventful entertainment...