Word: greyingly
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Kaplan's music catches something of the grey and cold. The photography is drab like Check Point Charlie, and not very imaginative. There are lots of long shots of Burton's eyes where he registers fear, confusion, love, and, in the end, disbelief...
...from the cynicism and out of the grey rain and cold, there emerges Burton's own narrow, rather seedy humanity. He shows his distaste for Control, for London. He loves, in his homely way, Nan (Claire Bloom). He predictably shows his contempt for Mundt and Fiedler, the two Communist spies, and takes satisfaction in playing the one off against the other. He shows no regret when he beats up a grocer, and only irritation at Fiedler's fate. And finally, Leamas is forced to define his relationship to senseless, inhuman intrigues of Control and Mundt...
...unsung heroes of the mission: an IBM 7094 Mode II computer, one of five located deep in the bowels of NASA's Mission Control Center near Houston. Primped and primed and ready to go for more than a year, the electronic memory housed in the grey, blue-trimmed cabinets had been taught all the incredible complications of orbital calculations, had learned the long, involved equations worked out by teams of crack mathematicians...
Director Ritt, without belaboring the tragedy of Leamas, coolly commits to film the grey nether world that the spy inhabits. There are no miraculous escapes or Union Jack heroics. Just ordinary men, trained to be distrustful, sizing one another up at a glance, measuring the assessment against every subsequent pause and gesture. Through ever-changing shades of perfidy on both sides of the Wall, the drama inches toward its bitter climax, made more agonizing by Ritt's detachment. He simply records an event and lets the shock wave follow...
Boston wears a different cloak at Christmas. Not new, certainly, for if ever New Boston is forgotten, it is now, but different somehow. The Maiden Aunt of American Cities takes out her warm old familiar garment, primps her grey hair, and marches defiantly into the cold. She tramps down from Beacon Hill, shops in one of the gaudy New Boston stores and many of the old smaller ones, then just as quietly slips back through the park, leaving cries of crass commercialism to others. So familiar is her path, so unobtrusive, that you may not have noticed her. Your Christmas...