Word: greyingly
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Just ten minutes before the show was to go on downstairs in the Waldorf-Astoria Empire Room, diminutive Joel Grey, 41, was still puttering around naked in his room. The photographer was getting nervous. He had been promised a picture of the 5-ft. 2-in. star wearing his black Ultrasuede tuxedo alongside a life-size poster advertising the entertainer's two-week Manhattan engagement. But Joel's wife Jo was unfazed. "Why don't you take the picture now?" she suggested. So the camera clicked and Sharp Dresser Joel was caught for posterity wearing only...
This ambiguity gives Man on a Swing its suspense and makes it a rather entertaining diversion. What makes it something more than this is Joel Grey's Franklin Wills, a performance of such menacing subcurrents, so shrewdly and subtly conveyed, that it galvanizes the entire film. Grey won an Oscar for his nightclub M.C. in Cabaret, a splendidly sleazy characterization that seemed to grow out of his years in the musical theater. Here he takes a considerable risk, moving in an entirely different direction. He has a lot of broad, bizarre business to carry off- like passing into...
...been far more interesting to use the same material for a film about Wills - that is, both a psychological and psychic speculation. But on the evidence at hand, such a project would have been beyond the range of almost everyone involved with Man on a Swing - firmly excepting Joel Grey...
...houses are not as nice. They don't have lithographs or plates with John F. Kennedy and Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King on them on their mantles. They're on a slope and the back ends have to be held up by rickety-looking stilts. Let one grey weathered house stand for the rest: Inside tall narrow stairs twist back up around a wide chimney. The room is hot and is smoky and full of that sweet sickening smell--like burning beans--peculiar to dirty houses with wood stoves. The plaster is cracking off the walls, revealing...
...didn't look like the wan, grey-haired, dark-eyed priest I'd expected to encounter. He would have looked more appropriate sitting in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium, a hot dog in one hand and a cold beer in the other. More than his red fleshy nose, more than his lethargic eyes, more than the deep clean wrinkles on his receding hairline, it was his hat that made him appear so unecclesiastical. It was the type of hat that one expects to find on a cigar-smoking bookie or on someone who scalps tickets at a football game...