Word: gusto
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Thomas considers Adedeji a worthy replacement for last year's captain Solomon Gomez. "Felix has an all-around style. He has the strength of Bogovitch, the gusto of Gomez, the ball control of Kydes, and a little something of his own," Thomas said...
...directs his actors in the same manner that a red light may be said to direct patrons. No matter. Pornography is customarily, in Nabokov's fine phrase, a copulation of clichés. Not here. Garfield takes this insanely, inanely plotted movie and lends each scene a Rabelaisian gusto and surprise. His movements are reminiscent of the hippopotamus in rutting season; his expressions are unique. Who else could register such dismay when he finds that he has been making love to a corpse? Who else could transmit such concern for the girl who replaces her lover with a personal...
...drawl that her name was Nannie Leah Washburn, and that she had traveled all the way from Atlanta to lie down in front of cars in a traffic circle. "I was born a rebel and I'll always be a rebel," she croaked, and the crowd cheered with gusto. When she told them it was her 71st birthday, she was rewarded with a thundering chorus of Happy Birthday...
...been cut), and the other two have been butchered. "Who's That Woman?" sounds like it was written to stop the show-even without the spectacular dance that accompanies it on stage. But the first "show-stopper" is a medley of three "follies" routines, each performed with geriatric gusto by old time performers Marcie Stringer, Charles Welch, Fifi d'Orsay and Ethel Shutta, who do their numbers separately (the first two as a duet) and then sing them simultaneously as a kind of old timers freak show. On the album the duet ("Rain on the Roof") has been cut entirely...
Edward Albee almost seems to have lived through two careers, one very exciting, the other increasingly depressing. From The Zoo Story through The American Dream to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, he displayed great gusto, waspish humor and feral power. In the succeeding nine years, he has foundered in murky metaphysics (Tiny Alice), dabbled in adaptations (The Ballad of the Sad Cafe) and gone down experimental blind alleys (Box-Mao-Box). Instead of lunging for the jugular, as he once did, Albee has cultivated a Jamesian languor in his prose, a fastidious dandyism of manner, a dusty, librarefied...