Word: horridness
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...performed by a more mature cast than most Harvard productions (the actors are all Divinity School students who took a class on Eliot as theologian). However, to paraphrase the children's rhyme, when the acting is good, it's very, very good, but when it's bad, it's horrid...
...absolutely failproof way to forget that you are at Harvard and about as frazzled as the appalling weather and your failing academics can make you. Its interior has a sunny but peaceful Mediterranean charm that at least allows you to pretend its warm outside. And on those truly horrid days you can always go and look at Toulouse-Lautrec's "The Hangover" whereupon you will undoubtedly be much consoled. And if even that doesn't work you may go and empathize with Van Gogh's absolutely terrifying self-portrait...
...hour into the film, Woods carries the narration; he plots his escape to any land that will publish his Biko biography. The police threaten his cute family with errant gunfire and toxic T shirts, and the viewer is meant to recoil from these domestic atrocities. Of course they are horrid, yet their intended impact reinforces, in dramatic terms, the Afrikaners' credo: white lives mean more. Piling on bogus suspense devices as Woods snakes his way toward freedom, Attenborough lets the venality of South African imperialism degenerate into a staid chase film: The Brady Bunch Flees Apartheid. Once again Attenborough...
...next few years. The children grew, the wind blew, the dust flew, and, by 1973, here stood Winifred Bundy wondering what to do. She had flirted with the notion of opening a bookshop, but lacked capital. Then it was that her husband, a soft touch, took in two horrid German shepherds to board while the owners went to Europe. The dogs tormented the horses until a mare reached her limit and kicked out one dog's eye. When the owners returned, Winifred presented them with a $600 bill for feed and the veterinarian. Those funds stocked two shelves of books...
...life, or the first 42 years of it covered here, has been uneventful. In early 1919, around the time of Burgess's second birthday, his mother and older sister died of Spanish influenza. His father, on a furlough from the British army, walked into his Manchester lodgings on a horrid scene: "I, apparently, was chuckling in my cot while my mother and sister lay dead on a bed in the same room." At the end of Little Wilson and Big God, on a Christmas holiday in 1959, the author is told that he has an inoperable brain tumor...