Word: jours
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...Soup du Jour. Before Kinging himself, the kid from Brooklyn jumped from dropout to drummer to boxer to dancer. By the time he settled on his name and his occupation, there was nowhere to go but up to the Catskills, where the jokes, like the soup du jour, are always borscht. Notwithstanding the ethnic limitations of comic performance in the borscht belt, King kept plugging, waited to be discovered...
Script du Jour. What exactly is going on is a stage secret. The sets are generally closed; the stars are forbidden to discuss their roles and are trusted only with the pages of script in which they appear. Feldman explains that this security is necessary to protect his uproarious ideas from TV or film-by-night pirates. Another explanation is that no one is talking because no one knows what to say: the scenario changes by the second...
...twelve years and countless versions ago as a literal adaptation of the novel. The late Ben Hecht had three bashes at it. It was then completely rejiggered by Billy Wilder, who in turn got rewritten by Joe (Catch-22) Heller. To no avail. By last week the script du jour was the product of Terry Southern, Wolf Mankowitz and John Law. Except that Peter Sellers has winged most of his scenes, John Huston is redoing his, and Woody Allen is working up an altogether new concept...
...quality of Hippolyte's inspired, innovative sections: the Trio for the Fates in the Hades scene, "Quelle soudaine horreur," with its macabre, Gesualdo-like modulations (superbly sung in the production); Phedre's pathetic scena, "Cruella mere des amours": the Act IV Hippolyte-Aricie duet, "Ah! fautil e un jour," with its revealing major-minor key shifts, and Aricie's closing "Nightingale Aria," one of the first soprano vs. flute bel canto trials...
...France's Charles Aznavour it is the transiency of love that hurts. L'amour c'est comme un jour-it dawns, it dies. C'est fini, he cries, with desolate finality. You've Let Yourself Go is an unsparing plaint of conjugal disenchantment. Aznavour has none of the rakish charm of Maurice Chevalier, the ebullient high spirits of Charles Trenet, or the blatant sex appeal of Yves Montand. But he has two qualities that none of them possess with the same intensity-fire and sorrow. He was trained by Edith Piaf, and if one closes...