Word: languidly
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Loesser the Hollywood lyricist was Mr. Do-It-All. He wrote torchy stuff for gangster dramas and sarong songs for Dorothy Lamour. When collaborating, Loesser usually devised the lyric first, along with a "dummy tune" to suggest tempo and rhythm. Jimmy McHugh could compose a long, languid melodic line for Let's Get Lost because Loesser had compressed the intensity of new passion into the narrowest meter: "Let's defrost/ In a romantic mist./ Let's get crossed/ Off everybody's list...
...Richardson), resident at a hostelry outside their native land and facing up to yet another common middle-class problem. Their setting is Venice; their issue is the joylessness of sex. But the mood, well established by Paul Schrader's direction and Harold Pinter's elliptical screenplay, is one of languid menace. It is personified by Christopher Walken, excellent as Robert, whose psychopathic weirdness simultaneously attracts and repels the couple. And mysteriously energizes them. In his sexuality there is political metaphor. He is an undeclared fascist, hiding the threat of self- destruction under the lure of self-actualization. The movie...
...just rerun the originals? Solt's answer is that their pacing is too languid for modern tastes, which is probably true but also beside the point. Early TV was shot live, and a considerable part of its charm -- witness The Honeymooners -- was its ramshackle unpredictability. The Very Best solidly documents Sullivan's skill as a talent scout but gives little sense of the show's herky-jerky rhythm and calculated structure -- one novelty act, two comic spots and so on -- or of its host's weird, looming omnipresence. Solt's deconstruction is a pleasant memory tickler. It could have been...
DECORATION DAY (NBC, Dec. 2, 9 p.m. EST). James Garner plays a retired judge in a Georgia town who encounters the bitterness of a black World War II vet in this languid, treacly slice of Americana from the Hallmark Hall of Fame...
...grande one. That is, it was in the works before either Lowe or Spader achieved his new level of notoriety, so its makers cannot be accused of cashing in on the former's troubles or the latter's triumph. It is, moreover, good looking in a chic, languid sort of way, and it is written with occasional wit and social awareness. Indeed, its literary credentials are, if anything, rather too impeccable: Spader's character, Michael, an analyst in an investment firm, is Faust at a computer terminal; Lowe's Alex, a sociopath of no fixed address, is Satan with...