Word: largo
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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SHOSTAKOVICH: QUARTETS 4 AND 8 (Mercury). Shostakovich's late chamber works are better than his late symphonies. The eighth quartet, a secular requiem for the victims of Fascism, was written in 1960 and is daringly monochromatic: three of the five movements are largo, and the often-repeated main theme changes only from a moan into a sigh. Even the joyful sections seem to shift into a remembrance of gaiety long past. A subtle performance by the Borodin String Quartet, which the U.S.S.R. will send on a first visit to the U.S. in October...
...OCEAN REEF CLUB, with 1,800 acres and a 3,000-ft. landing strip on Florida's Key Largo about 15 minutes' flight from Miami, is one of the many sport resorts in the east coast's southern waters that are encouraging fly-in visitors. "We're trying to get more of the rendezvous business," says Manager Robert Trier. "Like a club from Pompano that flew in recently, had breakfast with us and took off again...
...activity. Once again, Cubans were turning up at the old clapboard house on 23rd Street that served as a recruiting center for the Bay of Pigs operation, getting physical exams, then mysteriously dropping out of sight. Small groups of Cubans were training at isolated farms outside Miami. At Key Largo, a 28-ft. launch loaded with exile munitions caught fire, was popping while firemen were trying to douse the blaze...
...Bogart in their rooms because that sort of thing is looked down upon as "too Big Tenish." They will never forgive John Huston for making Bogey a boozy simpleton in The African Queen. They don't like The Caine Mutiny either: "Queeg is not good Bogey." Key Largo is very good Bogey. And when Bogey pumps five slugs into Edward G. Robinson, the crowd has seen the picture so often that it shouts "More! More!" in perfect unison with his shots...
...forgivable, if redundant, to call one's novel a fable if it is in some way fabulous. But Baker's book is merely unendingly pretentious. Its action scenes are written in grunting prose that is supposed to be tough but instead is only sweaty, and its largo passages are flaccid with maundering soliloquies of the hero, a professor of literature who is awakening gummy-eyed from a dark night of the soul. Baker never writes a noun without leashing a seeing-eye adjective to it, never overlooks a cliché, never fails to labor an image ("The windshield...