Word: leprously
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peeling, and all Twelve Apostles eaten away to leprous stumps. Yet, from the head of Christ, like the periscopic eyes of certain fish, two blue glass beads stood out on stalks...
Jamie Lee Curtis gets into the worst scrapes. Tracked and trapped by homicidal maniacs in Halloween and Prom Night, deposited by leprous spooks into The Fog bank, and now manhandled by a psycho transsexual on a Terror Train, Curtis is the new virgin queen of shivers. No-nonsense intelligence shines through her friendly, angular, leonine face (a gift from her mother, Janet Leigh, who pioneered the modern horror trend 20 years ago by taking a bloodbath in Psycho). Thus when she flees into a dark closet or abandoned sleeping car-where, of course, the evil one waits, knife...
...Updike observes grimly. In another tale of marital wrangling, then, the wife gets through to her husband only by inducing desperation like a "hooked claw," evolving "psychic protuberances that penetrated and embraced his mind." Just in case you didn't get it, in "The Journal of the Leper," the leprous creature is no longer loved by his woman once he is cured. So instead his characters learn to withdraw; they stick wax ear plugs in their ears like the unidentified man in "Commercial" and block out all but the "subterranean whistling noise" of their own breathing...
Little Monsters. For the child who does not get enough blood and ghoul from TV or movies, new Monster Make-Up and Horror Make-Up kits provide the wherewithal for 56 basic variations of Lon Chaney, including leprous or misshapen cheekbones, deformed foreheads, grotesque scars, dagger wounds, drooping, bulging eyeballs, bullet holes-plus a bottle of nontoxic gore. The kits, which sell for less than $20 each, were designed by Veteran Makeup Artist Dick Smith, who turned Linda Blair's head in The Exorcist and aged Marlon Brando in The Godfather. They come with a packet of powdered gelatin...
Calcutta presents a harrowing vision. The destitute, the skin-and-bones starving, the leprous and the dying seem to be concentrated there as nowhere else in India-or the world. Their numbers, swollen by past waves of refugees from Bangladesh, grow daily. At least 200,000 of them live in the streets, building tiny fires to cook their scraps of food, defecating at curbstones, curling up in their cotton rags against a wall to sleep-and often to die. Out of this scene of unremitting human desolation has come an extraordinary message of love and hope. Its bearer...