Word: mutes
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Throughout this increase of injustice the United States as remained largely mute. True, the U.S. no longer tills police weapons to South Africa, and at the United Nations last fall its representative spoke against apartheid. but in that same U.N. debate it also opposed doing anything effective against apartheid, and the passage of the No-Trail Bill provoked no censure from the President, the State Department, or the U.S. Ambassador in Johannesburg...
...thirties, the other Americans do not characterize the economic state of the nation. Indeed their suffering is a noncomitant of prosperity, since they have been rendered useless by the very machines that are raising America's rate of productivity. The poor form a huge but politically fragmented and mute group. It thus falls to the socially responsible intellectuals to remind affluent America of their presence...
Daughter Kattrin is a war-victimized mute with a desperate love of children. In Brecht's mordant view, kindness is voiceless in the world. Kattrin performs the only noble and impassioned act in the play when she mounts a platform and beats out a drum tattoo warning a sleeping town of ambush. A single musket shot silences her. Zohra Lampert detonates this episode shatteringly after having made her Kattrin an intaglio of forlorn brooding poignance. As Anne Bancroft cradles her daughter in marble stillness, the scene has the desolating sadness of a Piet...
...with: "Wrap it, lick it, and mail it!" She represents The Present, and is far too busy to help. An astronaut, who is The Future, offers a cup of tea but little sympathy: "Your key? But why look for key or door, with so many stars to explore?" A mute bellhop prances in and out of doors, leers at the bride, is finally stabbed by a voluptuous lady spy who sings: "He was a counterspy...
Photo Finish. Peter Ustinov, writer, director and star of this comedy, remains mute for the first five minutes of it. Propped up by a pillow, he half-sits, half-lies in bed, a snow wreath of great age framing his petulantly mischievous features. He looks like a cross between a grumpy polar bear and a tipsy Greek philosopher. As his equally ancient wife ("a nagger's nagger") frets, scolds, and pokes at him, Ustinov's countenance becomes a weather map of changing frustrations. His eyes ski off at rakish tangents. His jaw chomps erratically over what could...