Word: nana
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EDITORIAL FINANCE: Daniel M. Rubin (Manager); Genevieve Christy, Peter Mitchel (Deputies); Patricia Hermes, Camille Sanabria, Linda D. Vartoogian; Wayne Chun, Sheila Greene, Carl Harmon, Gene Isaac, Edward Nana Osei-Bonsu, Tina Pabarue, Katherine Young...
Chandra Sharma plays Sweet Sixteen with feeling. Throughout the film, her face is the portrait of wanness and innocence. But in the end, Sweet Sixteen is broken. Drug dealer and pimp Baba (Nana Patekar) beguiles her into a realization of sexuality, though he treats the process as unemotionally as if her were training colts. But what can you expect from a man who decides to whip his pusher in front of a Western journalist who has been interviewing him? Patekar's Baba is fierce and unpleasant, cold and calculating in a way that sends proverbial tingles over the spine...
...boss, the First Lady is a stern taskmaster. Behind her back, some underlings mockingly call her Nana. When traveling, she has members of the entourage paged at restaurants to ask trivial questions, and phones them at home with petty requests. Even Deaver is cowed by the First Lady: last year, having incompletely quit smoking, he felt obliged to hide his cigarettes from her. A West Wing official who gets along well with her admits that she is sometimes charmless with her subordinates. "She is a demanding person in that she knows what she wants, she wants the best...
...produce a perfectly limpid art in which the world would be mirrored. There is everything in common between the relentless detail in which the boredom and pointlessness of Emma Bovary's life was built up, and the minutely articulated jumble of reflections behind the blank-faced nana in Manet's Bar at the Folies-Bergère, 1882. Both works, in a sense, point forward to the "objective," molecular constellations of dabbed light from which Seurat assembled his figures on the speckled lawn of the Grande Jatte. If the origins of one aspect of the avant-garde...
...been told to meet the international dazzler Clotilde, a model near the very tip of top-top, at a photographer's studio in a loft building above Manhattan's Union Square. He finds the address and introduces himself to the photographer, a small, quiet-mannered Japanese woman named Nana Watanabe. There are two or three other women in the studio from Danskin, a manufacturer known for leotards and tights, for whom Watanabe is shooting a couple of catalogues. And here comes another gofer of some kind, a plain-faced, skinny young woman in big tortoise-shell glasses, a grungy raincoat...