Word: odd
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...with a slickly attractive white-shoe production of Stover at Yale, a tongue-in-dimpled-cheek musical adaptation by Douglass (Damn Yankees) Wallop of the old Owen Johnson stories. Much of the play lived up to Alistair Cooke's introduction of it as "a gentle thing, both odd and funny." When the boola overflowed with the fun of the Turkey trot, ragtime and jagtime at Mory's, and naughty dancing girls at lesser saloons, Stover came delightfully alive...
Author Beebe contributes his usual flowery prose, entirely in the form of lengthy captions. But aside form its 500-odd pictures, the book has little to offer; it is badly organized and rather inaccurately written in regard to such vital matters as locomotive names and wheel arrangements. The fans, no matter how pleased they may be with the photographs, will most certainly take note of this...
Today, the U.S. again has 40-odd missiles in operation or under development, and some of them are birds of a feather, e.g., the Navy's air-to-air Sidewinder and the Air Force's Falcon. The University of Buffalo's Chancellor Clifford C. Furnas, onetime (December 1955-February 1957) Assistant Secretary of Defense for Research and Development, recalls that it was all but impossible to get the Navy and Air Force to work together on a single 500-mile-range, subsonic, surface-to-surface missile: "As a consequence, we have two such missiles...
Gallery Owner Cordier's show was an odd outgrowth of last summer's Moscow Youth Festival. Traveling in Russia at the time of the festival, Cordier was approached by a French-speaking intermediary who gave him the paintings and volunteered the information that the painter was the 27-year-old son of a Soviet functionary, a resident of Leningrad. Cordier smuggled the canvases out in a yard-wide roll of cotton cloth. While the young painter might well have had access to foreign art magazines, Cordier feels the work is too "naive" and violently experimental to suggest that...
Nature's Way seems one more frantic farce that relies for its laughs on gamy subject matter rather than witty treatment, and that, when its back is to the wall, literally has the bricks come flying out of it. What chiefly seems odd in all this is that Herman Wouk should be the author. But as the show proceeds, it becomes plain that there is a message in its madness−that with every tasteless gag, Wouk is bopping whatever repels him as newfangled or decadent, including Picasso...