Word: paled
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...elevators were too slow, and cooking fumes from an adjoining galley were overpowering), a 20-room complex of classrooms and labs on the third floor had been remodeled. Under Lady Bird's direction, Lyndon's bedsitting room had been decked out with wood paneling, pale green curtains and carpeting. His favorite rocking chair was there, with color photos of his family, autographed pictures of his five predecessors in office, and four paintings of the Southwest. Near the President's bed were a battery of phones, including a direct line to the White House, and a three-screen...
...Berlin Mayor Willy Brandt. Observers had wondered whether Onkel Ludwig's earnest, professorial platform style might not bore the voters. As it turned out, they seemed to lap it up. On election night, 60 teen-agers dropped around to serenade him by the light of torches and a pale quarter-moon. The tune was his campaign song...
...also virtually without the kind of intensity of character that would have made audiences care whether anybody got back to civilization. Except Miss Mimieux. She is so pretty and so puzzled by the whole misadventure, and her pale, pale hair is so nicely combed. As Captain Gilbert Roland declares: "She is the only life in the desert within us. She must not be destroyed...
Great-Niece. The artist and his "superstar" reached their present social pinnacle from different sides of the tracks. The son of a construction worker from McKeesport, Pa., named Warhola, Andy scarcely seemed destined to reach Fifth Avenue drawing rooms. Pale beyond the pale and shy to the point of sequestration, he arrived in New York at the age of 24 as a struggling artist with little training and less money. Gradually he earned enough through advertising illustration to eke out a comfortable bohemian existence on the Lower East Side. When the art world suddenly went pop in 1962, Andy found...
...whores and homosexuals in the slums of Barcelona, in the face of a proud old taskmaster whose dingy urban cellar houses a school for stripling toreros. In one sequence, the disconsolate Miguelin wanders through a sere, light-washed Spanish landscape while threshers fill the air with a blizzard of pale yellow grain. Such scenes are a needed respite from many matchless closeups at the arena where the hero, his mouth pursed in a kiss of defiance, struts arrogantly before the bulls, finally coaxes his frothing and bloodied adversaries to die at his feet. Though Italian Director Francesco Rosi intends...