Word: pales
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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Roger Rosenblatt's suggested response to a potential book borrower ("I'll break your arm, you bastard!") is understandable, but far too mild. The gentle-minded Mr. Rosenblatt is a pale descendant of the medieval book lover who, in the same circumstances, customarily responded by suggesting disembowelment, torture or excommunication...
Waldman-a writer prone to detect the Eleusinian mysteries at the bottom of every rabbit hole-interprets as a recovery of myth. All the work is extremely knowing. Its images, from Pisani's impenetrably hermetic Rosicrucian allegories to Ontani's pale face photographed as Dante Alighieri, in red hood and laurel wreath, all hang suspended in double or even triple sets of quotation marks. One can have quite a lot of pick-the-reference fun in this show without getting much in the way of aesthetic thrills...
There were no such mishaps. Flanked by royal guards dressed in scarlet, black and turquoise uniforms with plumed helmets, King Bhumibol stepped out of his pale yellow Rolls-Royce and boarded the Suphannahongse (Golden Swan), a 15-ton, 148-ft. vessel with a fierce, swanlike prow. Propelled by 54 crimson-clad rowers, the barge glided down the river like a giant mythological bird. As gold-encrusted conch shells and silver trumpets heralded the royal procession, several hundred thousand Thais gathered along the riverbank to catch a glimpse of their King...
...understandable. Bergé has a legend to burnish and a business to run. He sounds like a man who knows strong competition when he sees it taking a stroll down the boulevard, decked out, more than likely, in some splendiferous Armani assemblage. The fact is, Saint Laurent remains the pale eminence of high fashion, in part because of his undisputed creative coups over the years, in part because of his huge volume of business and the relentless mythologizing of the fashion press. The fact is also that while Saint Laurent's contributions have been generative and historic...
...homage to the original Cat People, Schrader reproduces its two most famous scenes, in which an innocent woman (and the audience) thinks she is being stalked by the cat woman, in a park and a natatorium. The high points of the first film's terror, they seem pale and out of place in this gaudy but insecure film, which is all flesh and flash, never truly passionate or frightening. These sequences, in this context, become tributes not so much to a nostalgically recalled genre piece, but to the movies' long since vanished powers of suggestion. In those days...