Word: pallid
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...sprawling ugliness of a three-story Willard Hotel that seems to imprison the audience as well as the players, this pallid version of Broadway's Look Homeward, Angel has just enough story line for a wistful, low-key one-act play. The line goes hopelessly slack in the second and third acts when Playwright Sergel keeps falling back on his first. Even the major Anderson characters seem thin, and for a good reason. Anderson merely sketched them with evocative daubs; his adapter failed to fill them out with the detail demanded by the theater. Out of misapplied reverence...
...Inquirer or the prosperous Bulletin. Under its new publisher, the Daily News will go from a semi-morning paper (six editions, from midnight to noon) to one-shift afternoon publication (two editions, at 8:30 a.m. and 1 p.m.), in competition with the Bulletin. It will drop its pallid "weekend edition" (which goes to press on Friday night), remold its politics to an "independent" line closer to Annenberg's own views. Said one Annenberg aide: "In the Delaware Valley, with 5,200,000 people, there's room for such a paper." The new management also moved swiftly...
...storied seragli of Scheherazade and The Arabian Nights are gone. In Algeria's fabled city of Ouled Nail, source of the erotic danse du ventre that is known in a pallid version to the West as the belly dance, the Ouled Nail girls are taking to Coca-Cola and French frocks, demanding that their traditionally lazy men get out and work for themselves...
Television took a drubbing last week from one of its dearest friends: a TV adman. John P. Cunningham, head of Cunningham & Walsh, Inc., whose clients will funnel $20.8 million into TV this year, told 700 admen in Atlantic City that today's "pallid programing" is fast robbing even the best commercials of their power. Said he: "People will watch programs that bore them, but they tend to tune out their minds, which is bad for advertising...
...Roots (Barbachano Ponce; Edward Harrison). The wind is blowing the world away. Over the cold, dry plain of Mexico, the dust devils march in pallid ranks like ghosts of the land-ravaging conquistadors. Into the storm an Indian leans, and with his mattock chops a hopeless furrow which the wind fills silently behind him."Who digs the land,"the Indians say, "digs his own grave." He pauses, arrested in a Mexican Angelus. Somewhere in this howling world, in a bare mud hut, his child is crying in a basket, and by a tiny fire his wife slaps stolidly...