Word: panting
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...Written on the box was this: "Life is serious but art is fun!" I hear his funeral was a party. A street artist had killed himself. Nobody had supported him but now everybody missed him. Now who would make the dogs make music and the mice pant? The bear knows this, too: It is hard work and great art to make life not so serious. Prostitutes know this...
...they are unlikely. Naturally, too, hers don't work out. She snags, through an elaborate and rather funny charade, a beefy hockey player, and he, naturally turns into a ne'er-do-well, leaving her on the skids, trying to snag a better catch. She turns into another pant-suited, overly made-up loser with a hopeless streak of fantasy. You can see what you like in this. Maybe Menshov really is saying that if you gamble with killer mammon you'll end up paying the price. Maybe he really is a Communist Bob Barker. Not that...
...energy gained by the nap goes into the equally tough afternoon workout, and afterward you feel yourself dozing off as you sit at a welcome dinner at the B-School dining hall. Among the pant-suited ladies and pin-striped gentlement sit sweat-suited heavies and lights, discussing the day's trials, but never mentioning the outcome of seat racing. You fill your sit-up-tightened stomach fairly quickly, forgetting about the two pounds you have to lose before weigh-ins during the season, and head back talking quietly with friends to your empty house and room...
...more palatable than the Goorgian's self-righteous whining, flows easily, even before an audience of one. The president concentrates very hard on being reassuring. He nods and smiles understandingly. He leans back on the couch and gesticulates with smooth imaginary lines drawn on the coffee table or his pant leg. He expects the same in return, and at any indication of a challenge, he easily slips into the "well, there you go again, talking about how bad things are" stance, which was so successful in the presidential debates...
Travolta moved with strobe-lit energy in Saturday Night Fever, woofing his dialogue in a clipped, arrogant, street dialect that matched the simplicity and pant-leg vision of his character. But he brings none of that same energy to director James Bridges' Texas hoedown, which attempts to show where them high-paid redneck rig-works head when the lights go down on the Lone Star prairie. Without a central character who can do anything more than look dumb--convincingly--Bridges has nowhere to take his film...