Word: parisian
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Constantin Guys could sketch, with equal ease, a cavalry charge or a crinolined cocotte. As a war correspondent in the Crimea, he turned out sheaves of detailed drawings of battles and camp life. As a Parisian artist-about-town, he caught the elegant manners and shady morals of his contemporaries. Although he lacked Daumier's satiric bite and Rowlandson's ribald bounce, Guys's quick eye and facile technique made him one of Europe's ablest 19th century reporters. Last week, to celebrate the 150th anniversary of his birth, some of the best of Guys...
...Faure well knew, France is on a gaudy whirl. Its cost of living, already high, has jumped 23% in the past year. Heat and light are up 42%. Last week the Paris Opera raised its prices 17% and Parisian cab fare jumped 20%. Ministers worried whether tourists would come to so expensive a country. The French themselves worried about the spreading gap between wages and prices...
...sardonic leer and characteristic aplomb steal the show whether he is abducting a woman, riding gleefully on the swinging church bells, or swooping down from the sky to save Miss O'Hara from the hangman's noose. Toward the picture's end, as a mob of Parisian beggars storm Notre Dame's doors, Laughton climbs to the roof and hurls huge building blocks down on the crowd as he howls with maniacal laughter. For a finale, he overturns a cauldron of molten metal into the gutters leading to the cathedral's gargoyle rain-spouts. It blows onto the mob while...
...should because of the delightful shenanigans of the minor players), take my advice and go home after the second act. Act Three is terrible. The "action" takes place in Maxim's ritzy restaurant and attempts to give the weary audience (the show lasts until 11:30) a picture of Parisian night-life. The plot stands still while Monsieur Lebon, in his own inimitable fashion, emasculates four songs. Then there are a couple of dance sequences, a comedy skit, and at long last the thing is over. If Lehar were alive and saw this act, he would wish he were dead...
...play seem more immoral, but without it Gigi is merely raffish, and less entertaining than it should be. Only such a tittle jewel of a scene as the scene of the jewels comes off completely. Otherwise, Gigi shimmers most while its scenes are being shifted, when against evocatively Parisian curtains it plays gay, rakish period tunes...