Word: patly
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...central characters, Sugiyama and Mai, who lend the movie its grace, subtlety and essential dignity. Her aloofness and his reticence makes their first real moment of communion surprisingly affecting, despite the too-pat neatness of its timing. There's a tender believability to their relationship that is far more convincing than a conventional romance would have been. It helps smooth over the unavoidable awkwardness of how to treat the wife, who begins by evoking sympathy and ends up offering it--not without a hitch. Sugiyama can't escape his loneliness without transferring some of it to her; one hopes...
MTWDFFCTCOPPVWSAAT--movies that went directly from final cut to cable or pay-per-view without stopping at a theater. Signifies such films as It's Pat and Eddie and those starring Gary Busey or Rutger Hauer. Suitable for shut...
...perhaps read one of the verses that, in 1989, made him a best-selling poet. One bit of doggerel elegized his pet golden retriever: "And now he's dead./ And there are nights when I think I feel him/ Climb upon our bed and lie between us,/ And I pat his head./ And there are nights when I think/ I feel that stare/ And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,/ But he's not there./ Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,/ I'll always love a dog named Beau...
...course, this was a laugh line. Back then, plastics was the reigning symbol for everything that was ersatz in American life, for the phoniness and stifling conformity of the adult world Benjamin was being asked to join. The word itself was an epithet, as in "Plastic Pat" Nixon or these Jimi Hendrix lyrics from the song If 6 Was 9, talked-sung with a straight face and an up-the-Establishment disregard for grammar: "White collared conservative flashing down the street,/Pointing their plastic finger...
...catching him pawing the garbage. "I'm supposed to meet George [Stephanopoulos] here for a drink," lies Lewis, successfully. The second trick was to stick with the losers. Lewis does due diligence by Clinton and Bob Dole, but spends most of his time listening to Morry Taylor's curses, Pat Buchanan's poetry and Alan Keyes' messianic rantings. The result is like a pointillist painting: up close, these events are a sea of bright dots; step back, and they are a captivation of the splendor, spirit and stupidity of our quadrennial madness...