Word: pout
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Arkin used the whole man to embody adolescent chutzpah; Newcomer Reni Santoni seems able to draw on only a pout here and a wiggled eyebrow there, which is far from enough. Shelley Winters and David Opatoshu contribute a pair of luridly overdrawn caricatures as the well-meaning parents who stand by helplessly while their son switches his ambitions from pharmacy to footlights. By contrast, Jose Ferrer and Elaine May seem almost drawn from life as the flamboyant impresario of a pass-the-hat theatrical workshop and his daffy Duse of a daughter. Their world of raucous flea-bitten theatrics seems...
...consistent tone can be imparted to a play that juxtaposes the somber drum roll of the Kennedy funeral cortege with such inane Shakespearean mutations as "Oh whine and pout/ That ever I was born to bury doubt." But MacBird's basic flaw is that Playwright Garson is a frivolous, scattershot satirist who has no moral vision of her own to counterpose whatever might be regarded as evil in her characters. She has written an apolitical play in which all choices seem silly. The Ken O'Duncs are presented as chilly, ruthless opportunists; MacBird is a mixture of corn...
...right arch of leg or arm to drag comedy out of stage direction. Sara Salisbury plays Daisy, the secretary in Berenger's office, and she looks like a secretary, which is some achievement in Cambridge. Miss Salisbury has the good sense not to overdo her girlishness and pucker-pout...
...underneath all that jargon about repression and frustration and absurdity Tom and Teena really do have feelings and are just scared shitless. As one character so subtly puts it. So we learn in the end that Tom can bawl like the kid he is at heart and Teena can pout and whimper like the bourgeois wife she wants to be. And when that baby comes along, oh Mama, they're so happy and thrilled and in love that you could just cry and cry. You see, life had to teach them something -- that they can't run away from themselves...
...district." The results were often warm and whimsical. Windows and archways open onto rocky landscapes typical of the region. His Saviour is not the emaciated, sublimely anguished figure of his colleagues, but pasta-fed and plump, his saints more spirited than spiritual. His chubby cherubs often pout like naughty children; in St. Anthony of Padua they hold up a garland from a lemon tree which then, as now, grew on the shores of nearby Lake Garda...