Word: pout
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UNFORTUNATELY, Mr. Nixon is not one to admit readily his own shortcomings. He will sit back and pout for a while, decide he was right all along, and blame any Republican setbacks on failure to present the message strongly enough. Such a typical five-year-old's reaction to setbacks is not out of the realm of possibility for our President. The man who tearfully blamed his 1962 defeat on the media can be expected to do the same in 1970. From him, we can expect increased attacks on the media, more attempts at Administration-imposed censorship, and tighter government...
...Lips pout, eyes smolder, bosoms and hips swell like baked goods with too much yeast. Clothes cannot contain these creatures-nor are they meant to. Bras and girdles, filmy negligees and deep-plunging necklines only point up the obvious, or pad out the underdeveloped until, literally, their cups runneth over. They are the antithesis of haute couture's slender subtleties, these fantasy models in the catalogues put out by Frederick's of Hollywood. They promise, in striking graphics, what any woman might achieve in styles by Frederick...
...decidedly unexotic, unmajestic, uninercurial, and rather bland, tired, and timid. There was petulance instead of the passionate anger of a moody, selfish, regal, lover-queen. Miss Yakutis must avail herself, as I know she can, of a range of tones and rhythms, and soar and admonish and implore and pout and sing her way to complexity. The soldiers are unremittingly declamatory, laboring to render each line as massively as possible. They don't speak to each other, but keep trying to lurch into Shakespeare's execrable Titus Andronicus oratory. Too many speeches are self-contained. The wonderful music of speech...
...Dogs and Englishmen). It can back him up in anything from jazz to low-down blues to gospel singing. Gruff and virile of tone, but now obviously a star, Joe belts out his songs as to the manna born. He knows just when to shout, just when to pout, just when to let a phrase die with a low, sad whimper. At the Fillmore, Cocker's group came on, in fact, a bit like a white revival meeting. With his friends churning away at an old Julie London hit, Cry Me a River, Joe created a shouting, cathartic revival...
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...