Word: preachers
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Saturday, Addesa was less like a preacher than a beached whale. His back was up against the wall, literally. His eyes were glazed and tired-looking as he spoke--in haggard sentences--about his team's 6-4 loss to Harvard in the final game of the team's ECAC quarterfinal series...
They are the sweetly pious daughters of a visionary preacher. While he lives, they sacrifice their lives to his faintly absurd beliefs. After he dies, they devote themselves to his memory by keeping his dwindling, aging, increasingly fractious flock together. Their story, stretching over many years, is told with deft economy and quiet wit by Writer-Director Gabriel Axel, who builds an uncannily rich texture out of the simplest materials. Still, the viewer muses, this picture is called Babette's Feast. Where is Babette? Where is her feast...
...member of the Cathedral of HIS Glory on New Garden Road in Greensboro. "I believe in what Robertson stands for," says Latham. "I have his tape right here. I listen to it in the car." At Frank Roberts' barbershop on Main Street in High Point, however, the former preacher is hardly taken seriously. "Pat Robertson?" says Roberts. "We never hear the name." According to Roberts, the G.O.P. race is between Dole and Bush. "Dole's biggest asset is Liddy," say the barber. "She is absolutely better than he is. She ought to run." Some of the customers like Gore...
...weeks. Confidence is the implicit message conveyed by Dole and Simon: their commercials are vague and thematic, presumably designed to do little more than solidify inchoate support. Robertson has perfected a different kind of soft sell, speaking directly into the camera without props or backdrop, glossing over his TV-preacher past and ending with the soothing words, "I'm not asking for your vote. I'm just asking you to listen...
James Warren Jones, by contrast, was something of a weirdo. As a boy in the casket-making town of Lynn, Ind., he used to conduct elaborate funeral services for dead pets. Later, as a struggling preacher, he went from door to door, in bow tie and tweed jacket, selling imported monkeys. After briefly fleeing to South America (a shelter, he believed, from an imminent nuclear holocaust), the man who regarded himself as a reincarnation of Lenin settled in Northern California and opened some convalescent homes. Then, one humid day in the jungles of Guyana, he ordered his followers to drink...