Word: pulps
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...dope-running--he caches a large supply of cocaine on the roof of their Baden hotel only to dash up there during a rainstorm in time to find thousands of dollars literally going down the drain. He follows Jackson back to her home near London, where the husband, a pulp-fiction writer, dying to discover whether or not they are having an affair, invites the young man to stay with them indefinitely. In setting up this menage-a-trois, the husband, working on a screenplay about middle-aged infidelity, eventually brings about the events he supposedly fears: his wife...
...government of mortgaging New Zealand's future by borrowing heavily overseas (more than $1 billion since 1972). The debts have been incurred to protect the economy from recession at a time of sagging world demand for the nation's exports (principally lamb, beef, dairy products, wool, and pulp and paper products...
Hearts of the West, funny, jaunty and a little wistful, concerns Lewis' pleasantly unlikely adventures in movieland of the 1930s. Lewis (Jeff Bridges) is not far enough into adulthood to know he is there, but in any case his head is full of the prime fantasies of good pulp fiction. He wants to be a writer, particularly of cowboy stories, most specifically like those of his idol, Zane Grey. Lewis has the master's formula down pretty tight ("One thing leads to another, and pretty soon he's got a story"), and can emulate his prose with...
Writer-Director Richard Brooks made a western called The Professionals in 1966, a hearty, amusing enterprise full of pulp-magazine notions about honor under pressure. Bite the Bullet is made in blatant-indeed, often desperate -imitation of The Professionals, and the character Hackman plays is a virtual reincarnation of Robert Ryan's softspoken, steel-fisted horseman of the previous film. Instead of forming a ragtag commando unit, though, the heroes now make up a party of racers, heading over 700 miles of rugged territory for $2,000 in prize money...
Then we lick across the broadness of Nebraska--a monolonous, wide-butted stretch of sod. Smiling, broad curves traced in speed fling us onward, out between trucks that grind the air to a pulp and spit a back on us with 14 gears of churning cunning. Plunging to the depth of America--not East and not West, but vastly in between, we seem perched here forever-about nine hours...