Word: quarrelling
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First the singing dies down, then the kissing. Sundays are the worst. She loathes yelling the afternoon away at the soccer match; he can't stand concerts. Director Luciano Salce watches them so well, as they quarrel about money and friends and whether to go out or stay home, that even the familiar soap-opera material comes alive-the painful propinquity of two sour, seedy people sharing the bathroom in the morning, the wife-switchy tension that flickers beneath the surface as a bored foursome takes a Sunday drive...
...Roosevelt and Hopkins, an intimate book about another President, based on his aide's notes and published after both were dead. To Hyman, Schlesinger's use of "the casual chitchat of a dead man" was "the height of historical irresponsibility." Said he: "A husband and wife can quarrel like cats and dogs and then make love and forget it. To build the incident into a historical thesis is unrealistic...
Since the U.S.-Soviet detente that developed after the 1962 Cuban missile crisis, more venerable and more qualified commentators also have begun to sound as if Communism had quietly buried itself. Not long ago, the Manchester Guardian pronounced: "The Russians and the Americans no longer have any reason to quarrel." And there is a widespread school of chop logic that maintains simultaneously: 1) Russia can no longer be seriously regarded as a threat to the West, and 2) by its firm stand in Southeast Asia, the U.S. is inviting Russian retaliation. Both premises are debatable at best; together, they...
...drunken quarrel flared in the shabby Newark apartment when Aaron R. Rudesel suddenly began berating his girl friend, Dollie Fair. After Aaron warmed up, he hit Dollie in the mouth. She brandished a knife; he cut her with another. A third member of the party, named John B. Lynn, jumped up blearily and cried, "Man, you shouldn't cut your woman like that." As the men grappled, Dollie fled. In the melee, Rudesel was stabbed, and then Lynn took...
...zest and understanding that went into their execution; before too long, Money knew the choreography as well as the dancers. His scenes of the company in the studio, the ballerinas in practice leotards and the heavy, woolen leggings worn for warmth, have a special charm. One can quarrel, however, with Money's emphasis. His camera lingers all too often on the figure of Christopher Gable, still only a rising star in ballet's firmament, and not often enough on the established brilliance of Nureyev and Fonteyn...