Word: sackful
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...show's unreal setting makes the reactions of the people living in it false, and nowhere is this more clearly shown than in the relationship of the Lassiters and their servants. Tuesday's episode showed Mrs. Hacker, the housekeeper, pleading with Rosamond, the youngest Lassiter daughter, not to sack the new maid. That a servant would dare to confront her employer so boldly would be unthinkable in a household of the British or American aristocracy. That a woman so recently arrived in the position of having a housekeeper would not be threatened (as Rosamond was not) by this kind...
...have selective memories of a better past and forget, what went with it- the petty tyrannies that were possible in office, factory or domestic household, where one could lose his job at an employer's whim and could count on few if any benefits if given the sack. But those who in their own lives have since gained by shorter hours, better quarters, safer conditions and coffee breaks have also lost something when they in turn become customers and consumers: a decline in store manners and helpfulness, clothes and articles more carelessly made, service and workmanship less dependable...
French Connection if, which is about to leave the Sack 57 any minute, has very little in common with its predecessor. The original French Connection was made by that slickest of American directors, William Friedkin, and it was seductive stuff. It helped demonstrate, like Don Siegel's Dirty Harry, that Charles Bronson--like punch-'em-up movies, seemingly innocent if a bit violent, could be fascist. All they needed was a good director, and it was enough to scare you silly--not what happened on screen, but the way you were responding. These pictures didn't necessarily bring...
...pitchers of beer, Briggs and I drive to Ketchum that night. Fred sleeps in the back. It is a long, desert road. Cars are few and I trace their rear lights back to nothing in the sideview mirror, where they are but a pin-pricked rupture in the great sack of night, a bleeding stream of fleeting electricity. I push the van to 95 in the soundless onrush of blackness, while the flourescent stakes by the roadside teeter rearward and empty lights hang nowhere out in the desert, some mystery of some nuclear facility...
...downstairs and heard a noise in the cloakroom. "Somebody rushed out and hit me over the head. Three more blows followed. I screamed, and the person said 'Shut up!' I recognized the voice of my husband." Police found the nanny's battered body in a canvas sack and bloodstains on the walls and ceilings. Ironically, it was Mrs. Rivett's usual day off-a fact, testimony showed, that Lucan had carefully ascertained in advance. He may have mistaken the nanny for his wife in the dimly lit basement...