Word: scarleted
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...Governor will be met at the State House on Beacon Hill by 18 scarlet-and-blue-uniformed members of the famed National Lancers. As is traditional, the Lancer brigade will be on horseback...
...whole thing up at the end. Pictorially, the film is magnificent, and some of the handsomest scenes-an orange sun rising over the peaks of the Forbidden City, midnight pyrotechnics as the Imperial arsenal blows up, the gates of the great Tartar Wall being stormed by Boxers in scarlet turbans-are almost as good as the evocative paintings by Water-colorist Dong Kingman, which open and close the picture. It was doubtless ghastly to wait 55 days at Peking until a troop of international reinforcements arrived, and the moviegoer who goes through the whole siege in two hours...
Forget the Whatchamacallit. Curiosity helped; so did Barnum. Publicity-starved actors and actresses happily posed with their "favorite" papers. Atop the News Building bosomy starlets let loose hundreds of scarlet balloons with coupons offering 30-day free subscriptions. Trib ads trumpeted: "People who switch to the Herald Tribune soon forget all about the New York whatchamacallit." Low-key as ever. Times ads merely asked, "What has the New York Times got that other newspapers haven't got?" The reply: ''Interesting" readers...
Critics will never admit it, and the reader's good sense denies it, but sometimes bad writing is best. Good writing would never have produced Eliza crossing the ice. Scarlet and Rhett. Ivanhoe. Amber, James Bond, Arrowsmith, Queeg's ball bearings, or any of the Bobbsey twins. The best and most enjoyable bad writing ever done by an American is Hemingway's in To Have and Have Not, but when some anthologist pastes together the definitive collection of Great Moments from Bad Novels, he should give a secondary dedication, at least, to Frederic Wakeman...
While her dachshund sank his painted scarlet toenails into the damask couch, the elegant woman known simply as Countess crossed her legs and yawned. A journalist stood for an instant's breath of air, sat back down on two lady buyers who were clawing for her chair. Actress Jeanne Moreau blinked drowsy eyes and flicked waves of ashes to the rug. Vicomtesse Jacqueline de Ribes swung black-mesh-stockinged legs, started a fad, and smiled her best-dressed approval. Outside, snow fell softly on the streets of Paris, and there were some who talked of De Gaulle...