Word: scream
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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First out of the pits was Clark, his exhaust winding up in a high, thin scream. For four laps, he howled around the track, and dockers stared openmouthed at the time: an average 158.8 m.p.h. per lap, an astonishing 7.7 m.p.h. faster than the track record set by Jones last year. Then came Bobby Marshman, 27, an Indy veteran and an ex-Offy man now driving for Lotus-Ford. In practice, he had roared around the track at an incredible 160.1 m.p.h. He settled for an average 157.8 m.p.h. during the qualification trials. Next was Roger Ward, still another...
Operation Madeleine. Ferré's songs evoke a complex feeling. Their mood is an absorbing compromise between optimism and disgust, and they have an ironic strength that makes their message as clear as a scream in the street. Though Ferré is a natural-born plaintiff, his songs never argue that life is absurd. "Despair," he says, "is a way of hiding things from one's self." Life is not pointless, just outrageously wrong...
Comedy of Terrors is a lushly produced little parody of Hollywood scream fare, hopefully labeled a "horroromp." Vincent Price and the late Peter Lorre play a team of New England undertakers. When business is slack, the two wheel off in the hearse to raise the death toll, chew the scenery, and feed each other jokes. But the jokes lack nourishment. Foppishly appraising a coffin, Price sneers: "Nobody in their right mind would be caught dead in that thing." True enough. So Basil Rathbone gets buried alive, while Boris Karloff, in a minor role, eyes his former gloom-mates...
...pocket flask while touring art galleries, and who talked baby talk ("Was fun for country boy like me"). But if Hemingway had been sliced, he did not bleed noticeably. Permitted a prepublication look at the article, he approved it with one minor deletion. And when the critics began to scream, he sent Miss Ross a friendly note: "About our old piece-the hell with them...
...narrator's voice is cold. Thou sands of rats, he says, have come from the cellars and sewers to die in the city's streets. The plague has begun. The dead will be carried away in tramcars. There is a panicked whisper of running feet, a scream, a distant moan. The chorus is a clamor of wails-"the rats, the rats." Trombones trail down the declining moan of an air-raid siren, and the orchestra shrieks in echoed despair. In a long, fatal moment, the music dies on the slowly fading tremor of a gong. And in that...