Word: screaming
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...what Farrell's novel is about, and it is also the novel's sole literary device. The people of the book are joyless, hateless, empty of good or evil, fleshy machines that transmit at the audible level the prattle of Babbittry and, octaves above, the silent scream of tedium. The prose in which they are described is also joyless and hateless, empty of merit and of error, painfully boring. And it is obvious that this is intentional. Farrell's setting is St. Louis in the 1920s, and his method is to make his readers suffer...
...versatile Parisiennes have changed. Three looks parade where one held dominance before, since the new female icons of France are three competitive teen-aged rock-'n'-roll singers whose fans scream the French transliteration of "yeah, yeah" at them whenever they sing. One called Sheila wears bows in her hair and is imitated by women who really see themselves as hoydens un-demolished. Another, Francoise, is long and lissome, with a long mane, long shanks, and good possibilities in the sixth at Longchamps. But all the Humbert Humberts, three-quarters of the Lucky Pierres, and half the women...
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...