Word: signore
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Cold as sculptured ice, Ingrid Bergman faced Roberto Rossellini in a Roman court, there to do battle against his latest attempt to gain permanent custody of their three children, who are now in the 13th week of a two-month visit with their father. Distantly, she called him "Signor Rossellini." He baked her in a Latin gaze. "Ingrid," he said, "call me Roberto." With that, her reserve melted into tears. When the show was over, Judge Giovanni Salemi agreed to let her keep the children. She could pick them up next month...
...says: "Not long after [Giambattista] Giuffre's black custom-built Fiat sedan drew up at the monastery of the Passionist Fathers at Cesta di Copparo, the Passionists had a new monastery, 20 new acres of farm land and an $850,000 Sanctuary to the Blessed Virgin of Peace." Signor Giuffre never visited outhouse at Cesta di Copparo, nor has he ever donated so much as one Italian lira to the purchase of our land, or toward the erection of the monastery and church. All is being paid for with free-will offerings of the faithful-Signor Giuffre not included...
...become wearisome. This is pointed up by the brief appearance of the tightrope walker, who is gloriously articulate. La Strada takes on its fullest life when he is onscreen. He is like a nimble, lively Orpheus in a hell of groping and grunting, and Richard Basehart plays him brilliantly. Signor Fellini has created one character of un-crippled humanity, and for a few scenes has matter worthy of the scrupulous authority of his manner...
Resurrection. Among other scenes. Author Levi describes the dark sulphur mines of Lercara, owned by the terrible Cyclopean figure of Signor N. In their underground world, the mine workers have only recently discovered the weapons of the trade union and the strike, and in this "ordinary, normal episode of social struggle," Levi sees something comparatively religious-a kind of resurrection...
Spanish dancers strum and stamp indignantly, looking furious at each other but, as Signor Kaye points out, looking even more furious at the floor. They clatter and glare, brandishing boots, tight pants, short jackets, scowls, and women. They seem to be fairly intact imports of the gypsy dancers who currently perform for American tourists in Spain, and for all their energy they are a typically tired vaudeville...