Word: skins
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...military air mission to Brazil (where he spoke Portuguese). Everywhere Tommy White went, from arctic Russia to Brazil, he went out fishing, collecting rare specimens, discoursing to his British wife Constance Millicent Rowe (his second) on the delights of ichthyology. White would catch the fish, getting soaked to the skin; Constance would paint them in watercolors. But when Pearl Harbor struck, said Constance, "I knew our happy days were over...
...energy before it can enter dense low-altitude air without burning up. But it has the advantage of skimming the thin top of the atmosphere instead of plunging into it at a steep angle. Theoretically, it can be made to approach the atmosphere gradually in a gentle spiral. The skin will get hot, but if it is made of heat-resistant metal, it may not soften, and proper insulation may keep the interior cool enough for the animal to survive. The re-entry body of an ICBM can be made solider and stronger than an inhabited satellite, but it must...
...Follet, who plays a lighthearted, vagrant air in counterpoint to the heavier orchestration. Death, to Rufus, is scarcely more complex than the other riddles flung at him each waking day-the nagging puzzle of why he should not speak about the black color of a Negro maid's skin; or why the older boys on their way to school solemnly ask his name and then go into fits of inexplicable laughter; or why a woman will suddenly become so very fat; or who is God. The boy's sense of loss is inextricably mixed with a sense...
Fire Under Her Skin, a French import no doubt better suited for domestic consumption, is one of the most egregiously bad films to be shown in Cambridge in recent years. The plot is muddled, disjointed, turgid, improbable; the entire production, heavy, unamusing, and completely pointless. It is, in all, a careless potpourri of violence and cheap melodrama interspersed with frequent sex scenes as raw and explicit as the censor will allow...
Fire Under Her Skin definitively proves that the "realism" of De Sica, Fellini, and others has become a stock formula and has lost the wonderful freshness that it once seemed to possess. All the inevitable ingredients are here, the triangle--or is it a pentagon--of passions, the sensitive man who kills the thing he loves, etc., replete with much fondling and other fine Gallic touches. Of course the "unhappy ending" has become stock too, with the usual frustrations, murders, and general cataclysm. The plot is so implausible that the outcome seems apparent before this charming idyll has ground through...