Word: smells
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...rascally Gelnhausen. The discredited young man takes his leave, boldly promising the group that some day he will write a book: "But let no one expect mincing pastorals, conventional obituaries, complicated figure poems, sensitive soul-blubber, or well-behaved rhymes for church congregations. No, he would let every foul smell out of the bag; a chronicler, he would bring back the long war as a word-butchery, let loose gruesome laughter, and give the language license to be what it is: crude and softspoken, whole and stricken . . . but always drawn from the casks of life...
...arrive at Quincy in September with the same outgoing attitude and distinct sense of humor that helped him through high school and his freshman year at Harvard. "It'll be a really tight squeeze." Mattlin says of the wheelchair route to the Quincy House dining hall. "There's the smell of garbage, and you have to go through the kitchen," he adds, accurately but humorously...
...have at my internal demand every expertise known to our history ... I am the most ardent people-watcher who ever lived. I watch them inside me and outside. Past and present can mingle with odd impositions in me ... I lave extremely acute hearing and vision, plus a sense of smell extraordinarily dis criminating ... You cannot hide very much from my senses...
...love with her . . . or so it seems. Francine should have known something would go wrong. She has, literally, a nose for trouble-and so has the film. Polyester is the first motion picture in Odorama, a wondrous screen gimmick that allows the movie audience to smell what Francine does. Discretion and good taste preclude revelation of the specific odors unleashed here, but be warned: this film isn't rated R for roses...
Malle's characters are always cleaning themselves, washing their hands, trying to rid themselves of the soot and the smells of their city. In the film's opening shot, Sarandon goes through a ritual of purification that appears like a refrain through the movie: to remove the fish-smell from her body after her workday as an oyster-bar waitress, she squeezes lemon-halves over her arms, shoulders, chest and breasts. Dingily unerotic, bathed in orange light, the sequence seems more satanic than baptismal. It distills the almost misanthropic repulsion towards this city that guides Malle's direction: nothing...