Word: spectral
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...suspense novel. As Crash Davis, the bush-league catcher in 1988's Bull Durham, he found charm in cynicism and anchored the first hit baseball movie in a dozen years. And as Ray Kinsella in the current Field of Dreams -- the Iowa farmer who hears spectral pleas of pain, builds a ball park in his cornfield and follows the voices back to his childhood heart -- Costner, 34, has touched filmgoers with an E.T. for adults...
Like the journey of the spectral Flying Dutchman, the legendary ship condemned to ply the seas endlessly, the voyage of the freighter Pelicano seemed destined to last forever. For more than two years, it sailed around the world seeking a port that would accept its cargo. Permission was denied and for good reason: the Pelicano's hold was filled with 14,000 tons of toxic incinerator ash that had been loaded onto the ship in Philadelphia in September 1986. It was not until last October that the Pelicano brazenly dumped 4,000 lbs. of its unwanted cargo off a Haitian...
What about Hart, that simultaneously brash and spectral presence who seems to symbolize the Democratic doldrums? His long-awaited first joint appearance with his Democratic rivals came last Friday night at a debate sponsored by the Des Moines Register. But instead of fireworks, there was only fizzle. Moderator James Gannon opened with the predictable adultery question, and Hart rattled off his polished yet somewhat jarring apologia: "We have never expected perfection from our leaders, and I don't think we should begin now." He added, "I'm a sinner, but my religion tells me that all of us are sinners...
...last spoken by Bob Johnson, 54, a gentle, white-haired man who practices his spiritual arts in a modest apartment in midtown New York City. Now his eyes are half shut, unseeing, and when he next speaks, in a strangely clipped Irish accent, he represents a "tutelage" of spectral beings from Alpha Centauri, the nearest of the stars...
...foreground, a head and shoulders staring mournfully out of the space like a resigned cousin of the figure in Munch's Scream; for no clear reason the lower half of the body is left standing up behind it, like a pair of empty waders, in the bland spectral light of what appears to be an indoor swimming pool. At such moments Rothenberg's imagery delivers the jolt and reach of feeling one associates with the poetry of Sylvia Plath. She is unquestionably one of the signal artists of our confused time...