Word: starks
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...would they do this for us?" wondered Gerhardt Clauss, 61, a former German infantryman who was seeing the tiny north-woods town of Stark, N.H., for the first time since 1946. Clauss, now a prosperous businessman in north Germany, shook his head, surprised by the brass band, the drill team and bagpiper, the signs announcing GERMAN-AMERICAN FRIENDSHIP DAY. On the other hand, why had Clauss, four other former prisoners and an assortment of wives, friends and children come all the way to Stark...
Perhaps the technicolor brilliance of his work is so that he could see it better, because neither the coloring nor the scenes bears much resemblance to the stark cinematography in the film. If I did not know the creator's name, I might think this book was the work of some mad German Expressionist who overdosed on Van Gogh paintings and samurai movies. A really good mad German Expressionist, I should...
Bonner, who returned to the U.S.S.R. on June 2, writes with stark directness of life under the baleful eye of the Committee for State Security, better known as the KGB (Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti). A policeman is posted outside the door to the Sakharovs' Gorky apartment virtually round the clock. They cannot step outdoors without a KGB escort. They are denied a telephone (they use pay booths or a special phone center). Because of jamming, they must go to the edge of town, where reception is good, to listen to the radio. There are touching moments of warmth between "Andryusha...
...stage is dressed in stark white, the screen shows bizarre close-ups of fish, and the soundtrack makes it sound as if these fish are screaming every time they open their mouths to breathe. A propulsive and eerie score is then joined by a multi-voiced reading of the Austrian writer Peter Handke's Prophecy. A series of isolated and unpleasant predictions like "the flies will die like flies, the open wound will fester like an open wound" echo throughout the theater...
Call it revolutionary theater. Five black men, heads shaved and clad in khaki prison fatigues, fling themselves across a small stage, jumping, singing, spitting their way through a series of stark, spotlighted vignettes of life in their native South Africa. Then, without warning, they turn on the audience, fingers pointed. "It's not only about the rent increase," hisses one. "It's not only about the vote. It's not only about the bloody passbooks . . . What is it?" Silence, broken by a few nervous giggles. "Stand up!" The actor glares at a confused ticket holder in the front row. "What...