Word: throatedly
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SEANCE ON A WET AFTERNOON. A throat-drying English thriller, built around Kim Stanley's subtly menacing performance as a deranged medium whose "voices" tell her to kidnap a child...
...been fired before, but the fuel burned so evenly, and its outside layers were such a serviceable insulator, that all parts of the steel casing remained at air temperature. The nozzle was meant to erode slightly as the corrosive exhaust gases raced out at supersonic speed. But after its throat cooled, the big nozzle looked almost new; about half an inch had been tooled smoothly away as if by a delicate grinding machine. If X rays show no internal damage, the nozzle can be used again...
...burden falls to O'Toole, whose best lines are in his clean-cut profile and whose mannerisms parody his flashy style in Lawrence of Arabia and Becket. Each time his manhood is tested, O'Toole's eyes fill with tears and a hand drifts to his throat as if to ward off a fainting spell. Everything he does looks intensely talented. But it hardly ever looks like Lord...
Indeed, it was more a condition than a voice-something like three parts fog to one part frog. A doctor, upon hearing him for the first time, rushed up to caution: "With a throat like that, you should be home in bed." But that hoarse, honey-cured quality carried a certain tranquilizing caress that was his vocal signature and sustained him admirably through the years while legions of belters and bleaters flourished and died. With moistened lips and a flashing, yard-wide smile, he let a song uncurl from his cavernous mouth with the nonchalance of a man blowing smoke...
...judge by his poetry, Larkin is anything but brown and passionless. Larkin has blood in his eye and a shout in his throat, but his emotions are caged in an iron ordinariness of language, and the cage is caged in an intricate grille of rhyme and meter. By dint of prodigious effort and still more prodigious skill, Larkin marvelously merges form and content. The bars and his imprisoned emotions disappear; in their stead a poem stands...