Word: unrealness
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...movie people are as unreal as their medium makes them. Carter makes his reputation by callously digging into Maria's past and releasing her photographed emotions as his first film. A talk-show panelist calls it "an existential performance." (It couldn't be Maria's life anymore.) But the manipulation goes deeper. A woman watching T.V. footage of her house sliding into the ocean comments on the good camerawork. Early in the movie while the camera pass the desert and finally settles on a God-forsaken huddle of buildings. Maria's voice-over tells us that she grew...
With expectations so high, the talks had begun in a kind of unreal, Hellzapoppin' atmosphere. Journalists camped outside the ornate U.S. embassy residence (a former Rothschild mansion), waiting for the American team to emerge. Inside, an uncomfortable-looking Marine-improbably disguised in a Cardin suit-stood guard at the door to Kissinger's bedroom. Early in the week, motorcycle-borne photographers had tracked the negotiators' limousines in a wild cross-country pursuit to their secret meeting place in the Paris exurb of Gif-sur-Yvette: a two-story, tile-roofed villa. A gallery of photographers...
Such may become the marginalia of history if George is elected. But at the moment the children are too busy to look very far ahead. As Susan Rowen says: "We're very involved in the campaign. Living in the White House, or visiting it, is just too unreal...
There is a class of men-shadowy, unhappy, unreal-looking men-who gather in coffee houses, and play with a desire that dieth not, and a fire that is not quenched. These gather in clubs and play tournaments...but there are others who have the vice who live in country places, in remote situations-curates, schoolmasters, tax collectors-who must needs find some artificial vent for their mental energy...
...players and their seconds now gathered in Reykjavik for the world championship match are neither shadowy nor unreal-looking men, and they are only occasionally unhappy. The same is true of the millions round the world whose imaginations have been fired by the battle of the giants, Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky. They gather in chess clubs, if they are seasoned aficionados, or in front of the TV in the corner bar, or around a transistor radio if they are out in the boondocks. They scream instructions, encouragement or abuse at the contestants with all the futile energy of spectators...