Word: velvets
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...even has a parking lot. Flea Market stalls now sell for as much as $50,000 each and are often manned by antique dealers from the fashionable faubourgs, St.-Germain and St.-Honore. Their wares are mostly remarkable for their prices. On sale there last week was a velvet dog under glass for $100, a screen commemorating the 1900 Floradora Sextet for $80, a portrait of Lord Kimberley on glass for $160 and a small silver-plated coin case...
...pouring in ad money disproportionately to sales until a new product gets to the point, as a P. & G. executive puts it, where "it brings home the duck to dinner." The success of this formula makes P. & G. confident that the unfamiliar products it is test-marketing today-Velvet Skin soap, Top Job liquid cleanser and The Max blue detergent tablet-will also become household words tomorrow, thanks to the power of advertising...
...Later, if it's all the same to you." And on the side of spectacle the picture provides plenty of snazzy swordsmanship and some attractive Eastman Color. In the last reel, indeed, the screen divulges an image of luminous splendor: in death the pallid Claudia, swathed in red velvet and shimmering with stolen gems, lies sleeping in the moonlight in a golden carriage, lies sleeping like a princess in a legend while her glowing hearse rolls richly through the darkness and sinks down down down into the still black crystal of a forest pool...
...only Carpetbagger exhaling unpolluted air is Broadway Actress Elizabeth Ashley. Given an insipid role as the cast-off wife who keeps stumbling over platinum blondes in Peppard's hotel suites, she turns her rough-velvet charm to advantage in a performance that bleach cannot beat. Peppard himself works manfully to conquer the handicaps of a script climaxed by preposterous revelations fraught with pop psychology, an excess that even the book avoided. Seems Peppard isn't such a bad sort, after all. He became rich, ruthless and depraved because his father had hated him ever since-ah, well. Presumably...
...ever a feller needed a friend, it was Willie. And sure enough, a guardian angel appeared: Jacob Shemano, 51, president of San Francisco's Golden Gate National Bank. Jake Shemano looks more like a Hollywood Buddha than a banker; he favors green velvet shirts, smokes English Ovals like he was trying to give up Bantron, and originally became a good friend of Willie Mays, he explains, because "I am a very athletically inclined person myself." By mid-1963, he had talked Mays into depositing every cent of his $105,000 salary into the trust department of Golden Gate National...