Word: wanderlied
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...director (Steve Coogan) decides to go for that verismo vibe: they'll finish the film with no crew around, only hidden cameras and surprise explosions. But a couple of things go wrong, and the stars, plus rapper-actor Chino (Brandon T. Jackson) and tyro talent Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel), wander into a real war with actual bad guys and live ammunition. Art meets life; schlock faces imminent death...
...million miles, so we're not invited to the bash. But the Village's "International Zone," home to dozens of shops, park space and a square where the Olympic flag-raising ceremony takes place, is more accessible and offers a taste of what life is like for an Olympian. Wander around and talk to enough athletes, and you'll sense that the Beijing Village is scoring high marks. The athletes' rooms are relatively spacious, and amenities like swimming pools are a nice touch. Despite the smog overhead, the trees and gardens spaced around the Village ensure a greener feel than...
Rado and Ragni scoured the streets of Greenwich Village for people with the right look. Early performances had an anarchic, anything-goes feel: some nights not enough actors would be onstage, and a cast member or two would have to double up on roles. Other nights total strangers would wander onto the stage and mingle with the regular cast...
...Blues I'm pretty sure this is a song from some upcoming Broadway show: it's mostly just a piano and lots of emotive singing. Axl should totally be a Broadway singer. He's got the range and the histrionics. Picture Mandy Patinkin singing this: "So now I wander through my day/ Tried to find my way/ To the feelings that I felt/ I saved for you and no one else/ And though as long as this road seems/ I know it's called the street of dreams/ But that's not stardust on my feet/ that leaves a taste...
...this. It is perhaps a testament to four years at Harvard that I enjoy sitting in empty studios early in the morning listening to nothing but the sound of my own voice, but I like to think that there’s something more to this masochistic urge to wander the streets of Cambridge at ungodly hours, carrying bags full of records I will play for an unknown and unresponsive audience. As I listen to the hollow sounds of people clapping at John Coltrane concerts on the LPs I’m spinning, I know it should be depressing that...