Word: written
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...irai cracher sur vos tombes (I'll Spit on Your Graves), played at four Parisian theaters last week to enthusiastic reviews. But those who had read the novel from which the movie was made should have realized that it was a phony from the start. The Spitter was written 13 years ago by Boris Vian (a civil engineer by day, a jazz trumpeter in a Left Bank cave by night); its publishers claimed that it was a translation from a U.S. novel by one Vernon Sullivan. The public loved its fake sociology and integrated lust, but when police found...
...extremely unusual stage. The audience completely surrounds the stage area, sort of in the style of a diminished Yale Bowl. Further, there are very few rows of seats, so nowhere are you more than a few feet from the actors. As the large majority of modern plays are written for the proscenium stage, or the room with three walls, as someone once called it, there are distinct problems of staging at Tufts. One of the most obvious of these is how to point your actors. On the proscenium stage there is no problem, you point them toward the audience. When...
...extracted from it; he doesn't even live up to his own last name. Michael Wager acts a suitably foolish Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and looks ridiculous in his red and azure clothes and yellow gloves. John Karlen makes the most of the servant Fabian, the one badly written role in the play...
France's grueling baccalaureate exam, the pre-university hurdle founded by Napoleon 151 years ago, has been a nightmare for secondary-school students ever since. The "bachot"' is a double headache: up to three days of stiff written exams, one appalling day of ten successive 10-minute oral exams by ten gimlet-eyed professors. Those who fail in June (65%) get another chance in September; those who fail then (80%) stay at school another year. Notable first-round failures: Anatole France, Alphonse Daudet, Andre Gide, Franchise Sagan. Though some brave bachot bumblers repeat the year as many...
...creature at the peak of womanhood, she stands dressed in mourning, dramatically pointing to the sand by her toes. On her pointing finger is a ring inscribed with Goya's name. On her middle finger is another ring inscribed with the duke's. She points to something written in the sand, facing her, and that something has always seemed to be the one word, "Goya...