Word: bleakness
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...bubbles without fuming is gratifying to audiences who are waiting to see Herr Alexander Korda (director) and Frau Marie Corda (actress)* in a forthcoming screen version of The Private Life of Helen of Troy. The heroine of Madame Wants No Children is a newlywed French wife whom the bleak sphinx, Venetian gondolas and an uxorious spouse cannot dislodge from night clubs. Even at home in Paris her life is a succession of jazz blares, pale lights and glittering stuffed shirts. Eventually, however, she joggles down to productive domesticity, mindful that when Baby does arrive, she will have her own night...
...only sympathize with the unfortunates. Theirs is an unhappy lot; left alone, or very nearly so to struggle with the Teutonic ogre, their misery demands the pity of their more fortunate brothers. Life for others is a medley of train schedules and sailing dates; for them it is a bleak and barren desert of modul auxiliaries...
...seascapes. He does no portrait work on order. Nor does he paint for a living. He lives first and paints afterward. His last trip was to Ireland. Consequently his recent exhibition at the Wildenstein galleries, Manhattan, was a collection of Irish crags, cliffs, inscrutable waves, symbolical shadows, all stark, bleak, sternly ecstatic. Some critics deplore Artist Kent's dearth of variety-"his gaunt monotonous forms are always inflexibly the same." All critics admire his virile compositions, his color effects. In his art they perceive that however repetitious his works, they are all like the man himself, boldly individualistic. Since...
...this book Mrs. Millin untangles the dark pattern of its sound. Going as far back as the legendary days when Phoenician sailors stared at the bleak Cape coasts, and going into the forests where the natives have the roots of their semi-civilization, she has brought to her study of the contemporary situation a wide and valuable background...
...coupe at his factory laboratories at Dearborn, Mich., pointed the car's nose toward his home, half a mile away. Driving at his customary 25 miles per hour, even though the Chicago-Detroit highway was comparatively empty, he had nothing to vex him but a drizzling rain and a bleak landscape. Suddenly, as he crossed the Rouge River bridge, he heard the roar of a big car behind him and a Studebaker drew up alongside, smashed into him, sped on toward Detroit. Mr. Ford's Ford spun around crazily, bounced over a six-inch curb, tumbled down a 15-foot...