Word: boring
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Drumbeats. One of his first duties, however, was to join with the rest of Cairo in honoring his dead friend. The day after his appointment, he took his place in the mile-long procession behind Nokrashy's immediate family and the gun carriage that bore the flagdraped coffin. The coffin was preceded by a magnificent Arab stallion whose rider tolled the funeral step on two giant, richly brocaded drums. Behind came units of Egypt's armed forces, members of the diplomatic corps wearing bright tarbooshes and sashes, and notable sheiks in brocaded turbans and gowns glistening with gold...
...gentleman." He loved good company, drank with relish but not to excess (the capacity of New York City's "toapers" astonished and disgusted him), and never missed a pretty face or a stayless figure. If anyone could rile him more thoroughly than a long-winded bore, it was a religious fanatic, and the inns of colonial America seemed to be cluttered with both types...
Jenny Kissed Me (by Jean Kerr; produced by James Russo, Michael Ellis and Alexander H. Cohen in association with Clarence M. Shapiro) is a cheery little bore that needs more art in its artlessness. It tells of a crotchety parish priest who, tired of having his housekeeper's solemn, scrubbed-looking niece around the rectory, sets about sprucing her up as a means to getting her spliced. In the end, he succeeds in transforming her into such a glamor girl that she gets the very man she wants...
Billy Rose, kinetic little man about Broadway, did a double take. After the first-night performance of Light Up the Sky (TIME, Nov. 29), he had admitted in print that it was "fast" and "funny." But a couple of Moss Hart's cast of caricatures bore a striking resemblance to Billy and wife Eleanor Holm; Billy simmered for a few days, then went back for a second look. This time, he reported with satisfaction, the capacity audience wasn't finding nearly so much to laugh at. "Opening night yaks were being greeted by yawns." Billy's diagnosis...
Last week it bore small fruit when Nurse Helen Maud Rowe took the baby for an outing on a footpath, pushing Elizabeth's old royal-blue pram. Cameras with telephoto lenses clicked furiously. But the pictures showed more pram than prince. Two days later one snapped a picture that showed the top of the prince's head (see cut). Then the royal family requested editors to call off their men. A reporter remonstrated with a lady pressagent at Buck House about the royal family's impregnable reserve. "After all," she retorted, "it is a private matter, really...