Word: criticizing
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Cleveland's plaque, not terra cotta but marble, was discovered and owned originally by a Parisian antiquary and art critic named Eugene Piot. In 1864 Critic Piot sold it to a fellow pamphleteer, Charles Timbal. During the post-war depression of 1870, the entire Timbal collection went to Gustave Dreyfus, a French engineer who made money out of the Suez Canal. In its turn the Dreyfus collection went up for auction in Paris. It was bought in its entirety by Sir Joseph Duveen. The Cleveland Museum, which had already picked several choice morsels at the dispersal of the Guelph...
Face the Music slows up toward the end by the sheer weight of its extravagance in a courtroom scene in the Earl Carroll manner, but it would be a churlish critic indeed who would not admit that it is the most impressive musical show in town and one of the two funniest...
...County if you do not make a speech about it. It is even more prudent, if you live in New York City and are a writer with a flair for succoring the oppressed, not to try either. One who knows this now is Waldo Frank, 42, globe-trotting lecturer, critic (Our America), novelist (City Block), journalist (for the New Republic and New Masses...
...Notably absent from the entourage was Author Dos Passes, who was off in Mexico. Corliss Lamont, philosophy professor at Columbia University and son of Banker Thomas William Lamont, said he had expected to go along but was too busy. However, Mr. Frank's party mustered Edmund ("Bunny") Wilson, literary critic; Editor Malcolm Cowley of the New Republic; drowsey-eyed Mary Heaton Vorse who reports labor troubles better than she writes novels; Playwright Harold Hickerson; Charles Walker, admired for a book called Steel; a 60-year-old Greenwich Village doctor named Elsie Reed Mitchell and a handful of scriveners...
...solve this crime is Actor Charles Laughton, who made this season's grim Payment Deferred almost too real. This time Mr. Laughton is cast as the famed French operative Hercule Poirot. His accent is good, his mumming of characteristic meticulousness. Either Author Christie or Reviser John Anderson, capable theatre critic of the New York Journal, has supplied one crowning touch of veracity to the French mastermind's lines. He never becomes sufficiently acquainted with De Brett's Peerage to learn that Sir Roger, the murderee, is not called Sir Ackroyd. The Fatal Alibi is wan in spots, but the last...