Word: faked
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...Sidney Joseph Perelman first began publishing his superbly crafted hilarity in the pages of The New Yorker. The magazine's readers soon developed a tart tooth for Perelman's brand of satire, a mix of burlesque and Joycean wordplay boldly colored by a fastidious disdain for the fake, the tawdry and the pompous. Even the titles of Perelman's "bits of embroidery," as he called his pieces, set new boundaries for comic absurdity: Somewhere a Roscoe; Beat Me, Post-Impressionist Daddy; Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, Enough; Insert Flap "A" and Throw Away; No Starch...
...Ramones themselves--bird-like Joey, Johnny with the hair over his eyes, and the other two--steal this scene, and the others they're in. They come across as comical, friendly, even beneficent, despite the leather and fake frozen sneers. A full-fledged Ramones movie starring the band--a sort of latter-day Hard Day's Night--would have made a lot more sense than what director Allan Arkush has given...
Those afflicted with the syndrome (named after Baron Münchhausen, an 18th century raconteur whose tales of adventure made his name synonymous with exaggeration) are driven to immerse themselves in hospital dramas. With a combination of medical knowledge and dramatic flair, victims produce or fake symptoms so skillfully that they are admitted to hospitals, treated and often operated on for nonexistent disorders...
...disability, a neurological disorder that affected his upper torso and arms and conceivably could have spread to other parts of his body. That made it easy for him to feign numbness wherever and whenever he chose. But he also could use medical jargon to describe the symptoms he could fake so well. When he suffered his frequent temporary losses of speech, he compensated by writing a technical account of his medical and personal history. These invariably included the fact that all his relatives had met violent deaths at the hands of I.R.A. "bombers and gunmen" -which made it difficult...
Though Brook has brought more new ideas to the stage than any other contemporary director, his film-making skills remain primitive; even his adaptations of his own brilliant theater productions (King Lear, Marat/Sade) have been flat. Here he is hobbled by lapses in continuity, fake-looking studio sets and a multinational cast. The scenery, much of it shot in Afghanistan, is breathtaking, but the photography is routine. What is needed is some sort of theatricality-if not the forthright vulgarity of DeMille, then at least the romanticism of David Lean. With its incongruous mix of radical content and stodgy style...