Word: greys
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From Boston to Baltimore, smog's grey, grimy pall settled in for three days and nights, frightening residents with the specter of killer fogs such as those that had claimed up to 4,000 lives in London in 1952 and 240 in New York a year later. All the elements for another lethal siege were at hand...
...living link to the period in Weill's widow, Actress Lotte Lenya, with her cynical eyes and big-city-scarred voice. Set this musical by committee in a chic-sleazy nightspot called the Kit Kat Klub, supply a rouged M.C. played with androgynous guile by Joel Grey, bring on hip-roiling, braless chorines with soft-boiled smiles and any kind of love for sale, orchestrate it all to the flesh tones of insinuative tenor saxes, and the atmosphere is complete. It's as vivid and sexy as aboriginal...
French for a Lifetime. With the next volume taking up all of her time, Julia has stopped taping The French Chef, plans to wait until color comes to educational TV before resuming it, because "I'm tired of grey food." Meanwhile, the program is being run and rerun on a rapidly increasing number of stations. Encouraged by the show's phenomenal success, Boston educational station WGBH-TV plans a new program on Chinese cooking presided over by Joyce Chen, Cambridge restaurant owner, cookbook author and teacher. Already, 80 stations have inquired about carrying the show as soon...
...Columnist Walter Lippmann, 77, insisted that a new isolationism was sweeping the world, making obsolete the U.S. commitment in Viet Nam. Not surprisingly, on his vacation Lippmann found his judgment confirmed. In the first columns he has written since his return, Lippmann portrayed today's Europeans as a grey, inhibited lot. "They do not have the ambition to participate in history and to shape the future. Their state of mind is marked by a vast indifference to big issues, and there is a feeling that they are incompetent to do much about the big issues." Modern men, Lippmann...
...notorious Victorian criminal-lack the Ripper. The confrontation contains some bloody-awful picture possibilities, and Director James Hill (Born Free) has the wit to explode them as he exploits them. The bloodiest, of course, are presented by those scenes in which the Ripper, swathed in the sort of corpse-grey fog the last century called a "London particular," glides up to a luckless trollop, and with a knife at least as big as the minute hand on Big Ben opens the poor girl from 'ere to 'ere. At such moments Hill hoses the screen with such a preposterous...