Word: meredith
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...this new mood of reflection and self-criticism seemed to be translating into intelligent choices. Jason Robards, for his role as Washington Post managing editor Ben Bradlee in All the President's Men pulled the Best Supporting Actor prize from under the long nose of heart-strings favorite Burgess Meredith (who, we must conclude, kissed away all his chances of redeeming respectability when he played the Penguin in television's "Batman" series...
...there never was really any chance that incisive criticism or debate really would invade our great Sanctum of Superficiality. It would have been worse than sacriligious; it would have spoiled all the fun--you know, all the traditional fellow-felling. (We read Meredith's lips during the show calling Robards a "Greenwich Village fruit who promotes himself anyway he can, if you get my meaning.") That's what it looked like to us, at least...
...Landers lacks sufficient crustiness for a member of England's upper class. Landers, who like most of the rest of the cast has a good voice, repeatedly changes her character and looks as if she is surprised to be there every time she walks on stage. As an actress, Meredith Birdsall as Julia, the overprotected daughter who "could live 20 more years and still not be a normal girl of 21," is somewhat better. But Birdsall is too nervous on stage to feel comfortable with the role of the girl who doesn't feel quite comfortable with Sable...
...Cristina Raines likes her new apartment with its view of the Manhattan skyline, but the neighbors are a little strange. When she drops in for tea with the lesbians downstairs (Sylvia Miles and Beverly D'An-gelo), one of them masturbates in front of her. Fey old Burgess Meredith, who has a fixation on his cat and an unearthly gleam in his eye, drags her upstairs to a spooky party. At night somebody overhead stamps and clanks until Raines' chandeliers sway like a leftover set from The Exorcist. But then, what did she expect for $400 a month...
Soll subtitled "Clearfield" a "silent dance opera;" avant-garde choreographer Meredith Monk, who appeared at the Loeb last year, uses the same term to describe her art. In Monk's works there seems to exist a deeply-felt controlling image beyond the shifting motifs of the dance surface. I didn't sense any single undertow of meaning in "Clearfield," though perhaps Soll intended one. Rather, it seemed as if the dance began and ended in stillness, its images like whispers heard above a soft drone...