Word: moone
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...Written 60 to 80 years ago, mostly for forgotten shows and movies, these bouncy, brittle, worldly and world-weary tunes - "Manhattan," "Blue Moon," "My Funny Valentine," "Where or When," "The Lady Is a Tramp, "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered," dozens more - sound both today and timeless. They sing (with confident wit) and speak (with confidential despair) about tough hearts ready to break, melt or explode. Rodgers' melodies get you humming, then dreaming, but the subject and style of these songs, their matter and meter, come straight from Hart's heart...
...given orders to the likes of Paul Newman and Tom Hanks, Sam Mendes hardly cuts an imposing figure. The soft-spoken, moon-faced Englishman who directed Road to Perdition and American Beauty, which won Best Director and Best Picture Oscars, is more Cambridge humanities lecturer than drill sergeant: he pays attention to his actors' needs. "Tom is freer in front of the camera, wants to improvise more," Mendes explains. "Paul needs to be more precise, to know exactly what you want." Neither man seems a natural choice for the hard-boiled '30s gangsters they play in Perdition, but Mendes relished...
...bass player for British Invasion rock group the Who; of an apparent heart attack; in a hotel room in Las Vegas. Called by many the most influential bassist in rock's history, he held the band's rhythm together with a less bombastic and more disciplined style than Keith Moon's drumming or Pete Townshend's guitar. His songs for the group included My Wife and Boris the Spider...
...hearty and simple, which was just fine as during those days of utter relaxation I wanted nothing to do with gourmet meals and complicated sauces. After dinner we retreated to the comfortable chairs, pillows and mattresses piled on the foredeck to lose ourselves in the stars and watch the moon set over Selayar's hills...
...final night of our trip we had reached the northern tip of the island, and the moon was full. To celebrate we supped onshore, grilling freshly speared fish over a bonfire. After dinner and lazy conversation, my fellow escapees wandered the beach or plunged back into the warm waters for a farewell swim. My four-day getaway was over, and as the Marco Polo turned back to Bira, Engel's early observation continued to haunt me. I could always get a boat and set up shop on my own little island. Nobody would ever find me. That knowledge would...