Word: postman
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DIED. NEIL POSTMAN, 72, spirited social critic and New York University professor who formulated thought-provoking warnings on TV and other mass media; of lung cancer; in New York City. In more than 17 books and 200 articles, he cast a critical eye on the "information revolution," warning that its onslaught could lead to "culture death...
...days, though, it's almost as if the star is back in the minors. Costner's last film with robust earnings, 1995's Waterworld, was a chaotic venture ("Kevin's Gate," critics called it) and the most expensive movie ever made at the time. His last big western, The Postman, in 1997, was seen as a risible catastrophe by most critics (and by a few, like this one, as an ornery and stirring achievement). His last six films together earned less at the domestic box office than the Oscar-winning 1990 Dances with Wolves...
DIED. HUME CRONYN, 91, wiry, perfectionist actor who infused his ordinary, often cranky characters with bubbling intensity; of prostate cancer; in Fairfield, Conn. An amateur boxer in his native Canada, he first won acclaim for his vivid portrayals in such films as The Postman Always Rings Twice (as a Machiavellian lawyer) and Brute Force (as a sadistic prison guard). He often appeared with his wife of 52 years, Jessica Tandy, who died in 1994. Their teamwork spanned nearly half a century--in films from The Seventh Cross in 1944 (as a couple aiding an escapee from the Nazis...
...industry's political and moral arbiter, called on Joseph Breen, a prominent Catholic, to enforce a rigorous production code. Studios rushed to sanitize some projects (West got married at the end of Belle of the Nineties) and dump others (MGM had to wait 12 years to film The Postman Always Rings Twice). Moviegoers that summer Sunday may have been shocked by the sudden absence of shocking dialogue and situations. But filmmakers evolved a new "code," one that traded starkness for subtlety. Audiences quickly learned this covert language in which a woman's knowing smile was its own double entendre...
...disrespecting male would do. I lie. I call myself a rich lawyer and sit down with "Sugarmuffin," the prettiest of my seven dates. Sadly, her own job as a legal secretary throws up too many unanswerable questions about mine. Saved by the bell, I shuffle off and become a postman for a final three minutes with "Wild Cat." She didn't deliver, either. Deciding that speed dating is nothing more than a novel way to offload three minutes of verbal garbage, I move on to salsa dancing. But after a succession of mute partners with a phobia for physical contact...