Word: song
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Dates: during 1980-1980
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...voices were raised in song. There were gasps of wonder as visitors to the California Museum of Science in Los Angeles came upon a cluster of eight fantastic gilded angels, each 28 ft. tall and cunningly wrought out of glass, steel, bits of tapestry and even animal bones. The angels, created by Sculptor Tony Duquette and illuminated by hundreds of flickering votive candles, helped commemorate the 200th anniversary of the City of Angels...
...taken pains lately to redefine details of his collaboration with Paul, and to make sure credit was distributed accurately. The melodic range of the music ran from marching band to rhythm and blues, from tonal stunt flying to atonal acrobatics, once in a while all in the same song. The Beatles sang ballads that could almost be Elizabethan, rockers that still sound as if they come from the distant future, and it was hard to peg all that invention to any single source. Lennon joked about walking into a restaurant and being saluted by the band with a rendition...
BORN. To Lucie Désirée Arnaz, 29, actress (Broadway's They're Playing Our Song) and daughter of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, and her husband of six months, Actor Laurence Luckinbill, 46: a son, her first, his third; in Los Angeles. Name: Simon Thomas. Weight...
...praise to Wayne Fitzgerald and David Oliver, who devised this witty, vivacious credit sequence, and to Dolly Parton for composing and singing the title song. Alas, it consumes only 2½ minutes of Colin Higgins' slapstick sermon on job equality. The rest of the film is misjudged and malign. Higgins has little more to tell us about the personalities of his three secretaries than those first alarm clocks did: Judy (Jane Fonda) is square, Doralee (Dolly Parton) is frilly, Vi (Lily Tomlin) is sensible. Together, though, they are a Stenographic catastrophe; they'd lose the quick-brown...
...again? Artists and conartists have spent the past decade replaying and reworking "the Viet Nam experience," reporting it and satirizing it, sending it up an apocalyptic river, holding it to our conscience like The Deer Hunter's revolver. It's over, already. We've heard that song, memorized it, sung it in our sleep, are sick unto bloody death...