Word: treeing
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...Kipling's cobras--she reads greedily. She also loves Bible stories, for their morbid, operatic horror; in her yard, she stages Passion plays, in which she stars as Jesus, serving Ritz crackers and grape Fanta as the Last Supper and acting out Christ's capture at Gethsemane beneath the tree where Robin was hanged...
...former Soviet city, the capital of Bishkek is surprisingly lush and green. A stroll around town reveals numerous tree-filled parks surrounding large public buildings ranging from the monstrously Soviet to the stately. These include a functioning, if not always full, opera house. Another surprise is the abundance of Soviet relics still on display. Near the deserted State Historical Museum?inside, a gory ceiling mural depicts class warfare?Vladimir Lenin zealously points the way forward...
...mountains of Binh Dinh and sank into the rice paddies in the valleys below. An ancient Citro?n spun its wheels on the muddy track, in a scene that would bring Fowler to a rebel leader's camp in the Vietnam of 1953. Suddenly Noyce shouted and pointed at a tree line: "Somebody do something about those kids!" Two boys had climbed some bamboo trees and were swaying at the top, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon-style. Very cute, but it ruined the shot. A translator pleaded for the children to come down. Noyce folded his hands on top of his bowed...
...life takes surreal twists. So do the lives of the characters in her films. Morvern, which opens in the U.K. on Nov. 1, tells the story of a supermarket drudge in a Scottish seaside town who wakes up one Christmas morning to find her boyfriend dead beneath the Christmas tree, among the presents he wrapped for her before slitting his wrists. She opens the presents, smokes a lot and cries a little, pulls on her new leather jacket and leaves to meet her best friend Lanna for a night of drink, drugs and sex with strangers. On her return, Morvern...
...uncle, two cousins and a family friend—mounted motorbikes driven by local men parked near the bank. These drivers sat here daily, dirtied by mud and sweat, eager to collect their fee of 2,500 Vietnamese Dong (roughly 17 cents). We bumped down dirt roads, ducking as tree branches swung at our heads, and were eventually dropped off in a field of tall grass. Somewhere past this field Ông Ngoai (Grandfather) was resting on the farm he cultivated as a young man—the same farm where my mother was born, the third of eight...