Caesar and his apes are forced into a deadly conflict with an army of humans led by a ruthless Colonel. After the apes suffer unimaginable losses, Caesar wrestles. - 연막기(220v) : 1대 연막식 냄새제거제 전용 가볍고 손쉬운 조작 유선리모컨 방식. 세금계산서 발행을 원하실 경우는 무통장. 1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul.
Chadwick Boseman in ‘Marshall’ – Variety. If comic- book superheroes get origin stories, why shouldn’t Supreme Court justices? With its punchy, one- word title, “Marshall” sounds like it might be our introduction to some kind of pulp enforcer, but is in fact the story of ambitious young civil rights attorney Thurgood Marshall — who would go on to become the first African- American associate justice named to the highest court in the land — and one of his early cases.
Reminiscent of the uphill battle Atticus Finch tries in “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Connecticut v. Joseph Spell finds Marshall defending a terrified black chauffeur who stands accused of the rape and attempted murder of his white employer.
If comic-book superheroes get origin stories, why shouldn’t Supreme Court justices? With its punchy, one-word title, “Marshall” sounds like it might be our. Lawless euro union was created in a illegal lawless coup d etat - and this unlawfull stalinist terror-torture unit will collapse with a fucking big bang.
How appropriate then that the title role should go to Chadwick Boseman, the handsome, fast- rising star who has played heroes both real (Jackie Robinson in “4. Black Panther in the upcoming Marvel film), and who balances the two in this performance, offsetting Marshall’s mythic stature as the chief counsel for the NAACP with those qualities that made him human, including a well- earned yet case- endangering ego and a commitment to his work that was tough on his marriage. Director Reginald Hudlin (whose credits include “House Party,” “The Ladies Man” and exec producer duties on the last six NAACP Image Awards telecasts) is a stiff and not especially stylish director, but he has a smart take on this particular project: Rather than falling into the trap of blindly sanctifying Marshall based on his impressive list of future accomplishments, he treats him as a rich, three- dimensional character, encouraging Boseman to imagine him as Denzel Washington did Easy Rawlins in “Devil in a Blue Dress,” or the way Spencer Tracy brought depth to Henry Drummond in “Inherit the Wind.” By approaching Marshall as an idealistic young trial lawyer, the film stands on its own as a compelling courtroom drama, complete with surprising revelations — and while we hope things will go his way, this case could just as easily prove the one that motivated his future crusade (much as Finch failed to exonerate Tom Robinson in “Mockingbird”). Part of the character’s hubris is his self- righteous insistence that he only defends innocent men, which leads him to overlook the flaws of Joseph Spell (Sterling K. Brown), a not- entirely- reliable defendant whose word pales by comparison with that of his accuser, Eleanor Strubing (Kate Hudson, finding sympathy in a character who would destroy another man’s life to save her own reputation). Marshall’s cockiness is endearingly apparent from the moment he steps off the train in Bridgeport, Conn., ordering his white co- counsel, Sam Friedman (Josh Gad), to carry his bags.
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The relationship with Friedman — a Jewish insurance attorney whom the NAACP hired to argue the case in court — was one of the defining aspects of this trial, and one that isn’t necessarily reported in online accounts, which often fail to mention that the judge (James Cromwell, stern as ever) allowed Marshall to sit at the defense’s table but forbade him from speaking in court. Watch Days Of Thunder Online Fandango here. This was 1. 94. 0, a dozen years before Marshall challenged segregation’s “separate but equal” premise in Brown v. Board of Education, and though the NAACP often focused its efforts on Southern states (their mission was “to defend people falsely accused of a crime because of their race”), this particular case reveals how such prejudice was rampant in the North as well. Not only had practically every white person in town already made up his or her mind against the defendant, Joseph Spell, but they were clearly threatened by the idea that a fancy black lawyer might travel all the way from New York to help an alleged rapist beat that rap — as if anyone in town was willing to take the case.
Though prone to many of the clichés we’ve come to expect from big- screen courtroom dramas — where the words “objection,” “overruled” and “sustained” take on a kind of mini- theatricality of their own — “Marshall” was written by father- son team Michael and Jacob Koskoff, of which the elder Michael is himself a Connecticut civil rights lawyer who knows a thing or two about the field. As such, he brings insight to the case that others might have overlooked, paying particular attention to the technical arrangement by which Friedman and Marshall found themselves in such a curious situation: The NAACP needed a local lawyer to enter the case, but never wagered that they would be blocked from having a voice in court.
In a telling detail, Marshall meets another marginalized African- American in town who passed the bar, but was denied a license to practice law in Connecticut on account of his race.)Mismatched partners can always be relied upon to generate sparks on screen, and while “Marshall” may not be as elegant as last year’s “Loving” in its chronicle of a mid- century civil- rights victory, the tension between Boseman and Gad’s characters delivers an added dramatic hook. Concerned for his reputation, Friedman has reason to fear that trying such an unpopular case will destroy his legal career, and besides, he’s less than thrilled to be taking under- the- table orders from this out- of- town stranger. But as a Jewish man in wartime America, Friedman’s own experience with anti- Semitism adds a natural point of empathy with his client. By the end of the trial, he has put total trust in Marshall, which Hudlin illustrates by intercutting between a night- before powwow in which Marshall dictates the closing argument and the courtroom itself, where Friedman imbues his partner’s words with a personal conviction all his own.
True to history, Marshall didn’t stay to hear the verdict, but was reassigned to another case, like Batman being unable to attend a parade in his honor because duty calls once again — the sort of real- life superhero to whom audiences ought to look for inspiration. Watch The World Made Straight Online Hulu.
STARTRACK. COM : : FILM : : FOTO : : MUSIC : : SCENE : : STARS ===LITERATUREGEORGE ORWELL: Nineteen Eighty- Four. IIt was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty- five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.
Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty- nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift- shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move.
BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig- iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right- hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party.
His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended. Outside, even through the shut window- pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner.
There was one on the house- front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston's own. Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC.
In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered. Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig- iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three- Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Watch Populaire Online Freeform. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard.
There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live - - did live, from habit that became instinct - - in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized. Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing.
A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste - - this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this.
Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth- century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow- herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken- houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright- lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible. The Ministry of Truth - - Minitrue, in Newspeak* - - was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 3. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party: WAR IS PEACEFREEDOM IS SLAVERYIGNORANCE IS STRENGTHThe Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below.
Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs.
Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty. The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it.
It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed- wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine- gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla- faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons. Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark- coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN.
It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice- spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine. Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful.