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On the plot side, they entirely skipped over the speculation about Horcruxes being objects of importance to Riddle, without which I have no idea how Harry and the rest will figure out what objects to search for (the cup, the diadem, etc). Minor pet peeves also include Harry not being bound by a spell while Dumbledore gets killed, but hiding out of sight (way out of character), and the random attack on and destruction of the Burrow.
Update: The picture above was created by this person using a scene from "The Prince and Me". I quite miss the old Dumbledore, who sat on the bed with Harry in the infirmary and ate an earwax jelly bean. Maria Venegas' memoir Bulletproof Vest opens with the story of her father's near death at the hands of would-be assassins in the Mexican state of Zacatecas. Warren Beatty and his Splendor in the Grass co-star Natalie Wood at the 1962 Academy Awards. Celebrity culture churns so fast these days that in his introduction to Star: How Warren Beatty Seduced America, writer Peter Biskind worries that no one under the age of 40 knows who Warren Beatty is. What dims Beatty's aura of greatness, of course, are the things that make Biskind's book such a compulsive and sometimes stunningly salacious read: Beatty's unrivaled escapades as a lady killer, and his central role in some of the most ignominious and expensive flops in Hollywood history. Peter Biskind's previous books a€” Easy Riders, Raging Bulls and Down and Dirty Pictures a€” focused on how filmmakers from outside Hollywood changed the establishment. Beatty's determination to shape his image and legacy caused him, in the opinion of some, to script his own rapid fade from the role of leading and ladies man. Chapter 5: Don Juan In Hell Shampoo opened on February 11, 1975, one of the worst times to release a picture, months too early for Oscar awareness.
Condoleezza Rice stands in front of the White House during a family trip to Washington, D.C.
The life of former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice is anchored by seminal events in U.S. Rice tells those stories in her new book, Extraordinary, Ordinary People, the first half of a planned two-book memoir. For instance, Rice recalls that the presence of police was a bad sign — and often a dangerous one.
Rice's first flight aboard Air Force One was in April 1989 while working for President George H.W.
Chapter One My parents were anxious to give me a head start in life — perhaps a little too anxious. Chapter One: Growing Up When my mother was well into her nineties, she announced that she had an important question for me and wanted an honest answer.
They managed to cram most of the book in (unlike "Order of the Phoenix", which if I recall correctly was butchered mercilessly).
This was such a cute picture of the two of them I had to include it, even though it seems to be from the fourth movie, and I don't recall that scene at all. And his backstory was such a nice counterpoint to all the stupid teen romance stuff - conceived via coersive love spell, etc.
But I do agree that I hate Daniel Radcliffe and the early Dumbledores was better and also, I was annoyed by just that little kiss between Harry and Ginny. I do agree that the first Dumbledore was A LOT better, but he died and we couldn't resurrect him for the films.
He's shot while returning home from a bar, collapses near his house, losing blood, dying, until a neighbor happens upon him during a walk. That sounds like the nail-biting anxiety of a journalist who spent the past decade sweating over a biography of the man.
In 1992, at age 54, the resolute bachelor with the graying movie-star looks married his Bugsy co-star Annette Bening and saw the birth of the first of their four children. My first memory of confronting them and in a way declaring my independence was a conversation concerning their ill-conceived attempt to send me to first grade at the ripe age of three. Each week, we present leading authors of fiction and nonfiction as they read from and discuss their work.
I steeled myself for something weighty, perhaps about whether I believed in heaven and hell. And Ron and Hermione were brilliant, in all respects, including their more developed romance. The Dumbledore 2.0 seems to be created to appropriate with the rushed story line, and thus he seems more rigid, tense, and always in a hurry. When Maria's sister calls to tell her the news, the young writer doesn't even look up from her lunch menu. NPR reserves the right to use the comments we receive, in whole or in part, and to use the commenter's name and location, in any medium. Still, it has been awhile since the spotlight shined on Beatty, who for much of the second half of the 20th century, was Hollywood's most rakish leading man and movie brat.
Intriguingly, each of those films was, to one degree or another, thrust into chaos and studio-destroying profligacy by the same Beatty neuroses and working methods that sparked his masterpieces: perfectionism, vanity, a theoretically constructive collaborative warfare he liked to call "hostile intelligences," and the need to manipulate and control everything and everyone around him. The commitment came shortly after his very public and probably humbling affair with a 20-years-younger Madonna, who razzed Beatty as the "old man" and equated his lovemaking to the "Minute Waltz." It's likely she was the first, and last, lover to turn the tables and make Beatty the pitiable plaything. My mother was teaching at Fairfield Industrial High School in Alabama, and the idea was to enroll me in the elementary school located on the same campus. He portrayed the wise and affectionate Dumbledore, not this angry man Dumbledore now is.And what the hell happened with the horcruxes???? And, also, I have read all the Harry Potter books a hundred times too, and they really are the best series of books ever written.
In their defense though I want to add that the movies would have been at least 3 or 4 hours long each.
He should have been elated a€” the studio was saved, he was going to be thrust into the limelight as this great executive a€” but he was totally shocked and depressed because his judgment was wrong. One of them, Denise McNair, was just a few years older than Rice, and had been a playmate of hers.
I don't know how they talked the principal into going along, but sure enough, on the first day of school in September 1958, my mother took me by the hand and walked me into Mrs. I think I am with most fans in that I liked the more faithful approach of the first two films (directed by Chris Columbus, screen play by Steve Kloves), I was befuddled by the darkness of the third film (directed by Alfonso Cuaron) and hated (and still do) the ridiculous portrayal of Dumbledore by Michael Gambon, who was brash, unpleasant, and spoke primarily in cheesy fortune cookie one-liners. This brings me nicely to the part of the movie that irked me the most - the Harry-Ginny relationship, or rather lack thereof.
He had put all of his bets on the other horse, The Fortune." The reviewers were mostly ecstatic, but under the sway of auteurism, and showing how little they knew about how films were actually made, they reflexively treated Shampoo as a "Hal Ashby" film.
I made my piece with the darker directing in "The Goblet of Fire" because let's face it, the books were getting darker too.
Harry is supposedly pining for Ginny, and though I knew he was supposed to be (having read the book), I saw no hint of it in the movie until Hermione asks Harry how it feels to be wanting Ginny and not being able to have her.
He's not so much an interesting character but a guy that shitty things keep happening to. Biskind a€” an impeccable reporter and the author of two indispensable modern-film histories, Down and Dirty Pictures and Easy Riders, Raging Bulls a€” puts the number of Beatty sexual conquests at 12,000, an alternately affectionate and lurid roundelay of partners that included Natalie Wood, Leslie Caron, Cher, Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn, Carly Simon, Diane Keaton, Mary Tyler Moore and Jackie O.
Vincent Canby wrote in The New York Times, "Hal Ashby's Shampoo remains the American film comedy of the year. But rather, believing, 'Well, you may not have been able to control those circumstances, but you could control how you reacted to your circumstances.' "Maybe that's a good story for people to know," she says.

Gambon was in rare form when he began snapping at students and even lunged at Harry at one point, shaking him violently while asking him a simple question. Miller (1971), Shampoo (1975), Heaven Can Wait (1978), Reds (1981), Bugsy (1991) a€” these are just the indisputable tours de force among Beatty's work as, variously, actor, writer, producer and director.
Born with what she calls a "fluke gene" that allowed her to take pleasure in food a€” even in a household that banned garlic a€” she was on the hunt for an authentic French cookbook. By that time, his daughter Maria has come to terms with him, almost a€” and the man whose life was dominated by violence embraces the sensitive, bright daughter whom he abandoned. Producer Hal Lieberman, Beatty's young assistant in 1977, used to wrangle the women who caught his boss' eye as they passed his office window on a Beverly Glen cul-de-sac. The road to their reunion a€” "reconciliation" seems a bit too pat, a bit too optimistic a€” isn't easy.
Often, Lieberman recalls, "they were less than plain, overweight and mustachioed." "You're Warren Beatty," Lieberman would say in exasperation. When, in the afterglow of their early warm embraces, his simultaneously brilliant and narcissistic subject was preening in the mirror, Biskind was furiously taking notes.
As the Rice family waited in line, her father, John, noticed that the white man portraying Santa was keeping black kids at arm's length, while putting white children on his knee. It's that difficult journey that Venegas chronicles so originally, so beautifully, in Bulletproof Vest. It was very conscious." She was susceptible to the blandishments of stars, especially star auteurs and glib writers who practiced on her vanity, dazzled her with their attention. But while the latest film is so fresh in my mind I shall make some points about it, all SPOILERS, so if you haven't read the books (and why on Earth not???) or haven't see the film yet, I would suggest you don't read ahead. Joan Collins called him the "most incredible person I've ever known for networking," and the extraordinary acquaintances and artistic collaborators he attracted a€” drawn in by Beatty's power and good looks, but also his inarguably fierce intellect, talent and charm a€” populate the book. No doubt to disguise the taste because what was underneath wasn't very fresh to begin with. There are only multiple stories, each with a thousand different layers and perspectives, and trying to weave them into something coherent is as close to impossible as anything else in literature. If any woman had shown up from the Partisan Review, they would have commented on how beautiful she was. The Tenth Muse discusses her other culinary finds, which include Claudia Roden (Middle Eastern food), Lidia Bastianich (Italian), Joan Nathan (Jewish) and Edna Lewis (Southern).
Rose Bird was the chief justice of the California Supreme Court, widely condemned for her liberal death penalty decisions, and ultimately run off the court. Not only was garlic banned, onions were permitted only when a lamb stew was being prepared, for which two or three well-boiled small white onions per person were deemed appropriate. Warren and Jack told her she was glamorous and sexy, a hot babe, and if that isn't a turn on to a woman who has spent most of her life in law school, nothing is. Instead, Rice says, they did other things to show their support — like boycotting certain stores and refusing to give student protesters' names to state authorities. They were convinced that education was a kind of armor shielding me against everything — even the deep racism in Birmingham and across America. That's all that were purchased; Mother didn't want our cook, Edie Price, sneaking a little chopped onion into her meatloaf. She's an immigrant living in a suburban Chicago neighborhood where Mexican-Americans are discriminated against, misunderstood by the few people who even bother to acknowledge them in the first place. They seduced Pauline Kael with ideas, with their scripts." Beatty arranged a special screening for Kael, along with Towne, Michelle Phillips, and Kael's friend, Richard Albarino.
And heaven forbid that indigestible, raw pieces might find their way into a tuna-fish sandwich.
Administrators at her school accuse her of leading a gang, and even as she excels at academics, her school's faculty members seem skeptical of her ability to succeed in college.
According to him, they sat around and discussed the movie afterward, and then went out for drinks. I think a voice is very important, and the magazines and newspapers have done everything to destroy a voice in a recipe. I always loved our Sunday dinner prime rib roast with Yorkshire pudding, which my British grandfather, whenever he was present, would carve at the table, deftly cutting thina€”too thin, I always thoughta€”rosy slices. She switches perspectives and timeframes, sometimes suddenly, writing one chapter entirely in the second person. Set aside.' What are you going to do, throw it out?" Earlier in her career, Jones, then a "Girl Friday" with the American publisher Doubleday in Paris, came across a manuscript of The Diary of Anne Frank. My father, Charles Bailey, who was called Monty because he grew up in Montpelier, Vermont, somehow never lost the mischievous charm of a small-town boy after he had to settle in New York City. It's a risky move for any writer, and it's something like a miracle that Venegas pulls it off as perfectly as she does. Indeed, Towne, the co writer, rather than Beatty or Ashby, was the focus of her review, just as [writers Robert] Benton and [David] Newman were the focus of her famous piece on Bonnie and Clyde. Instead of writing the rejection letter her boss had assigned to her, she got the book published in this country. When he married into the Hedley family, he made a point of carving clumsy, thick slices, and so was banished as the family carver. Her narrative shifts aren't just bold; they're necessary a€” with every story, every chapter, she finds the perfect way to relate it. Towne has a cameo in the picture, and she flattered him by writing that he looked like Albrecht Durer. He started dropping her name in conversation in a way that suggested that he and Kael were intimates, that he had explained his views to her a€” that Shampoo was a version of Renoir's Rules of the Game and Bergman's Smiles of a Summer Night.
I can still see her standing at the head of the table honing her knife on a sharpening steel, and I would always try to sneak a nibble from the platter when she wasn't looking. This depersonalized collective noun spoke to the fact that my parents and their friends had few inter-actions with whites that were truly personal.
Reflecting on her father's near death by gunmen, Venegas writes what must be one of the hardest things for a person to admit: "I'm indifferent to whether he lives or dies.
I'm certain that it's only a matter of time before his past catches up to him, before he turns up dead, and I've decided that when that call comes, I will not shed a single tear." And as amazing as that emotional honesty is, it's the brilliantly executed narrative structure a€” the stubborn refusal to give in to established perceptions about the memoir a€” that makes the book truly amazing.
Beatty claims that the writer never liked the ending of Shampoo, and called Time magazine critic Jay Cocks to discuss it with him before Cocks wrote his review a€” in which he criticized the ending, to wit, "The ending is a betrayal of all that is best in the film, revealing that the film makers have been interested in apologizing for George, not satirizing him." From STAR by Peter Biskind. It was just "The White Man." Certainly, in any confrontation with a white person in Alabama you were bound to lose. We also had a meatless night once a week, either for the sake of economy or because it was good for us to forgo the pleasure of flesh, I'm not sure. It's likely Bulletproof Vest will be taught in college classes for years to come, not just because of its brutal and heartfelt prose, but because of its technical brilliance.
But my parents believed that you could alter that equation through education, hard work, perfectly spoken English, and an appreciation for the "finer things" in "their" culture.
For quite a few years after I graduated from the nursery table to the grown-up dinner table, I thought when we were served breaded and fried eggplant or broiled mushrooms that they were a form of meat. There are more than a thousand stories in this book, each one holding the others up and collapsing in on themselves.
If you were twice as good as they were, "they" might not like you but "they" had to respect you.

Of course, I didn't dare ask, because one wasn't supposed to talk about food at the table (it was considered crude, like talking about sex).
And if we indulged in appreciative sounds like "yum-yum," we just might be sent from the table. Volpe, our Italian fruit-and-vegetable vendor on the corner, could produce was overgrown root vegetables, sprouts and cabbage, and tired potatoes. Then what greens we could get were cooked so long that an unappetizing cabbagy smell permeated the air, and it was hard to get down our due portion.
When, finally, spring broke through and we tasted our first asparagus, even though slightly overcooked, it was a treat worth waiting for. Food shopping was invariably done by phone, as though to keep a distance from the things of the earth.
Mattie Lula Parrom, my maternal grandmother, was the daughter of a high-ranking official, perhaps a bishop, in the African Methodist Episcopal Church.
In the summer, though, a truck with fresh farm produce would do a tour of the lake in Vermont where we had our summer cottage, and it was fun to go out and greet the local farmer and get a look at what he had just pulled from the soil.
Every week the butcher's truck would stop by, and I once persuaded him to let me ride with him as he made his rounds.
I was impressed with the way he wielded his knife and would lop off a slab of meat which, when he put it on the scales, would always come within an ounce of what the customer had ordered. The back of the truck was chilled only by a block of ice, and as the warmth of the summer day penetrated, the smell of raw meat became tantalizingly strong. I was away at college in Bennington, Vermont, in those years, and we had a huge Victory Garden in which all had to participate.
I remember how the erudite critic Kenneth Burke insisted that he conduct his class out in the burgeoning fields, because he felt that having our feet planted firmly in the soil and nurturing the fruits of the earth would encourage our minds to soar. We were also asked to volunteer for poultry duty, and I felt very virtuous beheading and plucking and eviscerating chickens by the dozensa€”all in expectation of a good dinner, of course. Bennington was known for its superior food, and I'm not ashamed to admit that, after sampling the fare at a number of sister colleges, I just may have chosen Bennington because I liked to eat well.
My parents had acquired a Kerry blue terrier, no doubt to fill the gap left by their last daughter's going off to college, and they were finding it so hard to get enough meat to feed this hungry animal that they finally gave him to Albert, the butcher. The other version is that my mischievous father, now that there were no children around, had to take the dog out every night for what seemed increasingly long walks.
Now, in those days, Third Avenue in the East Sixties was still a thoroughly Irish neighborhood; the el rattled through, and there was a pub on every corner. During the daytime, when my mother walked the dog, she began to notice how he would stop at several of the nearby pubs and pull her in, tail wagging in happy anticipation of a doggy treat. To me those homemade desserts of British ancestry were the crowning glory of the meal, and I wouldn't have missed them for anything. I still feel nostalgic for the warm chocolate steamed pudding with foamy sauce, the bread pudding with its crusty top and raisins bursting inside, the apple brown Betty made with good tart country apples, the floating island with its peaks of egg white swimming in a sea of yellow custard.
Then, when summer came, there were the summer puddings, a bread-lined mold steeped in just-cooked blueberries, raspberries, or blackberries as each came in season, pressed, chilled, and unmolded, with thick unpasteurized cream poured over each serving.
Edie had some specialties of her own, such as individual warm nut-and-date cakes, and meringues (which we called kisses) topped with bananas and slathered in hand-beaten whipped cream. In fact, the kitchen was where I headed as soon as I got off the school bus and threw down my books.
Not only did I want to know what was for dinner and to watch it all magically come together, but I was fascinated by Edie's other life.
She came from Barbados and at my urging would tell me about the foods she grew up ona€”strange fruits I'd never heard of, hot peppers that made one sweat, and, of course, garlic. I'd sometimes get cheeky enough to ask what she was going to make for her boyfriend on her Thursday night off, and as she described the food, I would long to have her spirit me off to Harlem with her. Instead, to spare my mother having to cook, we were taken to a prissy little restaurant on Lexington Avenue called Susan Prince that served the kind of food we had at home.
The spaghetti and cheese that Edie made was more sauce than pasta (a term we didn't even know thena€”it was either spaghetti or macaroni), enriched with massive gratings of good Vermont Cheddar cheese, then baked in a casserole with buttered crumbs and more cheese on top.
I made a ritual of slurping down those hot creamy strands of spaghetti and alternately picking off artichoke leaves, one by one, dipping them in lemony butter or hollandaise, and scraping off the flesh with my teeth. Then, when I got to the heart, I would carefully pull off all the thistles and revel in that concentrated, slightly grassy-tasting artichoke flesh.
If I had a sip of milk, it was curious how the artichoke flavor distorted the taste of the milk. So on Saturdays he would take me to lunch at La Petite Maison, a typical French restaurant near us in Manhattan's East Sixties, and there I was able to wallow in onions as I broke through the cheesy toasted crust of a soupe A  l'oignon or to savor seafoods wrapped in delicate warm crA?pes, to say nothing of mopping up those winey sauces that hid who knows what. I could just hear my mother saying: See what happens to a child when she eats those foreign foods. But I was not to be deterred: We gradually isolated the culprit and found that I was allergic to scallops.
Unbeknownst to me, he would slip just a shaving of a scallop into my serving of a fish soup he had made, and when there was no adverse reaction he would sneak a larger portion into whatever seafood dish he made next time. After several years of increasing doses, I was able to consume happily a whole plateful of fresh scallops, and I have been making up for my years of deprivation ever since. The moral of this story is not only that you shouldn't cling to childhood prejudicesa€”try to get over thema€”but also remember that the body changes, and what poisoned you at ten years old may well nourish you pleasurably in middle life. After I'd convinced them, my mother blurted out anxiously: "But what if you get sick?" My answer was that I had no intention of getting sick.
After school and on weekends, I would stop by and settle into her warm, sweet-smelling kitchen and watch as she prepared dishes she knew her husband liked. Uncle Doc was a popular GP in town, and often his visits to patients would last into the evening.
But no matter the hour, Aunt Marian always had a hot dish and all the accompaniments ready and waiting for his return. I marveled not only at how she could be so flexible and have everything turn out just right, but also at the love she seemed to express in cooking. She kept notebooks of her favorite recipes, some clipped from the Ladies' Home Journal and Good Housekeeping, and she would tuck in alongside them a poem she liked, or some pressed flower or herbs that might have decorated that particular dish. The household had a hired girl who did some of the chores, but to Aunt Marian the idea of anyone aside from his own devoted wife cooking for Uncle Doc, or even ironing his shirts, was unthinkable. One thing she made that I always loved was timbales created out of scraps of ham she had in the icebox mixed with eggs, milk, and breadcrumbs.
It seemed so magical that you could put these simple ingredients together, bake them in buttered custard cups, and, when they were done, turn them upside down and see the perfectly formed timbale plop neatly onto the plate.
As we took these trembling timbales out onto the porch to eat for lunch in summer, Aunt Marian would pluck off an edible flower or two to decorate the plates. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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