Rostock Two Smoking Barrels

Rostock  Two Smoking Barrels
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About – A collation and definition of every address and location ever mentioned in every episode of the Good Wife on CBS.

More @ the Good Site if you like the Good Wife web series

This work by Good Site is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 United States License.

Note: Some words may be incorrect as this is a fan based site constructed by a non-American. We use US English.

“Fall of Rome” 1991 Directed by Roland Joffe, the screenplay is by Bruce Robinson. This is a film that deserves to be seen by a wider audience. It has a profound statement to make though much of it is in the subtext. Bob Hoskins and Christian Slater are perfectly cast as a former Roman senator (who is constantly quoting Gladiators) and a Gladiator believing himself to be Romulus reincarnated. Hoskins handles the drama of Corvus’ predicament so very well. He’s a wonderful actor and very under appreciated in mainstream cinema these days. Slater is also very good albeit in a slightly melodramatic tone, but then again I guess it is needed for this type of film. The film has its flaws, the plot at times seems contrived and at times it seems that the climatic scenes are just filler scenes for to kill time (views of the outside of Rome). It seems jarring when it cuts from the plot to loud music framing energetic sword battling. Long slow build ups to what seemed obvious as was going to happen next but due to the long pause it felt nothing had happened when the plot moved on. Good scenes, but a lot of waste too. Bottom line, it has its flaws, but overall it’s a decent film with enough good plot and drama to make it very watchable. It is blighted by these facets, but it wouldn’t make it ‘bad’. GoodCinema. Th Pupils in: Jgst

, Formen, Kaufhof




Read the article about: “The Peaceful War”. Explain in writing when the term “Peacel THE GREEN LINE by Betsy Tobin (First Prize) The images fade away, returning the words. They leave the red sun rising like a fiery spider’s web across the Atlantic Ocean. The pictures take me back to another time and place. I am Mary Don Simpson’s next door neighbour, and I last saw her at the School House in the hot summer of 1939. I am Liesel Losenthal. Any longer and life as I know it could be at its end. Along with my mother and younger sister, I am staying in neighbouring Bleiburg. Mary Don Simpson, who is my closest friend here, has already been sent on to the German town of Graz. With her sixteen-year-old brother, Icy, she has been placed in a hostel for British Subjects. Finding one such hostel for the two of them is difficult enough. During the first Abyssinian War in the 1930s my father, a British journalist well known in Ethiopia, had been generous with the news that Pro-Italian forces had reached the Red Sea coast. The Italian Government paid him in return to promote the country as a holiday destination; Life magazine even printed a series of his photographs. This was a bit of luck that may have saved our lives in the end, since now, shortly after their return to Austria in the summer of 1939, Mary Don and her brother can be served out of the luncheon-time queue at the hostel. More haggard and less generous, I manage to forge my mother’s signature on a form and get into the postal queue long before I am supposed to. Later my mother will remind us to be clear and assertive when dealing with Privates or junior officers. We are, she will say and reiterate constantly: civilians, not shop-girls or hotel chambermaids and certainly not performers.’As a British subject I am excused compulsory military service and sent to school for the summer. The barbed-wire fence that separates the school enclosure from the general Schulerhof is hopelessly ineffective and I soon make friends with the so-called ‘foreign girls’. We sit in the dust, play leap-frog, leap from high desks, howl like wolves at full moon, moonlight and behave like every other schoolchild. We also, of course, share secrets, but of late we have become careful about what we say. Back home, for the first time in years, women are clamouring for the vote. My mother has replaced her cumbersome veil with a pair of dark glasses and is one of them. They have formed a local branch of the League of Front-line Women.’Women who have served on the Home Front have received the vote. It is a tactical error they now bitterly regret, since they are all expelled from the Communist Party to which most belonged. In a couple of years the number of women entitled to vote will have doubled.

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