This document contains two unrelated sections: 1) A 3-paragraph movie review summarizing Sacha Baron Cohen's latest film "The Dictator" as a cartoonish parody of dictators like Qaddafi and Saddam Hussein, but avoiding direct references to Islam. The review notes the film represents a standard comedy formula but squanders its comic potential. 2) A 5-stanza poem titled "The Broken Tower" by Harold Hart Crane that uses symbolic language and imagery of towers, bells, and the natural world to explore themes of spirituality, memory, and the poet's personal journey.

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3. Martha Descanicada
Mario Tacashi f
Lupita Jasinta Casia Del pueblo
Aleman de los
Sai Takashi Me locojo 3

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5. The Dictator
As you may already know — since most of the prerelease publicity has been done in
character — Sacha Baron Cohen’s latest comic avatar is Admiral General Aladeen,
despot of Wadiya, a fictitious North African country, and the subject of “The
Dictator.” Aladeen, whose desert nation is a gilded monument to his own vanity, is a
(perhaps only slightly) exaggerated cartoon of strongmen like Muammar el-Qaddafi
and Saddam Hussein, but with certain identifying features strategically blurred. “I am
not an Arab,” he says at one point, and “The Dictator,” directed by Larry Charles,
carefully avoids references to Islam. Is this precaution enough to prevent the movie
from giving offense? Probably not. But it may be enough to turn the tables on anyone
who decides to take offense, which is really the point. There is nothing especially
outrageous here. The movie’s blend of self-aware insult humor, self-indulgent
grossness, celebrity cameos and strenuous whimsy represents a fairly standard recipe
for sketch-comedy-derived feature films. Mr. Baron Cohen, a nimble performer, long
of face and limb, is like a cross between a camel and a chameleon. He seems capable
of an almost infinite range of voices and appearances, all of them outlandish, and all
of them at least potentially funny. That potential is mostly squandered in “The
Dictator,” which gestures halfheartedly toward topicality and, with equal lack of
conviction, toward pure, anarchic silliness. — A. O. Scott 5

6. The Broken Tower
The bell-rope that gathers God at dawn And through whose pulse I hear, counting the strokes
Dispatches me as though I dropped down the knell My veins recall and add, revived and sure
Of a spent day - to wander the cathedral lawn The angelus of wars my chest evokes:
From pit to crucifix, feet chill on steps from hell. What I hold healed, original now, and pure…
Have you not heard, have you not seen that corps And builds, within, a tower that is not stone
Of shadows in the tower, whose shoulders sway (Not stone can jacket heaven) - but slip
Antiphonal carillons launched before Of pebbles, - visible wings of silence sown
The stars are caught and hived in the sun's ray? In azure circles, widening as they dip
The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower; The matrix of the heart, lift down the eyes
And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave That shrines the quiet lake and swells a tower…
Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score The commodious, tall decorum of that sky
Of broken intervals… And I, their sexton slave! Unseals her earth, and lifts love in its shower.
Oval encyclicals in canyons heaping By: Harold Hart Crane
The impasse high with choir. Banked voices slain!
Pagodas campaniles with reveilles out leaping-
O terraced echoes prostrate on the plain!…
And so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
My world I poured. But was it cognate, scored
Of that tribunal monarch of the air
Whose thighs embronzes earth, strikes crystal Word
In wounds pledges once to hope - cleft to despair?
The steep encroachments of my blood left me
No answer (could blood hold such a lofty tower
As flings the question true?) -or is it she
Whose sweet mortality stirs latent power?-
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