The dialogue seems pulled from a less elaborate stage play, perhaps one staged by a struggling Midwest civic theater.
The tactics and techniques used to recruit, maintain, and disown noncompliant members seem pulled from a universal handbook of do's and don'ts.
Within the context of last week's shows, this look became so simple and straightforward that it seemed pulled from the racks at Brooks Brothers.
Ms. Rosoff's monologue at the play's odd climax — not, thankfully, delivered over the phone — segues into a manic, surreal sequence that seems pulled from left field, in a desperate attempt to bring things to a close with a theatrical flourish.
It is crowded nightly, first with dinner parties that seem pulled from rejected "Sex and the City" scripts and then with a late, late, late show of models and people with incredible collections of music and sneakers and phone numbers, accompanied by the people who went to college with them who now work on Wall Street.
The large dials of the otherwise smooth center console seem pulled from old Lincoln radios, and the smooth slope from the brushed aluminum console down to the rear of the cabin are unabashedly American-car design cues that have long since disappeared.
I go in through a few different entrances and end up in humongous rooms that seem pulled from the hotel in The Shining.
Several of the gangs they encounter seem pulled from The Warriors, and one the Iron Men arrives to tinkly piano jazz; its members wear the tap shoes, canes, and gold bowler hats of extras from The Wiz.
The designer seems to pull from a bottomless well of ideas, and his work is refreshingly non-referential.
The simple pencil drawings, eerie in their cleanliness, seem almost as if pulled from a diary recalling crushes, acquaintances and lost friends.
