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mogagarin · 8 months

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You Are Yellow, and I Am Blue: OFCxLukas Matsson

(Just completed this fic, and once again someone urges me to go post it on Tumblr, so ... here goes chapter one (of fourteen). Tags at https://archiveofourown.org/works/47138638/chapters/118766980, but fic is canon-compliant, relying upon the conceit that Lukas and his GoJo team are playing the Waystar-Royco Americans for all they're worth through cultural differences and corporate subterfuge. Fic centres on original female character, first-person POV, as she and Lukas fall in love, and she gets acclimatized to his chaotic world.) _______________________________________________________

The good thing about wandering around a party of nepo babies and nouveau-riche wannabies is that if they don’t know you already, you are to them invisible. You can walk around observing, unnoticed, even if you’re a journalist. My profile is fairly low, especially in this crowd; I write for left-wing publications. But even so, some conversations peter out the closer you get to their periphery. Thankfully, more often than not, heady combinations of narcissism and stimulants would mean no topic is sacred for these blue-bloods – everything is blurted out, and you’d harvest ten leads. And that’s what I’d been doing for the last twenty minutes – flute of Selosse in hand, grazing on trendy vegan hors d'oeuvres, strolling as I scrolled through my phone, checking out the gossip posted on the sly from this very party, subtitles to what I’d been overhearing.

That was my first mistake, in retrospect – assuming I’d been utterly unobserved while gathering intel, here in Stockholm, in the early hours of New Year's Day.

Of course, I clocked Lukas Matsson, as I passed him by. For someone so withdrawn and disengaged, he’s surprisingly very hard to miss. As usual, he was slouching as he sat in a dark corner, alone, his face illuminated by his cellphone screen, and his lackeys within glaring distance through the doorways of adjacent rooms. It was ever thus – I’d seen him at number of similar parties over the last few weeks, to the point that this encounter felt underwritten by déjà vu. In the past, he’d sometimes have looked up from his phone to assess me as I weaved through the room, and sometimes he didn’t. This time, the former: our eyes locked for a moment, and though his face was expressionless, his eyes radiated emotion. They always did. I could never understand my colleagues who’d laugh as they joke about Matsson’s dead-shark eyes. If anything, I’d see fear there, or a flickering contradiction of hilarity and boredom. Often, I’d find it difficult to settle upon a read.

But this time, I could. Yes, this time he was clearly observing me, his eyes curious to the point of seeming mischievous. I inadvertently frowned at this, which caused him to smile very quickly, almost conciliatorily. I kept walking as I reflected to myself, I am probably the only person at this party to have ever received an apology from Lukas Matsson. Albeit subtle and nonverbal.

An hour later, I was at the bar (yes, the hosts so rich they’d hired bartenders and wait-staff), when I sensed someone loom behind me. Glancing at the mirror behind the bar meant meeting that nefarious gaze again, and this time my reaction wasn’t to frown, but to quash my own smile. Professionally speaking, I was delighted that I was finally going to have my first Lukas Matsson conversation. I’d been warned by my workmates that it would either be the most interesting few hours of the night, or the most awkward minutes of the party.

Bartenders gravitated to serve him, the fastest succeeding as the others subtly withdrew from competition. Lukas said, “Sprittt-zer … on ice …”

The way he said it was so clearly an imitation of Malkmus’s vocal delivery in Pavement’s “AT & T”. Being an ardent fan of that band and that specific album, I was compelled to complete the phrase, which I delivered to his reflection in the mirror—“… in New York Cit-y. Isn’t it a pit-y—”

A full-blown grin bounced back at me, Lukas replying, “—a pit-y … you never had anything to mix with that. Bra gjort, Maida.”

I frowned again, took a sip of my lager, before saying, “Oh … so … my reputation precedes me?”

He slouched his height down beside me, avoiding the barstool to opt for folding his arms atop each other upon the bar. He looked left and right, assessing our neighbours quickly. “Åh, yes. I know your work.” He met my reflection’s gaze again, adding, “I like your work, actually.”

So he said, but the quick jaw clench and furrowed brow hinted otherwise.

I raised my glass. “Tack, Lukas.”

“Which raises the question,” he said, pivoting to an elbow to face me, “why are you here? Why are you here?” He tapped the counter, and said, “Here?”

Up on my barstool, I turned to him, our eyes level. I saw only inquisitiveness; not the wariness I expected.

In a level, neutral tone, I said, “I was invited.”

He raised his chin a little as he assessed me, his eyes flitting over my face. “Hmmm. I’m sure there’s mer to it than that.”

I didn’t react, and I didn’t answer. I just sipped my beer and tried to look blank.

“You’re here to work,” Lukas said – a statement, not a question.

I dearly wanted to hold a deep breath and let the moment pass, but I didn’t, suspecting he’d notice it as a tell.

He stared down at his drink, and swirled the ice around the glass carefully. “Så,” he continued, half to himself, “you were invited, and you’re likely here to work. I wonder ...”

I didn’t try to go all Mona-Lisa-smile, but I bet that’s how it looked when I said, “I can’t tell whether you’re trying to provoke me into a confession, or just musing out loud.”

He hadn’t noticed my expression – he was still staring at his drink, so intensely he seemed to be gazing right through it. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“Åh, nej,” he said. “I’m mildly interested in what you’re going to write about, if you are indeed here ‘on the clock’ as they say, but mostly …”

Here he paused. I had a good idea what he’d say next. It was just a matter of how badly he’d say it.

“… if you are indeed here, off the clock, then … would you be more willing to put professionalism aside and get on my cock?” he murmured, playfully sucking on the straw in his spritzer as he awkwardly, finally, looked at me.

I took a deep breath, held it, and let the moment pass.

Lukas straightened up and faced forward, seeking my gaze in the mirror. “I have offended you.”

I didn’t turn from him. I just stared. Man was an idiot. An overly blunt, socially inept, walking wound of an idiot. He smelled of garlic and Byredo Bibliothèque and two-days-without-a-shower, and yet somehow …

Arms crossed again atop the bar, as he turned his face to me. “You talk less than I do. That’s a real feat. Especially for a journalist. Your turn now. Say something.”

I smiled quickly, and sensed he could tell a reply was coming. I took a few moments – yes, my turn now, my opportunity to assess him, for him to appreciate the power imbalance. Especially after his statement.

“I’m sure that for every person who gets offended by your offer, there’s plenty more in the sea, ja Lukas? Lined up around the block. It really won’t matter to you whether I’m offended or not, will it?”

My question was also rhetorical; he could tell.

“Nej. With you, I find it does matter.”

I tried to read those blue-grey eyes, but found no clues. “You’re just playing 4D chess, now.”

He shook his head. “Leave with me. If you’re not here for work, let’s leave.”

A car-crash of a human being, but gud hjälp mig, I was tempted. His transparency, his charisma, his physicality, and something more … No, not a car-crash or open wound. Not only those things. An iceberg. 90% of Lukas seemed hidden, beneath his surface. Perhaps that was an illusion; perhaps my illusion alone. Adding to my disquiet, I finally noticed that we were the only ones remaining at the bar, now. There was an empty buffer around us, an intangible but obvious perimeter. I wondered for a second whether this was due to his lackeys – had they sensed their master on the hunt, again, and deftly removed all witnesses … No, I thought to myself: like he would care or even notice what others would think. In fact, he was probably proud of his reputation.

But glancing at him again, I sensed that wasn’t it. In fact ... I had never observed Lukas Matsson looking so engaged in anything as he was right now. He was staring at me as if he was reading 5GL code.

If not his lackeys, then … the party people had departed because they could tell. Eccentric billionaire disruptor Lukas Matsson and investigative journalist Maida Davington, in each other’s space, chemistry you could cut with a buiku …

“I can’t leave with you, Lukas.”

He blinked. “Because you’re on the clock.”

I was, but that was none of his business, and ... it wasn’t the reason. “Because … I don’t leave parties to go off with people I barely know, in order to fuck and be fucked.”

Lukas nodded slowly, and smiled gently. “Ja,” he shrugged, “it is small fun, but … small. And only fun at the time. And … ”

“… empty afterwards? Yes. I’ve been there, done that. Not interested.”

He flinched a little, and I realised he thought I’d said I wasn’t interested in him. He could barely look at me, but – so cleverly – he said, “My heart is made of gravy. And the laps I swim from lunatics don't count.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, which made him grin in turn. In fact, so brilliantly had he made the concession – choosing not to start with the song’s first line – using Malkmus’s surreal wordplay to fashion me an explanation, if not a full-on apology.

I was in the middle of a Matsson encounter, and I was going to enjoy myself. “Open up your hands and let me see the things you keep in there. I don't want to split it up fifty-fifty—”

“—that's the way vi do it in this Rissne town,” he intoned, his face alive. For a second, his mouth moved without sound as he looked from my eyes to my lips and back again. “Glory?”

I chuckled at 'Rissne' and the implied handover between lyrical lines. “Floor you.”

Lukas laughed. After a moment of thought, his attitude seemed to suddenly pivot, as he said, soberly, his eyes on his now room-temperature drink, “Whenever, whenever, whenever, whenever, whenever …”

“… whenever, whenever, whenever …?”

He nodded, glancing at me before completing the line, “… whenever I feel fine, I'm going to walk away from all this, all that. But I shouldn’t tell a journalist these sorts of things, nej?”

“A source within the Matsson empire,” I said, causing him to guffaw and roll his eyes, “has let it be known that Lukas is over this shit, all of it, and he can’t be bothered any more—”

“—except by you, Maida,” he mumbled, unable to look me in the eye. “I am going to leave now. I am sorry that I was too blunt och my words … obearbetad.”

After a quick glance and smile, he turned to go.

“Lukas?”

He turned back, expression neutral, eyes wary.

“Off the clock, I enjoyed our conversation, if that wasn’t clear.”

“Hmmm,” he said, and he left, his entourage a few steps behind as if all connected by strings. _______________________________________________________

Once I’d shared aspects of Matsson encounter with my colleagues, much of Monday’s work hours were peppered with similar “he’s charming, despite his inability to relate to humans” stories. After work, I heard a delivery scooter tear away as I walked the dark and icy street to my door, finding by the apartment doorbells a small bouquet: two flowers – one a blue cornflower, the other a yellow sunflower, matched perfectly in size, tied together carefully with a white ribbon. And a note – more Pavement lyrics, from my favourite song: “I'm looking looking for a tired face, in case you wanted to go.”

Clever iceberg, dead ahead, I reflected as I grinned inanely.

#lukas matsson #succession #read on ao3 #fanfiction #oc x canon

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mogagarin · 2 years

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Someone replied to a pro - rings of power Galadriel post of mine, to inform me that they wouldn't trust to befriend me in real life since I like this character.

So I guess like or reblog this post if you also love rings of power Galadriel and don't mind her haters not befriending you in real life.

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mogagarin · 2 years

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A Resistant, Scratchless Surface: Chapter One - Admit Defeat

A couple of peeps have suggested I post something of my AO3 fics here, so here's the first chapter of my finished 'Obi-Wan Kenobi' AU series work. The first chapter was just to create a mood - it was a one-off until someone asked for more, and the whole work went into an epic, sometimes explicity (ie smutty), moody, romantic direction. It was a lot of fun to work on and polish and share <3 :-)

“Hello there,” he said, loudly, from a few steps away.

To be honest, I wasn’t surprised at the greeting. Yeah, sure: my sight’s impaired. But my hearing – it’s off the charts. This one, though – he’s stealthy – but, he’s not trying to be. There’s something else there, in how he moves around the planet. Like he’s … not wanting to be noticed. Almost as a form of politeness. Which, funnily enough, made him stand out to me from the moment I first met him – there’s little civility to be found on Tatooine.

“Evening, Ben. The usual?”

He stepped forward, taking care to be in my eyeline. "Yes, thank you, Cahra.”

I smiled, and after a pause, said, “You don’t need to do that. Y’know?”

“Hmmm? Do what?” I could just make out the confusion on his face – an open face, always-kind eyes, surrounded by an almost constant expression of weariness.

“Ben, if I was really clueless to my surroundings, do you think I’d make any profit running this store?”

He blinked, and I could see him admonishing himself for being patronising, overcompensating without thinking for an impairment he knew little about. For a moment, he was reassessing me – this, despite us having met many years ago.

I’d seen Ben stranded in a state of self-critique far too often, and this was one of those times. I opted put him out of his misery: “I’m not criticising you or anything ... but you don’t need to make such concessions to declare your presence.”

He said nothing again, but was beginning to smile. He seemed embarrassed ... I continued, “Soon as you step over the sill plate, I know it’s you.”

“You recognise … my footfall?”

“Mmm, that helps paint the picture. Everyone breathes a little differently, too. My back turned, I’d know you were human, but after a moment, I’d know it was you, specifically.” With care, I reached for the credits between his fingers that he’d forgotten he was holding. He chuckled gently.

“Anything else?” he said.

“I should be asking you that.”

“No … just the polystarch drystuffs today …”

“... you shouldn’t be eating only that poodoo, Ben. Most species on Tatooine gotta go out of our way to eat plants – fresh – if we wanna live healthy.” Sometimes, it seemed to me that he didn’t want to. He was like a dead man walking, often, like some of the other hermits: they were all here on Tatooine because existing anywhere else would mean trouble. Usually, those types were on the losing side of the republic-versus-imperial galaxy-wide wars us lucky living had survived, years ago.

“You sneak some of the dune-shark meat?”

A cheeky expression crossed his face. “Maybe.”

“Everyone does,” I said, compiling the polystarch rations his credits would buy, my mind wandering to what I had in stock that was healthy, that I’d slip into the package.

“Most of us don’t like the taste. I confess, Cahra: I do take a small corner for my noble steed.”

“What? For Rooh, your eopie? She’s a herbivore, Ben! That’s no good for her!” Ever since he got work near Anchorhead, Ben had stabled Rooh in the alcove next to the store. I kept an ear open for her, and made sure she had water to drink after sandstorms passed through town. Alcove-hire was paid for by eopie droppings: fantastic fertiliser for my very small roof-garden.

“Oh! I wondered why she seemed to be getting more and more upset with me.”

I would’ve put that down to a figure of speech, but for the fact that Ben flinched with regret as soon as the phrase left his mouth. On Tatooine, eopie would eat whatever was growing, which wasn’t much: desert brushplants and thorns, mostly. Funnily enough, herds of eopie weren’t known for hunting and eating dune-sharks, and not being favoured by the Tuskens, gained no proximity to the meat through them. I smiled politely, choosing not to react to his statement – he self-identifying as some sorta eopie-mindreader – and handed over his rations. I wasn’t going to delve: I’d tried before, and always came up against the same polite, but firm, reticence. I would say that I’d known Ben almost a decade now, but it wouldn’t be accurate to describe us in that way – he’d always make sure his surface was very resistant to being scratched, with everyone he interacted with. Still, he couldn’t help but make an impression on people.

Ben looked at me, somewhat sorrowful. Usually, my heart would leap as I tried to work out what was going on behind those warm grey-blue eyes, but today, I just couldn’t be bothered. It’s almost as if he could detect this: the softness he’d been slowly revealing to me over the last couple of years hardened for an instant, setting his shoulders back as his jaw clenched. “Thank you, Cahra. Be well.”

I smiled, said, “You too, Ben. Be safe.”

And then, of course, my heart leapt. No point in trying to tell him though. Why’d he have to be such a warm, charismatically attractive dead-end of a man?

I worked the store most days, and Ben worked at whatever was on offer most days, too. He told me that when he first arrived on Tatooine, he’d started out as a mechanic, but got downgraded to a mechanic’s assistant, and then asked to leave. I know that’s not the truth, though, but it’s not a case of false modesty with Ben – he was modest about a lot of things, but town gossip was that he just didn’t want to be seen around about in Mos Eisley that often. We all assumed that like most ex-republic types, he was on the run from crimes against the Empire: so, he ended up living in the ranges, the small trading post of Anchorhead being the only settlement nearby. For a while he’d been cleaning and reconditioning salvage parts with the Tosche Station crew, out on the outskirts of town, and then that led to helping out some Jawa, getting to learn their language wonderfully fast, and once that work dried up Ben had joined the gang breaking down the dune-shark that Groff Ditcher had hired a skyhopper to tease out of the sand and kill. It was unfair on the beast, but most things on Tatooine were unfair.

This morning, he stood at the store door, and, seeing no-one else was in with me, said, “Thanks for the taba leaves.”

“My pleasure. They’ll wilt to nothing quickly, so make sure to share them with Rooh.”

“I already have: don’t give her any more!” he joked.

“Wish I could,” I said, crossing to the door to join him, “but they’re the last of my garden. Hey, if you’re talking with Teeka soon, ask her if she’s got any spare filtration parts. But … don’t seem too interested. I don’t wanna pay top credit.”

In an instant, Ben seemed very slightly aggrieved that I’d noticed that relationship: he, trading with the Jawa Teeka, whom everyone knew. He was either worried by that – becoming known too widely – or …

It crossed my mind that he might be worried for me.

We were standing close enough that I could read his face. Our eyes met, and he seemed … not angry, no. Fired up; fierce. Not at me; but, yes: for me. So, it was dangerous to know him, to know of him.

My mouth watered, but I swallowed and said, “You’d best catch the hovertrain to site.”

Ben looked at me a moment, and nodded, walking upstreet to the departure point. I settled into a day of trying not to think of him as I stocked shelves and sold provisions to whoever’d been paid wages recently, or could trade garden-filtration tubing for food.

I hadn’t expected to see him at the end of the day: often I’d catch what I suspected was his shadow, trudging past the door before he greeted Rooh, prior to riding her home. But – unusually – second day in a row, Ben stepped into the store, and, noticing I had a customer with me, stood back-to-us in a corner, fascinated by something nondescript as he attempted to blend in. He did that well; I’ll give him credit there.

“Evening, Ben. Can’t be the usual, surely? You always buy enough for a Tatooine month.”

“I … I wanted to make amends,” he said, stepping over so I could read his expressions – I saw a little shame, and honesty. This relieved me: we always made progress when he was being honest, instead of guarded and deflective. “I have been … rude. Impolite.” Seeing me about to interrupt, he raised his hands and said, “No, don’t make excuses about life-is-cheap Tatooine. Everyone is rude in Mos Espa and Mos Eisley. No-one in Anchorhead is as terse as I was, with you this morning. Actually: no – I’ve been abrupt with you, the last few times I’ve been in.”

I sighed, and Rooh whinnied outside. “That’s good of you, Ben, but … you’ve lived here a while now - you know loners and recluses are sprinkled across this planet. I can’t say that ‘you all act the same’, because some of them … some of them are violent.” Recent events more than proved me right: Hobe, a hermit living in one of the caves in the pass between Anchorhead and Mos Eisley, had been attacking solidary travellers, eating some (cannibalism, but he attacked without discrimination, murdering people of other species, too). He’d fled before being captured, and was thought to be on the run for a few terrifying weeks: inexplicably, Anchorhead woke up one morning to find Hobe bound and gagged, placed in the shade, in the middle of town. Hobe now worked in the grain-mill; secured there, he was starting to regain his sanity.

“But, I accept your offer of amends,” I smiled, crossing my arms. “What did you have in mind?”

“What do you need to restart your garden?”

I exhaled, and rolled my eyes. “Filtration unit, yes … but I have a bad feeling it’s gonna be more than that.” Explaining that the parts I’d used to set up the garden weren’t in the best condition to start with, I added, “I mean, I’m saving for something new. Or something cast-off, second-hand. Pretty sure my current gear isn’t recoverable.”

Ben’s frown turned into a smile when I’d said this. “We must think like Teeka, Cahra! Or be forced to pay her prices!”

I laughed, and realised he would do anything but invite himself upstairs to my home. “Tell you what,” I said, thinking over transactions that spanned business and pleasure, “give me ‘til second moonrise, and I can close the shop, then I’ll trade you a meal from the last of my garden in exchange for you having a look at the unit. Perhaps you’ll suggest a repair I’ve not tried yet?”

In an instant, I saw Ben decide to adjust his usual doubt and distance into a more honest delight at the suggestion, agreeing to return once Guermessa rose above horizon.

The meal was a good one: the last of my taba leaves (though, I’d put aside a few for Rooh), some polta beans (I’d be able to dry and store my harvest of these), and some pallie for a touch of sweetness (these could be preserved, but in the Tatooine heat the stewed fruit would often ferment, and turn into a vinegar). It was dark when Ben knocked at the door: I glanced carelessly at the room I passed through on the way to welcome him in, realising that even though I wanted to make a good impression, this – how my rooms usually are – would do. He seemed that type, for one thing: wouldn’t care for arbitrary appearances – but on the other hand, how he lived, in a cave that most would call a crevasse, at the south-western edge of the Jundland Wastes – at least in contrast how I lived was civilized.

I opened the door to find a mischievous look on his face. I blinked, and said, “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?” he protested, grinning. Everyone who knew him loved that toothy grin: we never got to see it often enough.

“You look like you won at sabacc, or something.”

“Oh no, I never gamble,” he said, his face betraying the fact he was thinking of several exceptions to that claim. “Just … not for money, nor with cards or dice. But … I’m here to exchange mechanical ineptitude for food,” he joked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

I laughed, apologised: “Yeah, of course. Ben; please do come in.”

It was a fantastic evening – the food energised him, and the charm and wit that continually bubbled beneath his surface came to the fore. Why isn’t he mixing with us, I thought to myself. He’d be voted mayor at the next election, whether he liked it or not.

“Tell me, Cahra: it’s not just your hearing, is it? When someone’s in the store? I’ve seen you when the place is crowded … I realise – now, to my shame – that you know exactly what’s going on. I assumed that it was a form of confidence trick, but now I know better.”

I thought about it quickly, trying to rationalise what it felt like. “No, it’s not just my hearing. It’s hard to explain … I guess … a lot of it feels like air circulating, but it’s not that. Not entirely. There are shifts … when people move, and I sense their movement.”

“You see, a little, at that distance? Light, and shade?”

“Yes, yeah, I do: close up, no problems. But … it's not as though I use some senses in isolation. It’s … all-together. Even … touch. Like I said, that feeling of air flowing. Temperature shifts, little zephyrs … but almost like … presence. But also … attitude. If someone’s gonna lift something without paying, I can sense them thinking it, just before they go ahead and try.”

“Fascinating,” he said, eyes wide as he stroked his beard.

“Helpful, yes; but I don’t know I’d call it ‘fascinating’. You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

“I might’ve, in the past. I … know you want to know more, Cahra, but … I just can’t …” he said, pausing as he swallowed, looking at the empty plates in front of us, “I can’t say anything. About my past. Do you know what I mean?” he said, meeting my eyes.

I nodded. “No-one comes willingly to Tatooine, and most people born here can’t wait to leave, apart from the Tuskens, who’d be relieved to see us all get off their planet. Yeah, I hear you Ben. You’re here because … knowing more about why would be … unsafe.”

He nodded very quickly, briefly, as if he was worried we were being watched. Quickly, his demeanour changed from concern to levity, and he said, “Now, where’s the garden that produced this delectable dinner? Let me stand before it knowingly, and admit defeat.”

I was still chuckling as we stepped outside onto my tiny roof terrace: it was on the south side of the building, away from the span of the twin suns, and the garden — covered over in a moisture trap — consisted of three small barrows of dirt, nicely fertilised (thanks to Rooh: I saw Ben beam with pride when he saw how rich and dark the soil had become). Under the moisture trap I crouched and he sat, looking under and over the tubing, examining how the solar generator powered both vaporator and filtration. After some humming and hahring, he clambered to his feet.

“I have no idea. It looks fine and functional to me, but …”

“You got my hopes up, making those assessment grunts and murmurs. They sounded like the tones of a practical man.”

He chuckled. “Well, thank you, but … in the case of horticultural hydraulics, I’m all at sea, so to speak. I could tell you what else you could make from the pipes and pieces, how to use it as a weapon or defensive position, but—” he said, stopping short, looking deadly serious.

I bit my tongue a moment, and then under my breath, said, “You want me to forget you said that, don’t you?”

“I am no pfassking good at this,” he muttered, dismayed.

“Yeah, you are. Look, let’s go in,” I suggested, and we returned to my living quarters, which saddened me: the night sky looked incredible, and the idea of sitting under it as we got to know each other better sounded like a great way to spend a few hours. Once inside, I turned to him: he looked five years older. “Ben, you’ve live here for ... a decent amount of time. Not everyone in Anchorhead knows you, but those that do like you.”

“That’s … not good. Not good at all. I need the opposite.”

“Are you sure? You could blend right in, if you wanted to. Don’t you think you’d be more conspicuous – more talked about – if you kept trying to be one of those notorious outlanders?”

He looked at me as if for the first time. “That very thought has crossed my mind. But … it will not matter, how I’m here, what I look like. In every scenario, I need to be careful.”

In my mind’s eye I saw his life stretch out before him: loneliness, hardly alleviated by the deathly beauty of the desert, the only change and progress he would make being the advance of his years, his charm and wits and vigour slipping away. “How many more years do you need to be careful?”

I’d blurted it out without thinking, but even so, I didn’t regret it. Far too bright to be one of Tatooine’s conventionally half-baked hermits, he knew what I was implying. Nonetheless, I let the statement hang there, and Ben thought about it for a few moments, his sadness transforming into resolve.

“The way things are, I suspect I will have to be careful – keep to myself, to protect myself and others – for the rest of my life. I … am sorry for it, Cahra. I could try to blend in, but … there are some aspects that … mark me – will always mark me out – to those who know what to look for.”

This was tantamount to a confession, and reflecting on the recent news – that Inquisitors were making their way slowly and methodically across the Arkanis sector – made me feel as if a sharp, ruthless blade of fear struck through me. Thinking any further on what he meant was dangerous, due to the way Inquisitors read bio-signs as they filtered truth from lies, interrogating people.

But even so—

I sighed, stepped forward, wrapped my arms around him, and nestled my face against his warm neck, just where his beard ended. I sensed a defence within him give way as his arms rose, pulling me closer. Thankfully, he didn’t smell of Rooh too much.

“But even so, this makes it worse, Cahra.” An instant later, he breathed out, “You are too brave. You’re wasted on Tatooine.”

I looked up at him. “I could say the same for you. You ever think of leaving?”

A quick smile and grimace. “I can’t. I have to be here; I can’t say why.” After a moment of looking at each other, he pulled me close again, which was a relief: it was very easy to drown in those eyes of his. I was sick of my heart leaping and sinking: I could sense a descent coming on, and lo and behold he said, “I think it’s best – safe – if I go, ... soon.” A pause, and then, “I … I don’t want to. But—”

“—I don’t want you to, either, but you’re right,” I interrupted, looking up at him again. “You’ve given me a lot to think about—”

“—you know you shouldn’t, though? You … should not reflect too much on what we’ve been talking about. It’s dangerous, to do so: to encode the information away as strong memories, to … speculate makes it worse, if you are …”

questioned was the word left in the air between us. I nodded.

If not thinking, why not action? If action, why not just … lust? It would create strong memories, yes – but memories of what he was? No, surely not.

It seemed clear to me that Ben could intuit what I was thinking. He wasn’t guarded, or distant. Instead, there was expectation – even hunger – in his eyes. He was waiting, for me. I ran a finger down his cheek, across laugh-lines and squint-wrinkles, and now, I could sense his heart leap. Standing up straighter, I kissed him, and his arms tightened around me, his lips pressing back firmly against mine.

Tatooine outside seemed irrelevant all of a sudden.

His lips were salty from the open-carriage hovertrain journeys, from his work at the dune-shark site, but he also tasted of my garden, of our meal. My head spun, especially when one of his hands wandered up my neck to tangle his fingers through my hair. Releasing my arms from around him, my hands explored the opening folds of his tunic, unwrapping him layer-by-layer, finally encountering the warm, smooth, and firm flesh of his torso. My knees felt weak at that point, and as if sensing this, Ben spun us around deftly, my back now against the wall of the room, he pressing against me, his lips kissing an inch at a time down towards the base of my neck, where he sucked at my skin, biting gently.

“Don’t you kriffing leave now. I have wanted this for months.”

“So have I,” Ben mumbled, “more than months. I’m not certain we’re being wise, but … I give up. I’m a professional giver-upper, these days.”

I wasn’t too sure what he meant, but everything felt so good that I couldn’t care less, and deep down a part of me rationalised, that’s a good memory: file that statement away for any Inquisitors; it’ll send them off his trail.

We stumbled to the bed platform, clothing falling to the floor as we went. He was tougher than he looked, I realised, as he manoeuvred me a couple of times – gallantly and politely, of course – laying me out beneath him. For a moment, I looked up at him, my breath catching in my throat as I noticed the smooth lines of his strong shoulders, the cascade of his suns-bleached red-brown hair over his face and mine as he looked down at me, on the verge of saying something: “Cahra, I don’t think I can stay the night, though. That would … create … it would mean …”

I knew exactly what he was worried about. “Yes. A bond, a deeper … intimacy. It would make the relationship more real, more detectable.”

He nodded, sad. I ran my thumb along his bottom lip. “If things get too much, between us … if we start to mean too much … I’ll go away. I have family cross-planet. They’ve been asking to see me—”

“—no, I can’t ask you to up-end your life—”

“—it wouldn’t be up-ending. And, I’d come back.”

Ben chewed on the end of my thumb, before descending to settle onto his elbows, as he kissed me, saying, “Practically speaking, that might work, because the yearning could give me away.”

“Give us away.”

He looked so happy, when I’d said that.

#obi-wan x original character #obi wan my beloved #obi wan x oc #obi wan fic #obi wan kenobi #obi wan romance #obi wan show #fanfic

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mogagarin · 3 years

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Ben Mendelsohn should be in everything

(first posted back in February 2020)

I just can't take it anymore. A friend almost exploded with fervour when he recommended The Outsider to me, so I checked it out almost immediately, and what do ya know: I've been loving it for many reasons. Firstly, it's great to go into this series cold. You might know its origins ... try to forget 'em. They don't matter in the long run, anyway (so I'm told by Best Mates With Context). The series diverts wonderfully, with clever originality, from the source material. Going into the series cold means you might classify it as one type of thing – a type of show, that employs a certain genre – but that expectation gets subverted so compellingly, involving you much more in the trajectories of the characters, and mystery of the plot.

Secondly, I've appreciated Jason Bateman's performances in the past – especially in regards to his comedy chops – but ... the range he shows in The Outsider – worth the cost of tracking this series down and paying for it. Already worth me paying for the blu-ray of the series when it gets released.

Which leads me to the cherry on top. The as-per-usual cherry on top. Yet again, Ben Mendelsohn knocks it out of the park. Yet another believable characterisation. He's one of these actors that you are stunned to watch, because you're merrily sitting on the tightrope of:

watching a gifted person being great at their job, and all the feels of appreciation and wonder that come with that, and

the character created by gifted-person-doing-great-yet-again-at-their-job is separate from that appreciation. How convincing and real the character seems, to the point of forgetting you're watching someone brilliant at his job enjoy his job (I hope), because gifted person is completely and utterly nailing it. The characterisation choices win, in the end, and you lose sight of the employee.

I mean, LOOK AT HIM. He's just fricken existing. There's so much context in this still image. Goddamnit. Geez, I just can't take it anymore. Why are some people so great at what they do? Frick, we are so lucky. Don't even get me started on the rest of the cast: it is SO wonderful to see Mare Winningham in something – it has been too long for me. Everyone in the cast plays a character so wonderfully delineated, and Winningham's Jeannie is thoughtful, perceptive, and her reactions (to an astounding set of events) so believable ... she's the lodestone and foundation that keeps The Outsider anchored. Jeannie-as-anchor is complemented by Yul Vazquez's Yunis: both actors bring heart and soul to an already embarrassed-by-richess cast. Cynthia Erivo is getting lots of acclaim, for very good reason, for her Holly Gibney (there's so much empathy and nuance in Erivo's choices as she portrays a clever, insightful woman who happens to be on the ASD spectrum). I was delighted to see Brit Paddy Considine, and would love to see so much more of his Claude, and please, don't get me started on the always-terrific Bill Camp (I adored his performance in the astoundingly great The Looming Tower). But, I've really got to stop, as I'll end up listing them all, and of course there's so much more to this series than just the cast. The production design, the plot, the direction, the score ... I am gonna be a bit bereft when this series is over. For me, it's got parallels with the aesthetics, obvious production care and overall tone of the completely brilliant Mindhunter.

Mendelsohn and Vazquez: you're gonna get more than the conventional procedural-crime-drama thing, thanks to them. But, I've got to stop. I'm on the verge of ranting and raving about how Mendelsohn seems to do his job, the qualities of his acting choices, and that entry's gonna need some crafting. And even then, I'm not sure it's gonna do him justice. And he's been so prolific, yet I've probably only seen about 20% of what he's done. He's just one of those actors, y'know. There's a handful of them, that when they turn up in a film or tv series you're watching, you're like, "Oh, hell yes. I'm in good hands, and if everything else about this falls over, at least I've got Ben there, doing his job, and that'll be worth the price of admission." Cheers, Ben.

#ben mendelsohn #the outsider

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mogagarin · 3 years

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Interpol (self-titled): 'Success' and 'Memory Serves'

Album: Interpol (self-titled), 2010

(bouncing back to Matador, from Capitol's Our Love to Admire release in 2007)

I'm starting with this album because I think it gets very unfairly overlooked. As far as I can see, critics (and perhaps many fans?), listened to it way too quick, and didn't let it sink it. Mea culpa: I was a fan who initially 'didn't get it' in the first few listens. I think I was expecting OLTA II. I'm pretty astounded at my past self, because now Interpol ranks up at either second equal (on a good day) or a healthy third favourite out of all their albums, and so therefore I'm out to punt for it, bigtime.

Since I'm starting with this album, there's gonna be a lot of context as I build my methodology, and get my keywords straight. Other entries are gonna rely upon a bunch o'stuff I say here, but I'll try to cross-reference when it's helpful to illustrate a point.

'Success'

Instrumentation: there's a deceptively gentle, building start to this song. Mind you, against gentleness is the fact that the kick drum is so subsonic, and I kid myself to think it's mimicking an irregular heartbeat (sort of fits the theme of the lyrics). Piano notes in the left channel, and guitar notes pick out the peaks and strung-along troughs of this ECG. Kick drum moves from gorgeously subsonic low tone (on vinyl, SO GOOD) to a more detailed high tone, the slap of the beater hitting the drum skin now defined, matching the high-tone brightness of the guitar (single notes in left channel, strum in right). Still, there's a lot of space - Sam's in first gear, Daniel's coaxing, taking his time - everything is languid, and Paul's vocals lilt, until "good eye”: these promising words undercut by a slightly sinister confessional-style delivery.

But the song reveals its true self at the 1:09 mark – there's a subtle, urgent and restrained fury to the way the chaps start to play at from this point: a lot of great 'attack' in where the beats land, where the strums shred. Bass and drums are particularly well locked-in to each other (an Interpol calling card), and for the most part sit on the front of the 'one' beat (first, second and fourth are up-front, but third lags behind, calling you to dance). The momentum and attitude of the instruments isn't frenzied, but it's no longer languid, and feels on the verge of violence, threat, or despair. The contrast between the start versus the way the song unfolds has always struck me like the feeling of walking up to the edge of a cliff - view, view, view, vista, vista, vista THREAT!

There are terrifically attractive exceptions to that front of the 'one' beat though – bass (lovely high tone, some tube growl) syncopates in the verse, and the contrast of this dancing against front of the beat draws attention to both aspects. Same goes for some of the lead guitar – where DK is putting the plucks is nicely counterpointed against the main driving rhythm. Interpol are so skilled at this – it means you kinda get two or more rhythms for the price of one – you have the main beat, all monumental and driving and inescapable, but underneath you have eddies that pick out a double-beat alongside the main, or syncopate against it. I think it's my favourite quality of theirs. Even Paul is going all Sinatra on the vocal phrasing and placement – he croons, and then leans towards a staccato delivery at times, picking up on that shudder-flutter the rest of the band flirt with. Rhythm guitar and lead guitar interweave, both alternating between the languid note-to-note slide heard in the initial opening guitar, and the staccato that matches that initial kick drum rhythm. Sam mostly stays on the main driving beat, but adds a gorgeous flutter on high-hats and subtle double and triple hits (almost a shuffle, but with sticks instead of brushes) on the snare. Where he places them is terrific – contrast his restrained, almost agonized beats in the verse against the straight-ahead release of the chorus. YUM. I'm sure I can detect some real subtle hand-claps in the last third (pretty much maelstrom outro) section, but that might just be my imagination :D

Arrangement/structure: Interpol is an album that features a lot of really simple, don't-fuck-with-it ideas – generally the arrangement/structure is one main riff, all the way through, which develops and mutates and evolves, gets more intense, but the band have sagely decided NOT to throw in an arbitrary bridge or startlingly different chorus for the sake of change. Feels to me as if the songs are leading, or at least the musicians are thinking with their hearts and guts, rather than thinking with their heads and over-intellectualizing it. The Interpol album songs tend to be organic: the songs feed upon themselves and grow, and the humans stay the fuck out of the way. Interpol do both modes well, but I prefer the "one riff run into the ground" organic approach that appears in 'Success'. However, there is a delicate difference between verse and chorus here – just a subtle note change, but nothing as distracting as a key change. This minor difference between the sections of the song echo the gorgeous counterpoint in beat/momentum, surge and shuffle, monoslab drive and syncopative flutter. Ah, I love you guys. There's also a sweet sweet attempt at a late bridge in that gorgeous waterfall guitar transition, around 3 min 5 sec (mostly left channel) - it's gorgeously transcendent, and runs the song out into a sort of negative space for me.

Lyrical content: I love the confessional tone to content/delivery of the vocals. That initial promise of "good eye" is empty, even if meant with good intentions, and that reneged claim is backed up later with other half-truths, confessions, and appeals for help: "somebody make me say 'no, no, no'". Paul (in interview, apparently with The Sun on September 10, 2010 - but I've been unable to track this down) talked about basing his lyrics on the topic of people "cracking up and losing the plot”, thanks to a "narcissistic impulse” (ie celebrities, believing their own hype, to the point of destroying themselves as they get more and more disengaged from reality and meaningful connection with others).

Overall context - vinyl version: holy shit the vinyl version of this will blow your speakers, if you have it over a certain volume (and well, it's Interpol, so of course you have it UP LOUD), and I can't think of a better way for speakers to go. Great full-spectrum sound, from the crystalline trebles, through to lush mids, all the way through to those initial subsonic Sam beats in the opening. Terrific vinyl transfer (for the whole album).

Overall context, feel/tone: a little risky to put something so dark and doomed right at the front of the album, but then again, it's fricken catchy AF - you want to dance, despite the doom. I must admit, I almost always listen to albums on shuffle (on my beloved 160GB black iPod, all tracks 320+ bitrate!), when I'm not listening to vinyl, but whenever 'Success' comes along, it does a great job at telling me, "Hey. I'm the first track. Take me or leave me." And I'm like, "OK, then. BTW, I love you.” Additionally, the monumental inescapable drive of the song makes me feel as though I'm in the head of someone who's spaced out, who feels stuck on one nihilistic track, a persona feeling divorced from reality. Of course, I don't refer in any way, shape or form to Mr Paul Banks, which is why I say 'persona' – if you can't tell the difference between vocalist and the words, go read up on the literary device of a narrative persona.

'Memory Serves'

Instrumentation: This is gonna be a long, indulgent, rave of deep love :D Bear with ... Gorgeous textured reverb on the opening guitar (mainly right channel), play style leaning towards Dick Dale tremolo picking. Interestingly enough, this is very slightly heralded in 'Success' - there's tremolo (in play style, not just pedal effect) guitar in the background (see 1 min 25 secs onwards, of mostly left-channel tremolo-played guitar of 'Success'). Back to 'Memory Serves': you might just be able to hear vocals panned over to the left channel - Paul picking out the notes, not pushing his voice beyond talking into singing - nicely spooky (and there are other vocal artefacts throughout this album too, pointing towards quite a "live" recording environment. I adore how the band often decides to leave these "proofs of life" in the track, especially when it comes to pedal jack noise, or the sound of dirty pots [ie the switches and dials of a beloved pedal, as much a part of the character of sound produced as the main function of a pedal]).

But wow, when the vocals croak in - Paul's deliberately keeping his throat part-closed (vocal fry!), especially on the open vowels at the start of the bars (ie "It ... / I"), giving the impression of weariness, of a character that's given up, despite the content of the pleading that this voice gives in this song. PB's backing vocal echoes off to the left - what is it with this album, and favouring the left? The guitar has built up some great tension, and that is released so attractively in the vocals wearily spilling onto the track, the 60± bpm beat which lurches along. It's hypnotic, and on the verge of tears. Add pleading content, and you get a sexy AF tune. I think I'm gonna conclude, after I analyse all the songs, that this album would be shaggable if it was a person :D

Beautifully resonant piano in the verse, picking out the chord notes - oh, how I'd love to hear that piano in that room: makes me wonder if they'd captured a bit of the studio room sound? First verse has that catchy double-beat bass, almost like a waltz, locked into the double beat of the kick. The tension is fed by a held bar (about 16 seconds - 4 x 4?), forcing you to anticipate a chorus, but guess what - VERSE. Subverting expectations. I've heard this song SO often (I think it's my second or third favourite song on the album, so yeah, I've thrashed it), and love the slow churn apocalyptic beauty of the climax, that I really WANT the chorus at this specific point, after the held bar. But no, more teasing ....

The bass sheers away in the second verse; it's a little bit more spare, with less fidelity to the double beat of the kick. It's an unusual choice - usually Interpol amp up the stakes and detail, slowly; but to move away from complexity into something minimal is odd, UNTIL you realise it's done to emphasise what's about to hit - oh yeah baby, it's gonna be a wall of sound, and you know it's coming. How wonderfully this band build pressure, only to let the listener have release. (Note also that Sam adds a small amount of further detail in what he's playing, up on the top half of the kit - slightly more snare hits, slightly more hi-hat taps - the converse of what Carlos is taking away with bass notes. Cool as.)

And, of course, when this third verse comes in, it's more tense than the preceding two, and features a background swathe of a (slightly left-channel) guitar (am guessing Paul on rhythm - I bet you he does this live; must make mental note to check YewToob, and confirm/deny album-based speculation here) which rings out across its strings at the very start of these verse bars. More is now at stake, and we listeners are told to anticipate incoming ...

Incoming! Delicious, delicious chorus. Sam ups the sibilance by cooking the hi-hat beat: it would be jazz, but he opts for a laboured and tortured feel, to suit the lyrics. The resonant guitar gets more frenetic, choral, and vocal overdubs take the song into wall-of-sound land (my favourite country, I think). The bass modulates into fifths and octaves, some simultaneously strummed/plucked, and alongside the vocal overdubs and extra guitar, there's just so much lush harmony. But wait, it's gonna get even BETTER! Keyboard/organ comes in at the end of the chorus, and carries on through the bridge to the next chorus ... and this is where the song has evolved to. A good time for me to skip over to structure ...

Arrangement/structure: There are some conscious decisions in this, such as the held bar, but it does feel to me as if the band lets the song lead them by the nose - we never go back to the verse. It's done its job. The song evolves into a new beast, as though the speaker has finished one set of thoughts (compromise, trying to keep a relationship going when it's already over), and finds himself stuck between special memories, and "I'll wait to find / it's over" (gorgeously effective enjambment: notice how one half of that thought is in the chorus, the second half falls in the bridge), to the relationship half-restarting: "why is it so hard to stay / a / way?" There's a horrifically discordant guitar in the left can here, 2 min 27 secs, through for a few seconds - it's just under the lush harmonies, and Interpol never do anything out of tune. But here it is, so effectively throwing a spanner in the works. Doesn't matter if you don't notice it - you know something is wrong. It's a flicker of pain.

I hate to rush this next part, as the song doesn't, but where we might expect a held bar, or a tease; the song evolves once again, at the transition from chorus to something new at 3 min 5 sec. What happens isn't verse or chorus; it's stratospheric. Carlos strums multiple strings, and pulls back to single notes and perhaps the odd fifth or octave, the vocals pile up into a choir of multiple choices and regrets (sorry if I'm getting purple in my prose here), and the whole tune soars again at 3 min 33 sec, the soaring really thickened by immense keyboard chords.

This is really rather moving if you happen to be listening through headphones in public :D Two climaxes, two releases, in one song. Ecstasy, even if at 3 min 47 sec the band tries to corral the song back onto the ground by returning to the verse notes and structure. 4 min 2 sec is another liftoff, and this is where hints of outro start to appear (and I get morose that the song is mortal, and will end): see if you can pick up that slow arpeggio bright guitar - wholly DK in style, with his angular sparkiness - it appears just after this last liftoff, and it signals the last guitar you hear in the song; a sad, solo coda, which fades away, while PB's voice moves from a begging tone, to something resigned and uncaring, and the drum beat goes on. Life goes on.

Lyrical content: I especially love the lines:

It would be no price to pay I only ever lie to make you smile All kinds of dust are gonna keep me satisfied But only at your place, only at your place ...

It reminds me of compromise, in a relationship, when it's already over. Tragic and beautiful.

Thanks for bearing with me. I'll put in more links soon, and a section that does justice to the overall album. Next up: 'Summer Well' and 'Lights'.

Last week I was in Sydney, seeing a rocking gig, full of feels and musical expertise, and a band giving it full 100%. Sigh :D (Note: written back in January, 2019 ... just now ported over this content from a blog, into Tumblr. While I'm swamped with wonderful writing jobs at the moment, this abandoned rave was playing on my mind ...)

#interpol band #interpol album #music analysis

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mogagarin · 3 years

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My Interpol rave manifesto

(Note: this was written ... in ... January 2019! After a few real-world life travails, I've decided I'll reinvigorate this rave session 'bout my favourite musicians.)

I've just seen Interpol play live.

Twice in the last week.

I am so lucky.

I first saw them play in Auckland, New Zealand, way back in 2008. But seeing them play twice, in the last week, has meant I NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT. Dwell and indulge and deep dive into the small-but-great details of their songs. Catharsis, or at least getting as close as I can to re-experiencing the amazement and joy that comes from the live music.

SO, HOW?

A big chunk of my working life is writing for a living and fixing other people's prose, and so I get great joy out of polishing words, seeking and destroying mistakes, and luxuriating in words. So, why not write about what I love about Interpol? Many friends at work have asked me about the gigs I've just been to. Heartbreakingly, too many of them have no idea what Interpol sound like. So, I'm gonna go deep into musical analysis of the fricken great content that is Interpol, and through that, ease my breaking heart :D

I'm also a musician. I ADORE MUSIC, I adore playing music, listening to it, I do regular high-rotate re-listens, and I love thinking about how music is put together. I love to (admire? Ha!) appreciate music, and share my love of it with others. Win/win!

SO, WHAT?

I will rave about Interpol's:

instrumentation: what instruments, how played, dynamics between, serving the song

arrangement and structure: BIG category for Interpol - they aren't no verse/chorus/verse band. Their songs have very often gone on a journey, thematically, psychologically. Not to say the odd v/c/v song doesn't scratch the itch!

lyrical content: see my note below - I'm gonna do this category real lightly, and will probably spend more time on voice-as-instrument

overall context (including aspects like mastering/vinyl edition) culminating in the feel/tone of a song

and I can't help but review the three gigs I've been to, and will try to deep dive into any b-sides I've got, EPs, etc

It's all gonna be subjective. Hopefully it's gonna be informed :D and interesting to read. I'm writing for myself, though, must admit, for memory's sake. Please don't take any of this as prescriptive - I'm not telling YOU how to listen to Interpol. Just listen, and don't worry if we disagree <3

ANY 'WHO' INFORMATION THAT'S RELEVANT?

I'm a literature major. Despite this, Paul-Banksian lyrics often place me into WTF-Land when it comes to interpretation! (Despite PB being a literature major, too: I think I read that somewhere, a decade or so ago.) I love that he actively seems to try to avoid clichés, but what he chooses instead can sometimes mystify me. So, perhaps pinch of salt is required when reading my attempts at lyrical analysis. Quite frankly, I'd rather Paolo throws me in the deep end, surprising me rather than confirming what I expect to hear. And anyway, I tend to favour the sound of words, and where they are placed, rather than meaning. I'm more musician, than poet, when it comes to that spectrum.

Also, I deeply appreciate what Sam does musically, above all else. That might get annoying if you favour another member of the band, BUT I play bass, so therefore believe Sam is the God of Drummers. I'll happily explain why as I go thru the tunes (it's all to do with him not just providing a beat, but he accentuates what the other instruments are saying/doing, and brings out textures - he's a very 'lyrical' drummer, amazingly enough. But also brings massive inescapable rhythm, lots of heart and head in his playing). If you aren’t a musician, you might not know that there's an intangible bond of epic understanding between a bass player and a drummer. Sometimes it takes work to establish and maintain, sometimes it's automatic and sublime and scratches a fundamental existential itch, as far as I’ve experienced it! In my time in bands, I've attained this blessed state twice, immediately upon playing with two different drummers. There have been moments, with both of them, that we’ve just smiled at each other knowingly, because we’ve made a big conscious unspoken decision, or stumbled upon a musical Eldorado. There’s some sort of gorgeous consensus that goes on, in that musical relationship. And very often, it's not conscious, or deliberate – you are both seeing perfection unfold in front of you, as if the song is alive like a creature, and decides where it wants to go. We follow and perhaps herd or guide, but watching a song 'grow up' into existence and mature and find itself is one of the best things about playing. You can sometimes get that with other musicians, but I find it happens most with a drummer, and besides: a drummer can make or break a band. They are utterly the heart and soul and spine.

I'll use nicknames at times, for the lads, as I feel emotional in my limitless gratitude for these musical humans and the most excellent way they do their jobs. Nicknames are terms of endearment, signally that my appreciation (at that point in the prose) is turning into love. I hope I'm not coming across as disrespectful: I certainly always mean the opposite!

Turn on the Bright Lights grabbed me way back at the end of 2002. I can’t remember much about promotion of the album – I discovered it thanks to a close friend PRESSING IT INTO MY HANDS and insisting I listen. There was an Ancient Mariner glint of fervor in his eye :D And soon, I too had that fervor! Almost instantaneous high-rotation incessant listening. There are not many near-perfect and stunning debuts in the world, but TOTBL is in the top five, for sure. However, it didn’t occur to me to comprehend that the band was playing live where I could get along until early 2008, on the Our Love to Admire tour. Wish I'd seen them a couple of years earlier, during Antics … sob ….

#interpol band #music analysis

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mogagarin · 6 years

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Straitjacket Fits, ‘Spacing’

Spacing (Carter/Fits)

Feel at a loss now Shut out put down The less has grown more now But I'm round to stay And I don't mind if I don't Do what you do the sensation about you is Slow motion I'm idle, a spacing about you Feel light 'n' loose now Unbound in wait And I don't mind if I don't Ever come down from the high notes Space that I found with nobody else around but you to see I put a wall around it A piece of mind cut my eye Rest fell out but I don't mind Messin' out on half a mind Ain't no placing the spacing about you Slow motion I'm idle and in there behind ya Don't mind if I don't Do what you do cos wherever I'll find you in slow-mo' no mistaking I'm spacing about ya Spacing on out there

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mogagarin · 8 years

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‘John Adams’ series: second time around

Was lucky enough to watch late 2008 or so, and loved it (sent me running to library to dig further into founding father biographies). Watching it again, initial thoughts

- must investigate Tom Hooper (I’ve liked his other films) and his cinematographer - what is up with all those ‘Batman’ angle camera shots? I get the metaphor of “war is on the way”, life is precarious, but still, on the Adams’ farm, second episode, is getting distracting now.

- Paul Giamatti can carry any series by himself, but boy what a cast behind him. Laura Linney is always fantastic, but here is perhaps curtailed by perpetual look of concern (I remember a Letterman joke about ‘Tonight on “John Adams”‘ - 10± examples of Adams coughing - lulz). So great to see an actor I’ve so enjoyed in ‘Madam Secretary’ - Željko Ivanek - a name difficult for me to remember but I sure will now as I realise I enjoy him in everything. “And Tom Wilkinson” (Wittertainment joke there) turns up as sneaky/charming Ben Franklin, Stephen Dillane (so great as GoT Stannis) is cool, hard, elegant Jefferson, and a favourite - David Morse - so creepy wonderful in Gilliam’s ‘12 Monkeys’ is an automatic Washington.

- Watching thanks to recent enthusiasm for mercurial subtleties of Rufus Sewell - I remember his Alexander Hamilton being unnervingly frosty, still, unlike any role I’d seen him in before, a welcome familiar face allowed to do something new (as opposed to poor gifted Linney) - so I’m keen to see if my first impressions of all of these cast members bear out.

- Either way, hugely enjoyable, and I must read more David McCullough.

* I strikes me that this was one of HBO’s first big hits? As in producing it themselves, high production values, etc. Can thank ‘John Adams’ success for GoT?

#john adams series #paul giamatti #laura linney #madam secretary #zeljko ivanek #tom wilkinson #stephen dillane #wittertainment #david morse #alexander hamilton #rufus sewell

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mogagarin · 8 years

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Now, this looks *WAY* better than ‘Victoria’. Claire Foy can carry the series no worries, but the rest of the cast, plus director/writers = cannae wait!

#television #victoria #the crown

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mogagarin · 8 years

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The good, the bad, and ITV’s ‘Victoria’

Why isn’t Rufus Sewell in better films? Why aren’t actors like him in more films?

A couple of incidents occurred recently, prompting me to even bother putting together this blog. Firstly, I teach Romantic and Victorian literature to university students. I love my job. Recently, I’d just introduced them to Byron, and we were talking about biographical context to his 'woe is me, I’m persecuted like Napoleon' poems (see this small short set of biographical documentaries done by the effervescent Rupert Everett: like Byron himself, they are not entirely trustworthy, but they are delightfully entertaining). We discussed Lady Caroline Lamb, wife to Lord Melbourne. So, of course, ITV’s recent 'Victoria' series came up, because in it Sewell is convincing, and the material (i.e. plot, dialogue) is dire. Almost everyone in class had watched a few episodes, almost everyone had given up on it, because Sewell had left, and the material was still dire (though there were a few votes for actors such as Nigel Lindsay, who battle away valiantly to make already-very-interesting characters like Sir Robert Peel believable and compelling).

Secondly, I just happened to be watching an interesting range of series - needing to fill the 'Game of Thrones' gap, I watched 'The Pillars of the Earth'. I haven’t seen a tv series that well 'plotted’, the character arcs so well distributed across episodes, the dialogue so rich (to the point you almost believe each character is scripted by a different person), and such a gifted cast, but done on an obviously limited budget — but all so deeply satisfying, budget really doesn’t enter into anything. The sets, the fights, the crowds may not be at the epic level our modern eyes expect these days, but that’s because the producers seem to have put their money and attention in the right places. For me it definitely filled the gap left by the 'Game of Thrones' series and Martin's books. Sewell's character is a wonderful everyman [^1] in it, to the point that I realised I was actually watching an actor who was rivettingly (not a word, but I love neologisms) versatile. Hold that thought for a second.

Seeing Sewell in 'Victoria' and 'Pillars of the Earth' sent me back to 'Middlemarch' (1994). I hadn’t seen it first time round, to my shame! But I was a fresh new thing at university, and everyone attached to the English Department was 'Middlemarch' crazy. (Except one lecturer.) [^2] To my shame — again — I didn’t even read 'Middlemarch' in my undergrad Victorian literature course, and found I had to respond to it in the exam! Hilariously I still feel the pain and panic from that event, which feed deliciously into my conscientious overcompensation as a lecturer now. So watching this series in the last few weeks was an epiphany. The casting is a smorgasbord of talent, and Sewell plays Will Ladislaw brilliantly. I’m not sure if/how he was directed to interpret the character a certain way, but what we get is an idealistically volcanic young man, driven by dreams and passions, trying to change a conservative world. He's characterised by George Eliot to read as more mundane, pedestrian and sedate in the novel (he’s trying to 'fit in' rather than change the world), and additionally when I consider the lines offered by the script, I detect no sense of the frenetic, Quixotism you see on the screen. Sewell is only a few years older than me, and so I'm astounded as to how someone that young could depict with subtlety a character so direly in need of a 'Dorothea'. The viewer is corralled into admiring Ladislaw’s fire for one thing, but everyone ends up sitting on the edge of their seats in pained wish fulfilment, needing those two characters to fit together like puzzle pieces, so they can get on in life.[^3]

I realised how my friends and I have around 20-30 actors we just absolutely love to see — they almost always relegated to the category of 'character' actors. They lift shite films to a point where you’re happy you paid the price of admission. These are the make-or-break aspects of quality and integrity I’m going to dedicate my blog to. Sewell is representative. When he is on screen, you can’t take your eyes of him for two reasons. Firstly, suspension of disbelief. You forget who you are watching, the illusion is so complete. To me it’s as magic and attractive as time travel: I’m compelled to watch as I see in Melbourne’s stance, the subtle expressions emotion conveyed by the tiniest of facial expressions, his attitude to what’s happening around him.

Perhaps a little “you can actually pinpoint the second where his heart rips in half” ala Simpsons, but take anything out of context, and I will end up referring to the Simpsons [^4] :D

I’m watching the inner life of a fictional, created 'person'/character, but it’s a magic trick. It creates a relationship between viewer and the actor’s character, and it feels like a privilege; it feels like a magical created reality. It's not often that you experience that immersive, intimate magic of theatre in relation to a two-dimensional movie/episode, but it can happen. If I mention ‘mirror neurons’, feel free to tut-tut at the screen.

So, firstly, suspension of disbelief - a world created, out of nothing, between actor and viewer. Secondly, some actors bring context, and I’m not sure how they do it. You get someone like Sewell, Sam Rockwell or Emily Blunt turning up, and you are immediately sold — you immediately opt-in. The premise is that it's 'not them', but it’s better than that - you’re about to see a ‘person’ created, a whole, believable character with a past, a life, a full personality. You know it’s fiction. But it feels so intimate. I have no idea who these people are, in real life. I don’t need to know. All I know is that they do their jobs well. Instinctively they understand the relationship between camera, other actors, body language, tone of voice and the viewer. Some actors are charismatic to watch, but they can’t bring context, but they might still be enjoyable and that can be enough to 'open' a film. But it’s not satisfying. All it does is pass the time.

I'm going to stop there. I guess this reads a bit like a manifesto. But we’re living in a tough world at the moment, where some of us are doing crap things to each other, and maybe it helps humanity as a whole to create things like films to try to understand what we humans are, what we aspire to (and shouldn't), how we relate to each other and the more-important rest of the bits of our planet. Not sure I wanted to end up in this serious place, but, much of the time I'm going to use this blog to rant and rave about my love of cinema, and it might possibly venture into existential worries. Or jokes :D

Tom the Builder + ‘The Office’ = Sewell’s character in ‘Gods of Egypt’. Worth price of admission, but dynamic between the two roles may only be pleasant in that way if you’re lucky enough to read/watch 'Pillars of the Earth'.↩

It might be because he was teaching the wonderfully gruesome Restoration revenge plays at the time, but he muttered about the fools watching ‘Middlemarch’ who would do better to watch gritty ol’ ‘Taggart’ instead :D↩

… so we viewers can get on with our lives too! And yet novel and tv series doesn’t offer anything more than the first look of reciprocal romantic understanding between the two characters: consummation is irrelevant when the plot is that good.↩

Recently made a “No Homers” Simpsons’ reference when explaining the British Romantic-era nervousness about lacking any writers earlier than Chaucer = instant laughs and epiphany lightbulbs from class.↩

Please excuse my crappy html, but I really love footnotes :D

#victoria #rufus sewell #middlemarch #pillars of the earth

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