#Dolph Lundgren as Captain Ivan Drago | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

komotionlessqueenmm · 1 year

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Hi there

I know you said you don’t do requests and I suppose this isn’t technically a request but I’ve been wondering if you’d ever write something with Ivan Drago and a female reader who’s insecure about her body (this is kind of a self insert ngl). Like, how would he act? Would he constantly assure her that she’s pretty and would he pay special attention to certain parts of her body she doesn’t like during lovemaking? I’d personally love to read something like that but it’s totally up to you if you wanna write it.

Keep up the good work, love your stories btw ❤️

Omg hell yes! (Why didn't I think of this?) I'm insecure af so this is also self insert af on my part. Enjoy!

Headcanon/Preference # 32

Picture & Gif NOT mine.

Year posted - 2023

*So I've got this coworker that I get along with well. And he's a muscly guy that's into plus size women, and we've talked about that sorta stuff a lot. So I'm using his insight about why a guy like that, would be attracted to a bigger girl. He'll never see this but hey shout out to him. Also a real story might just come out of this in time, but for now enjoy these headcanons.

✨Ivan loves his plus size sweetheart~

🌹 When Ivan first met you he was immediately drawn to you like a magnet. He'd never seen a woman like you in Soviet Russia, and you looked like a pure goddess in his eyes.

🌹 When he finally got the chance to touch you for the first time. He was instantly smitten, your so soft and squeezable. He's not used to that, and he's finding that he's obsessed with the contrast.

🌹 Once you're together Ivan will spend hours worshipping you from head to toe. Every single inch of you is paradise to him. But his favorite part? Your soft tummy.

🌹 There's just something beautiful about your soft plump belly. It's his favorite thing to caress and kiss, and often times his favorite place to lay his head. And one day he hopes he'll get to see it swell more with his child.

🌹 On a bad day when you were feeling particularly down about your pudgy body, Ivan took the time to explain to you why he loves your supple body so much.

🌹 Everything in his life until now has been hard and rough, from his work, to his home life, his environment, and so forth. Finding you was like an oasis to him.

🌹 When you try comparing yourself to his ex-wife, he immediately stops you. Making you chuckle by telling you she was like a skeleton, and nowhere near as cozy and lovable as you are.

🌹 During intimacy Ivan shows you what love making really means, his words of praise, his adoring touch that leaves fire in its wake, and his hunger to show you just how much he wants you makes you dizzy.

🌹 If anyone says anything bad about you while Ivan is around, odds are he'll kick there ass, or at the very least he'll berate them. Ultimately making them apologize no matter what tactic he uses.

🌹 If he's not around, and only learns about it when you break down and tell him about it. He's pulling you into his arms and assuring you that they don't know a single thing about what their missing with someone as amazing as you. (Making a mental note to scare the shit out of them next time he sees them.)

🌹 You got stretch marks? Ivan will trace them idly, and commit them all to memory, mapping out the span of them as if it were vital.

🌹 Got cellulite? He'll caress every inch, nuzzle into it, and all around worship it. Explaining that it makes you more you, and that much more beautiful.

🌹 Not a big fan of how pudgy your face is? Ivan is cupping your cheeks. Looking into your eyes with so much love, as he tells you how cute your chubby cheeks are. And to him you are still small, as his hands can easily cup your cheeks.

🌹 Got big boobs? He fucking adores them, he adores you! There big and round and soft, the perfect place to lay his head at night when you cuddle. Plus there fun to play with not gonna lie. (and not just sexually, but that's a plus too.)

🌹 Not a fan of the size or shape of your butt? Are you kidding? Ivan is obsessed with smacking your ass every single chance he gets, doesn't matter who's around or where you are!

🌹 Worried you'll never fit in his shirts? Haha that's funny! Ivan is huge, you'll fit in his shirts just fine. Maybe not swimming in it, but it'll fit comfortably.

🌹 Ivan grows obsessed with making sure you're well fed, and simply watching you eat. It makes him feel like he is providing for you well, and that makes him very happy. (Plus you look adorable when you do a happy little food dance.)

🌹 Once he convinced you to sit on his face, though you had agreed anxiously, you still refused to actually sit down, and instead hovered over him. That wasn't gonna fly, so Ivan pulled you flush against his face, and gave you the best head you've ever experienced in your life.

🌹 Anytime you act as if you'll crush him, maybe saying he'll strain or hurt himself picking you up. He'll prove you wrong again and again, when he just hoists you up as if you weighed nothing. If anything he takes those worries as a challenge, and he'll never fail in proving you wrong.

🌹 The first time you wore a sexy lace piece for him, he was practically drooling. Needless to say the lace was ruined in his nearly feral haste to have you. But he happily bought you more, a lot more.

🌹 Within a year of being with Ivan, and him chipping away at your insecurities. You become the confident goddess you were meant to be! And he's so fucking proud of you, he's always showing you off, and praising you.

🌹 Ivan doesn't want you to change for anyone, not even him. He loves you just the way you are, it's what drew him to you in the first place. And he's beyond honored for not only getting to love you, but to show you just how sexy you truly are.

Buy me a coffee sometime? ☕️

(Click the coffee for my Kofi link, IT'S NOT NECESSARY BTW.)

*Hope this was satisfactory!

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gridsivemade · 2 years

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Dolph Lundgren as Captain Ivan Vasilyevich Drago from Rocky IV

(Made on Picsart)

@l0vel3ss-l1nds3y

#dolph lundgren #ivan drago #Captain Ivan Vasilyevich Drago #my edit #my edits #dolph lundgren wallpaper #wallpaper #rocky 4 #Rocky IV

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itsmyfriendisaac · 6 months

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Rocky IV: the Italian Stallion nearly meets his match when he agrees to fight in a 15-round unsanctioned bout against an undefeated Soviet heavyweight boxer named Captain Ivan Drago. Dolph Lundgren makes his film debut as the iconic antagonist!

#scenes #rocky iv #looks #dolph lundgren #villains #ivan drago #versus #sylvester stallone #brigitte nielsen #1980s #rocky 4

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livingthe80s · 3 years

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Captain Ivan Drago (Dolph Lundgren)

#Captain Ivan Drago #ivan drago #Dolph Lundgren #1985 #Rocky IV #boxing #boxing movie #1980s #1980s aesthetic #1980s movies #1980s culture #1980s hollywood #80s #80s aesthetic #80s movies #80s culture #80s hollywood

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Creed 3: Everything We Know About Michael B. Jordan’s Directorial Debut

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Creed III is happening. The third entry in what initially started life as a continuation of the Rocky boxing franchise is now moving forward as a series of its own… and without Rocky.

The movie will follow up 2018’s Creed II, in which Adonis Creed (Michael B. Jordan) faced off in the ring against Viktor Drago (Florian Monteanu) — son of the man who killed his father, Ivan Drago (Dolph Lundgren) — while also becoming a family man and continuing to come to terms with the legacy of his dad, Apollo Creed. Not nearly as fresh and urgent as 2015’s original Creed, the second movie was still received warmly enough by audiences and critics to make a third entry possible. Although there are some major new wrinkles this time around.

Everything you need to know about Creed III is right below, so check it out and keep coming back for more updates.

Creed 3 Cast

It won’t surprise you to know that, duh, Michael B. Jordan (whose new movie is the Tom Clancy thriller Without Remorse) is coming back in what is quickly becoming his signature role, Adonis “Donnie” Creed. Jordan had been acting since 1999 and had even scored some notable roles in shows like The Wire and Friday Night Lights, but his breakthrough effort was 2013’s powerful Fruitvale Station, in which Jordan played a real-life Black man named Oscar Grant who was killed by a cop in an Oakland train station.

The Ryan Coogler-directed indie led almost directly to Jordan’s next two collaborations with Coogler, in Creed and the history-making Black Panther. But it was that middle step with Creed that established Jordan as not just a Hollywood leading man but a bankable star.

Also coming back for the third round are Tessa Thompson as Donnie’s wife Bianca, and Phylicia Rashad as his adoptive mother Mary Anne, both of whom appeared in the two previous pictures.

Not returning this time is Sylvester Stallone, a bit of an eyebrow-raiser since this is, technically, still part of the Rocky franchise (Stallone also co-wrote the screenplay for Creed II). When we last saw Rocky Balboa in Creed II, he had made peace with both Creed and his own estranged son, also meeting his grandson for the first time.

While the first two Creed movies were to some degree about passing the torch from the generation represented by Rocky and Apollo to the new one embodied by Adonis, Rocky’s mentorship of the younger Creed was a large part of the films’ connective tissue.

But Jordan said recently in an interview with Yahoo! Entertainment, “I feel like this is the Creed franchise… We really want fans to be interested in Adonis and what that story has to say.”

Jordan added that Stallone’s presence will still be felt, explaining, “There’s going to be so many Rocky-isms that are forever going to stay with Adonis as he moves forward.” But he also emphasized, “Whether or not Rocky comes back for this one, this is the Creed franchise moving forward.”

Stallone is said to be developing two Rocky movies on his own — one set after Creed II in which Rocky mentors a boxer who’s in the country illegally, and one detailing the champ’s early years — so he seems to be okay with the decision. He said about Creed III on his Instagram account, “It will be done, but I won’t be in it.”

Creed 3 Director

Creed III will include another big development in terms of who’s behind the camera: After Ryan Coogler (who will have a story credit on this one) directed the first film, and Steven Caple Jr. (who’s now directing the next Transformers movie) handled Creed II, the threequel will be directed by…Michael B. Jordan himself in what will be his directorial debut.

Jordan moving into the director’s chair for Creed III has been rumored for a while, but he made it official in March. The actor said in a statement, “Directing has always been an aspiration, but the timing had to be right. Creed III is that moment — a time in my life where I’ve grown more sure of who I am, holding agency in my own story, maturing personally, growing professionally, and learning from the greats like Ryan Coogler, most recently Denzel Washington, and other top tier directors I respect.”

He added, “This franchise and in particular the themes of Creed III are deeply personal to me. I look forward to sharing the next chapter of Adonis Creed’s story with the awesome responsibility of being its director and namesake.”

Creed 3 Story

While Jordan said that the themes of Creed III are “deeply personal” to him, little has been said about the actual story for the movie. We suspect it will involve a boxing match or two, a fearsome opponent in the ring, a love-hate relationship with a trainer (will Tony “Little Duke” Evers be back?), and perhaps some of the old self-searching on Adonis’ part. Plus, maybe some drama on the home front, as well.

But for now, we don’t know anything, including who Creed’s nemesis will be. TMZ reported back in 2018 that heavyweight champ Deontay Wilder was interested in playing the son of Clubber Lang, Rocky’s opponent from Rocky III, who was portrayed indelibly by Mr. T. But after doing the whole deal with the Dragos in Creed II, it might be a little tacky to bring back yet another offspring of yet another previous Rocky antagonist (and contradictory to Jordan’s stated intent to make this one strictly about Creed).

Creed 3 Release Date

There’s no word yet on when production is scheduled to begin, but as of now, Creed III is slated to arrive in theaters on Nov. 23, 2022.

So far that puts it in direct competition on the same date with only an untitled Disney animation project, although that month will feature the release of several expected box office behemoths, including Captain Marvel 2 and The Flash.

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The post Creed 3: Everything We Know About Michael B. Jordan’s Directorial Debut appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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blaze8403 · 4 years

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Rocky Theory

Rock Theory This one is one of the one many may find to be an all time classic the debate and dispute on actuality and reality in motion picture or outside where many would of lacked intelligence but in A family since it's no black or white only Nationality Complexion Ethnicity you Family and your Related to me Forever A major influence loving you the Family Value like Spell Bokken Spell Book spell Bok spell wood like the Lee meaning in element Ken sword spell words like wooden sword or live blade live steel by an Adult age was normal but child training with knives was A live blade really to say but Boxing is live blade like Boxing is Blood Sport or A Kumite Boxing is Sport though at least one Boxer Credits His Martial Art as Boxing and it is more then one style of Boxing the Xing on Bo like Xin or Xin Bog maybe in or ni like in or out ni strike like B Box Begin with B letter two to me and you so mote it be or be it not land crushing power And spell B letter 2 O letter 15 O 1+5=6 not Sex Gender thought to strike in the ring of Boxing X letter 24 2+4=6 Arithmetic signaturing contact I letter 9 3645 Love = 9 N letter 14 like five only male life in the Ring of Boxing no male versus female bouts Golf like par 4 and 7 God begin G in the Language until he say what language and Goddu Gott God spell dog spell god spell Kami like Iki safe him because his life could be threathened on to Rock Theory like Marciano or Balboa but Rocky is a series of American boxing drama films. The first film, Rocky, and its five sequels centered on the boxing career of the eponymous fictional character, Rocky Balboa. Wikipedia Box office: $1.658 billion Budget: $204 million Cast: Sylvester Stallone, Talia Shire, Carl Weathers, Burt Young, Dolph Lundgren,Character's: Rocky Balboa, Apollo Creed, Captain Ivan Drago, Adrian Pennino, Coach: Michael "Mickey" Goldmill Rocky is a 1976 American sports drama film directed by John G. Avildsen, written by and starring Sylvester Stallone.It tells the rags to riches American Dream story of Rocky Balboa, an uneducated, kind-hearted working class Italian-American boxer, working as a debt collector for a loan shark in the slums of Philadelphia. Rocky, a small-time club fighter, gets a shot at the world heavyweight championship.

Lesson plan Alfa A Ichi One

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nerdosmx · 4 years

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Lista la edición 52 de La Mole Convention

· La Mole Convention se consolida como el evento en su tipo más importante en Latinoamérica

· Los boletos del evento se encuentran en preventa en Boletia.com hasta el 1 de marzo de 2020

Ciudad de México, a 19 de febrero del 2020.- La convención de cómics, fantasía y cultura pop más grande de Latinoamérica, La Mole Convention, presentó su 52ª edición que se realizará los días 13, 14 y 15 de marzo en Centro Citibanamex de la Ciudad de México. Cómics, anime, series de TV, gamers, entretenimiento geek, coleccionables, ciencia ficción, cultura pop, talento nacional e internacional son los elementos que componen esta nueva edición.

Además de los múltiples stands de venta y exhibición de diversas marcas y activaciones y las presentaciones de invitados nacionales e internacionales en el piso de ventas, este 2020 La Mole Convention se segmentará en Artist Alley, Workshops Area, Gaming Alley, Media Alley, Cosplay Alley, Unboxing Pavillion, Zona de Foodtrucks, Circuito Cartoon Madness, Toonlandya e Indie Revolution.

Para este año, la agencia especialista en gaming, Mother Base presentará su curaduría del rubro a través del Gaming Alley, espacio dedicado a la cultura gamer donde se presentarán Xbox, Bandai Namco, Nintendo y Riot Games, el creador de la Liga más importante de eSports de Latinoamérica y autores de League of Legends (LOL), el juego multiplayer más importante de PC en el mundo. En el Gaming Alley se vivirán presentaciones de lanzamientos exclusivos, activaciones con marcas y concursos para todos los asistentes.

Por su parte, la Sala B del Centro Citibanamex estará destinada a Bandai Namco Holdings México, la empresa de anime más grande del mundo, que llegará a La Mole Convention con nuevas experiencias, juegos de cartas, área de gaming, trivia challenge y photo opportunities así como productos de colección y el primer y único evento dedicado a los 35 años de la popular serie animada Dragon Ball. También se presentarán lanzamientos de Anime Heroes, McFarlane Toys, Pacman y Banpresto. En la sala D Tamashii Nations contará una exhibición de la línea Monster Arts, prototipos de la línea Asgard & Gundam Universe y varios Photo Opportunities de personajes como Godzilla, Gundam, Saint Seiya, Naruto y Dragon Ball entre muchas otras sorpresas, además de sumar a la división de Bandai Namco con su lanzamiento Captain Tsubasa Rise of New Champions.

Facilitar las transacciones para todos los compradores La Mole Convention se asoció con iZettle, empresa con presencia en Suecia, Finlandia, Noruega, Dinamarca, Inglaterra, Francia, Alemania y México. iZettle presentará su plataforma de pago para garantizar las transacciones y facilitarle al comprador sus adquisiciones.

Asimismo, contará con la participación de ADO, aliado estratégico que apoyará a La Mole Convention con una experiencia de movilidad para todos los fans. A través de miescape.mx acercará a las ciudades de Acapulco, Xalapa, Puebla y Veracruz al evento, por medio de paquetes preferenciales con viajes directos al Centro Citibanamex en autobuses brandeados con personajes de Saint Seiya, Legends of Runeterra, Superman, League of Legends y el Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre (CMLL). La empresa AUTOTUR pondrá en marcha el Molebus, transporte gratuito para todos los que presenten su boleto de la convención, cuyas salidas y regresos serán en Metro Auditorio y Centro Citibanamex, haciendo un recorrido por las principales avenidas que conectan estos destinos.

Asimismo, La Mole Convention presentará la segunda edición del Cosplay Alley, un área especial en la que el público convivirá con más de 50 celebridades nacionales e internacionales del cosplay, entre las que destacan Holly Wolf (Canadá), Helly Valentine y Evenink Cosplay (Rusia), Elizabeth Rage y Kate Sarkissian (Estados Unidos), Giu Hellsing (Brasil), Ángel Kaoru (Ecuador), Valentina Kryp y Agos Ashford ( Argentina), quienes estarán acompañadas de los más importantes exponentes del cosplay mexicano, encabezados por Akellyz, quien en 2019 se coronó como campeón de cosplay en la New York Comic Con.

En el Media Alley se concentrará lo más destacado del mundo de la comunicación digital y la plataforma YouTube, con representantes como Mad Hunter, Andrés Navy, Halfblood, La Liga de los Súper Cuates, La Zona Cero, Caja de Películas y La Ruta de la Garnacha, entre otros que convivirán con los fans durante los tres días de convención.

Como ya se anunció en meses pasados, para esta edición se tiene contemplada una amplia gama de creadores de cómic, ilustradores y actores de doblaje, así como la participación del reparto de la serie televisiva Smallville, con la presencia de Tom Welling (Clark Kent), Michael Rosenbaum (Lex Luthor), John Glover (Lionel Luthor) y Erica Durance (Lois Lane); junto con los actores Austin St. John, David Yost, Steve Cardenas y Walter Jones, integrantes originales de Power Rangers; Dolph Lundgren, reconocido actor quien dio vida al famoso boxeador soviético Ivan Drago en el filme Rocky IV; Michael Biehn, quien dio vida al personaje de Kyle Reese en la película Terminator; Felix Silla, conocido por su papel del Tío Cosa en Los Locos Adams; Doug Jones, intérprete de varias criaturas en las películas del cineasta mexicano Guillermo Del Toro; Matthew Wood, supervisor de edición de sonido en Lucasfilm nominado al Oscar y voz del General Grievous en el universo de Star Wars; el actor de doblaje Sandro Larenas, quien dio voz a Garfield, y András Arató, también conocido como el meme Hide the pain Harold.

Como en todas sus ediciones de años recientes, La Mole Convention tendrá actividades altruistas, comenzando con la presencia de más de 50 actores de doblaje, convocados por Toonlandya, programa de radio por Internet, quienes acudirán a la convención para tomarse fotografías, grabar mensajes de voz y dar autógrafos a sus seguidores, a cambio de un donativo mínimo de 50 pesos. El total de lo recaudado será donado a dos asociaciones civiles dedicadas a cuidar a perros sin hogar, El Muro y Por los que no tienen voz. La lista final de talento y los horarios de participación de cada uno se darán a conocer próximamente en las redes sociales del evento. Además de esto, La Mole Convention imprimirá 3 mil ejemplares de un artbook homenaje al popular personaje Spawn, que contará con ilustraciones a todo color de decenas de creadores mexicanos y extranjeros, todos ellos participantes de la convención. Esta publicación especial podrá conseguirse a cambio de un donativo, cuyas ganancias servirán para apoyar a otra importante institución preocupada por los animales, Amor sin Raza.

Es así como La Mole Convention sorprende nuevamente al público y presenta un sinfín de actividades para todos los fanáticos de los cómics, la fantasía y la cultura pop, consolidándose como el evento en su tipo más importante de Latinoamérica. Para compra de boletos consulta https://lamole.com.mx/index.php/boletos/ o www.boletia.com, y para consulta de actividades de la convención, visita www.lamole.com.mx, así como las redes sociales del evento, o descarga la app gratuita Frik-In, donde podrás encontrar toda la información relevante de este encuentro.

Facebook La Mole.Et Twitter @lamolemx Instagram @lamolemx

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thisolddag · 7 years

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She’ll Be Right.

Six weeks on my own have taken their toll. For the first time in years, I board an airplane without the accompanying belief that I am going to die on it.

In fact, I’m a bit blasé boarding - I still say my three prayers (two in Polish, one in English) I still step onto the plane right foot first - but in general I’m exhausted and feel only relief when the doors finally close. It’s ironic, of course, my newfound air travel nonchalance - as this isn’t going to be just some ordinary flight; this is going to be fourteen hours across the vast and deep and dark Pacific, just the kids and me. If there was a such a thing as an anti-bucket list, just days ago, getting on this particular Boeing 777 would have been at the very top. But there I was - row A, seat 6, listening to the Ashanti/Ja Rule version of Helpless from the hit Broadway musical Hamilton, on repeat - and not shaking with fear that as soon as we took off, or somewhere over that bottomless body of water, or perhaps right at landing, our plane would suddenly and mysteriously plummet to its doom. I feel tired, yes, but not anxious. Not the kind of anxious I’m used to anyway, the fucking hell this is the end terror that grips me whenever the captain turns on the seatbelt sign. I’m ok when we lift off the ground. I’m ok when we reach cruising altitude. I’m ok when I stand up, lean over my seat and check on my boys - each nestled in a futuristic purple pod, one directly behind and in front of me - to see they are totes living the dream with their big screen TVs and their cubby holes galore and their ambient lighting. I sit back down and look out the window into darkness. We are going to be fine. We are going to Australia.

Here are the things I think of when I think of Australia before I get to Australia. Koala bears, that opera house, Steve Irwin, ‘the outback’, manly men, surfing, sharks, dingoes eating babies, Aboriginals, and Muriel’s Wedding. The phrase “Island of Misfits” comes to mind too, but where and how, who knows. Most importantly, I think of how Australia is not a real place, but a faraway land written about in travel articles, and occasionally filmed.

During the flight I listen to audiobooks - soothing and heart-wrenching Hunger and absurdly ridiculous I, Partridge - and watch six episodes of Big Little Lies. I doze, down a single glass of pinot noir, and guiltily resign myself to the perks of business class. Even during the short bouts of turbulence, I remain at ease. The only time my body clenches is halfway into our journey, when the plane shudders and bounces for what seems like a really long time, but the nice flight attendant (my inside voice still insists on stewardess) informs me that’s what always happens when ‘we cross the equator’ and as insane as it sounds, I am satisfied with the answer. I find myself basking. Which is odd, and sort of amazing. At some point, I write out a birthday card for my husband, and among the scribblings is one important, surprisingly life-affirming sentence.

“I don’t believe our story will end in tragedy.”

And it doesn’t. We land thirteen hours and twenty-nine minutes later and disembark safely and soundly, in awe at how, just like that, we have found ourselves on the literal other side of the world. I am glad we didn’t check any luggage, and that even for a two-week trip across the hemisphere, I was able to cram everything we might need into three small carry-ons. I film the boys running toward their father, him swooping them up in his arms, them delirious and overjoyed. My happiness is quiet, like waking up from a dream that didn’t quite make sense.

First things. I’m sitting on a balcony situated on the 19th floor of a tall, white skyscraper. Directly in front of me; the neon marquee of the Kurrawa Surf Club, an ocean, and a blinding sun rise. But the word ‘ocean’ seems lacking, a joke. I need a new word now, something longer, something that can hold the enormity of what it is I’m staring at. Univocean. Or maybe just a single letter. This Pacific is a planet, a floating galaxy; there is no end to its width and depth and length. Surreal is a good word, for everything I am feeling right now. I pull my sweater closer to my skin. It’s chilly, but then again it’s winter down here and in the coming days I will notice, that similar to Angelenos, Australians are quick to don scarves and boots whenever the temperature dips below sixty.

Two days in, and my jet lag has let up a bit; I stir at six am, instead of three. Patrick is sleeping; in an hour he will get up, shower and head to set. The children are on their twin beds, and having read for the requisite twenty minutes, they’re playing a game of dueling kingdoms and luck-of-the-draw survival on their fully charged iPads. I type and stare out intermittently at the rolling waves, which crash and burn, and crest over and over again. The sound of this Sisyphus-like motion is satisfying and calming. To my right I spy the spirals of equally high-reaching buildings - all of them white and whimsical, undulating shapes and strange spirals - buildings with intricate and thoughtful facades that do not mar the horizon, but somehow add to its majesty.

I feel at home in this strange place. It’s a good feeling; a reminder of how thrilling and welcoming the world can still be.

The truth is, anywhere in the world would probably have seemed like a pleasant distraction from the goings-on back in the States. Anywhere in the world would have seemed more beautiful, I’m sure. (For starters, I prefer old buildings and ruins; the sight of a centuries old cathedral or an ancient hut instantly makes me feel better about life in general.) What’s happening back home is ugly. I’m no dummy, however. No matter where one goes, there are moments in history that have been forgotten about, swept under the rug, moments I know nothing about. I’m sure Australia has its fair share of ugly. The Aboriginals weren’t exactly given the red carpet treatment here. They weren’t even regarded as part of the population - as human beings to be counted and recognized - until 1967. (I learn this later on in our trip, thanks to an article in a glossy magazine given out gratis in the Virgin Australia business class lounge, the irony.) I am sure there is ugliness here too, beyond the immaculate sunsets and breathtaking waters, and friendly g’day mate faces. I just don’t feel like looking for it. Not yet, anyway.

The ugliness back home has worn me out. I hate it. I hate when stupidity is lauded as a right, when people wave their idiot flags proudly. It’s disheartening, ridiculous and maddening - and come late June, I am done. A reprieve, or else I will crack. I am done tweeting about it. I am done calling my senators. I am done marching, protesting, wearing pink hats. I am tired of news coverage, tired of Trump, tired of pointing out the hypocrisy. I want to slip away. I want to pretend that ugly, ignorant people will once again have the courtesy to spew their hate behind closed doors, over fences, or at cotillions or whatever, like in the good old days. I want to disengage. I want to leave New Jersey. I want to forget about America. There. I said it.

Which is why when my husband tells me he probably won’t make it home before August, and that we’ll have to fly to him, I don’t panic. I just nod my head and start a list of essentials we’ll need to pack. Australia has a leg up, right from the start but I don’t know yet that I will come to love it so much in so little time.

New things. It seems easier to write about the nuts and bolts of our initial adventuring, without having to search for the appropriate words to describe anything beyond what it feels like to hold a koala bear for a minute. It feels weird.

His name is Cowen and we hold him on Friday afternoon, a few hours after landing. (Thursday was lost as we flew over the equator. There is no trace of Thursday. ) The koala is docile but his claws are sharp, and it freaks me out, but I take him, upon my sons’ joint urging. An arm under it’s rear, the other one wrapped around its torso, tight but not too tight, just like the zoo keeper instructs. No petting. No jerky movements. Just smile for the camera and hold. After Cowen - Cohen, perhaps? - we attempt to feed a bunch of kangaroos - animals which strike me as unfinished, as if God or whomever, had started on them, got to the front paws and was like fuck it, I’m tired, they can hop around like this, good enough. The animals are medium sized, lazying about the wildlife farm we tour, wary looks on their rabbit-like faces, their middle claws extending far beyond the other three, the noncommittal display of an eternal middle finger. Our guide, the owner, raises his eyebrows when my husband introduces me as “Dag, my wife.” Because dag means something different here. It means the dried bits of shit that cling to a sheep buttocks - so from here on out I become “Dagmara, my wife.”

Suffice it to say, the marsupials are a hit with the boys. “Well, our work here is done” I wink, as if seeing koalas and kangaroos was all there was to Australia, because movies, because dumb tourists. To top it off, we buy two boomerangs at the gift shop before we head to set.

We are really here, my husband is real again; I can reach for his hand, I can catch whiffs of his smell. And I can’t see straight.

We take a picture with Dolph Lundgren in front of a trailer. Dolph is tall, and without his Ivan Drago accent, I am slightly thrown. Is it really him? We walk around cavernous stages draped with swaths of blue screen, partaking of the crafty table which do not have loads of shit candy like Twizzlers, or dry pretzels on it, but instead, as in a patisserie, offers freshly baked brownies and fluffy peanut butter sandwiches. We meet Aquaman’s real life children and they are beautiful and quite the conversationalists. I learn quickly that they take Capoeira classes and aren’t allowed on any sort of electronic devices, and my heart twists enviously at that tidbit. I want to be that parent, I think. Suddenly I want to be Lisa Bonet. Aquaman himself looks like a very attractive beast of a man, with a gorgeous face and very thin calves. He’s very sweet but I am way too tired for anything beyond “so nice to meet you.”

Later, the boys and I fall asleep at the ungodly hour of 5pm, and wake up at 4am. We stand on the balcony silently staring out at the roiling ocean. Then we film ourselves trying Vegemite, which tastes like an old scrotum sack, and I actually say that aloud, much to the giddy shock of my boys. ��Shhhh, we’re gonna wake Daddy…”

Australia, one day in, is just a feeling. It is not a specific city, nor is it the literal continent - for now, we are ensconced in a suburb of Brisbane, a small stretch of hustle and bustle and beach somewhere on the Gold Coast.

Little things. The Palmolive orange scented hand soap in the bathroom reminds me of Poland; the smell left lingering on my hands sends me reeling toward childhood summers and yet I can’t recall exactly why - did my Babcia have similarly scented shampoo? A dish washing liquid she used? I don’t know, and I don’t care, and I remind myself daily to purchase some to take back to New Jersey with me. (I never do.) We take a day trip. Byron Bay is lovely, and I know Chris Hemsworth lives there, so that’s fun. My husband drives expertly on the left side of the road, pointing out landmarks and oddities, and we spend an hour on the beach, where surfers swim with dolphins in blue water that is cold and transparent.

I have yet to see a church, mosque or synagogue. The only bookstore I spot is in a mall that looks like it fell from the skies in 1999 and stayed that way. It’s dusty, and full of used, out-of-print paperbacks, all floral covers, volumes on doilies and flower arrangements. I purchase a word search book for three bucks.

The breakfasts are delicious; thick bread with a strong crust, yellow butter, slices of rosy ham, fried eggs like they’ve been painted to life. The coffee takes ages to arrive but arrives frothy and creamy and absolutely perfect. The only thing that makes me queasy is the sight of poached eggs arriving at our table - three oval white sacks with sagging skin, like things we’d find washed up on shore or in a bird’s nest. Slimy when in tact, and slimier still when my husband stabs one with a fork - the thick orange yolk oozes out like congealed blood. The word for bathroom is toilet and signs for TOILETS hang everywhere, and it’s truly the only puzzling thing I’ve encountered so far. The public playgrounds are impressive, like things from Dali’s imagination; colorful and bright and full of twisted contraptions and gigantic slides and zip lines and huge swaying nets that hang like UFOs, like things Tarzan swung on.

The people are terrific. I’m sure if I spent an appropriate amount of time with any one of them, they might become annoying or overbearing, but my casual, quick brushes with the natives are reassuring. Waiters, police officers, retail clerks, security guards are so nice and helpful it’s overwhelming. They make innocuous yet meaningful inquires; how are things going? Back in the States, they mean, wink wink, Trump Trump. We are to be pitied now, us poor, duped, stupefied Americans. Everyone is referred to as mate, including my sons. It’s like our pal, I suppose, but sounds far less condescending and much more inclusive when the Aussies say it. They’re thick skinned too, I can tell. Conversely, I think of the opposite when I think of my fellow citizens - our thin, easily bruised egos. Coming from a place filled with people prone to screeching, pining and preening like adolescents, it’s quite a breath of fresh air to be surrounded by fully-formed adults, comfortable and confident in their skin, who smile at you because they mean it, not because it’s required of them.

We try in vain to imitate the accent, each of us failing in our efforts to mimic the musicality, the ease, the lazy, soft vowels. Thirteen is thudeen. The first few times my husband says doday you, I have no idea what he means. He means .AU - as in the end of an email address. To pash means to kiss fervently. An “old feller” is a penis. She’ll be right is my favorite though - the Australian way of implying that whatever is wrong shall right itself with time. Towns have names like Coolangatta and Gympie. It’s all fantastic. Our oldest son says he wants to move here. But here only becomes real when we remember the globe in my office back in New Jersey, and how we traced the path from mainland America all the way across the surface, so far to go, the wobbling tip of my finger taking forever to make its way toward the land down under, the land beyond our imagination. “Can you believe we are actually here?” is a question posed a few times a day. We answer with shaking heads, at a loss for words.

If they could, the boys would not leave the beach, despite my worries they will catch a cold. I stand in the water like a sentinel, watching them hurtle into the waves, trying not to think about their freezing toes, or the articles I’ve read listing the top ten deadliest animals found in Australia like the thumb-nail sized Irukandji jellyfish which can kill grown man. Or the cone snail which has venom one thousand times stronger than morphine and leaves you paralyzed and gasping for life. Or sharks. Helicopters do fly over us, checking for errant fins and such, and my husband has assured me that nets are dropped and secured to keep the jellyfish and bluebottles and stingrays away, but really, what’s it take for a predator to swim over a net? Still, I let the boys carouse. I let them swim, dive, run away from and straight toward the blue-grey waves. I am less panicked about everything.

Things that don’t matter. My period is many days late. Traveling across the international date line will do that to a body. I am walking around crampy, bloated and terribly grumpy. It’s a real problem, and I make no bones about explaining to my sons about what’s happening to me. Mommy is moody because she’s about to bleed from her vagina. I joke to my friend in a text sent at 6am her time, that my period probably came on Thursday, only Thursday never really happened, did it? Under this black cloud, the kids are annoying. They seem glaringly American - loud, insistent, spoiled by the first-rate everything they are experiencing. I am the first to call them out on all of this and the first to recklessly bid 120 dollars on a toad named Gay Freddo just so my kid can take part in ‘racing’ it at a musty boozy-smelling establishment called Iron Bar (this, when we get to the tropics.)

Our first week is spent walking a fine line between total fun and total mom-losing-her-shit. Of not kissing my husband. Of wanting to buy everything, and taste everything, especially the foreign sounding snacks - Koala Carmellos, Curlywurlys, Starburst “Babies.” I wish I was a hard drinker, or even a lightweight one, so I could ‘pep’ it up come evening. Mornings are the best because I wake up ‘here’ all over again, mentally renewing a covenant - enjoy your blessed life, goddamn it. But then my beautiful son wakes up and greets me by asking if he can poop with his iPad and I grit my teeth, “poop with a book!” I think of Aquaman’s daughter, with the hair down to her waist, like a perfect, feral creature who’s never begged to download an app.

I eat too much and don’t brush my teeth enough. I wear the same black, sack-like dress over and over again. I should not have brought three pairs of shoes with me as the only ones I bother with are the cheap flip flops. I don’t care about looking like the wife of a semi-famous actor. Perhaps I should.

We arrive in Cairns - pronounced like cans - at nine pm, on day seven. Cairns is a city in the North Queensland tropics. The airport is small, but just like the one in Brisbane, it is bright, modern, spotless. I am incredibly impressed and dying to shop, but fight the urge. Outside an enormous full moon - like a prop some grip hung - greets me as I squat down to vape, while the boys wait at baggage claim. I take out my camera and zoom in. The balmy, salty air reminds me of Florida. We are here, again, a vacation inside a vacation. We drive an hour north, toward a small tourist spot called Port Douglas (pop. 1278) where ‘the rainforest meets the reef,’ a terrific family getaway, according to many a Trip Advisor testimony.

The drive is difficult, as my husband navigates on a narrow, winding road which is in turn shrouded by immense thick canopies of jungle greenery and then completely exposed to a cliff leading toward a dark, rumbling ocean that we cannot see at this time of night, but can only hear. It’s eerie, a bit like a scene from a horror movie, where any moment something large and mysterious and predatory will jump into the road and slam into our car. My husband drives on, trying to concentrate as I annoy him by asking him why we haven’t planned things in advance and reminding him that he isn’t perfect, you know.

We fight a lot in Port Douglas. The boys fight, and Patrick and I fight. The fights are absurd and revolve around sold out tours and the necessity of guides if we get to Mossman Gorge (we never do), and how ‘crocodile shows’ sound inhumane. We fight about screen time, and where to go to dinner, and about not getting sand everywhere. Reunions are difficult sometimes. When absences become the norm, togetherness takes work. That’s all I want to mention. Bickering does occur in paradise, if you were curious.

Strange things. Every time Hagrid the Crocodile clamps his jaws down on what looks like a decimated broomstick, bits of rope and rag tied to its end, I jump in my seat. When he chomps there’s an echoing sound like a champagne cork popping, only amplified, as if Hagrid is miccd. It’s nerve wracking - and as jolly and engaging as the emcee is, I find myself thinking we shouldn’t be doing this. Crocodiles are mean, and aggressive, and you don’t survive 3 million years on this earth by being the nice guy. They hate each other, the crocs do, or so we are told. You never survive an attack either. You’re a goner, if you dare to swim amongst them. We take a slow boat ride around a lagoon, and watch a dozen of them - with names like Ted and Louie - stealthily follow our boat, sidle up and wait for their bits of raw pink chicken. God, those jaws.

We take pictures, and feel much better a few minutes later as we walk amongst wallabies and roos. I say roo now with utmost confidence, feeling like after a week abroad, I have earned it. At the gift shop we buy t-shirts, a crocodile calling whistle, and a soft, stuffed kangaroo which my oldest son immediately christens Jeremy. I ask my husband if crocodile printed man thongs called “Snappers!” are the perfect gifts for my brothers-in-law. Sadly, he shakes his head no.

Snorkeling in the Low Isles is interesting. We figure 90 minutes to the Great Barrier Reef would make us tired and seasick - suddenly we strike ourselves as amateurs but go with it - and opt for a quick, rollicking jaunt aboard the Reef Sprinter. We pull up to the low reef and immediately a smell hits us hard. Fishy. Rotting. I don the wet suit, get fitted with a prescription lens snorkeling mask (which is very exciting,) slip into the flippers, and I even jump into the water. And then four meaty, massive fish graze my thighs, and I am done. It’s hard work, and breathing is weird, and suddenly I feel claustrophobic, and the smell is overwhelming, and the coral is too close - low tide due to full moon - and I am totally fine swimming back to the boat that brought us out. It’s just as brave to admit your fears, as it is to conquer them, I say being funny, but also meaning it. I spend the remainder of my time sneaking in puffs of my vape and taking pictures of my boys. They’re proud of me anyway. My little guy heads back too, after twenty valiant minutes with his tiny head in the water. I can’t say enough how thrilled I am that both my sons have inherited their father’s joie de vivre and adventuresome spirit. They are usually up for anything. You go right ahead, I tell them, and I’ll stay here and write about it. Later, we race cane toads - don’t ask, or just look up the Iron Bar in Port Douglas - and go back to the hotel, where the boys are reunited with their iPads, and I sit on the deck and listen to annoying British teenagers thrash around in the communal pool, and wonder when my bad mood will lift.

Best things. My period arrives in Sydney, and finally I turn back to my good old self. My good mom self. I am happy. My back doesn’t hurt. My smiles are wide, and last all day long. Sydney is a glorious city. Imagine a turn of the century town, imagine Boston, or New Orleans, or even Paris, and then imagine it fully preserved, allowing modernity to sprout, but not take over. That’s Sydney - where the antiquated bits remain front and center, and the high rises merely loom as shadows. A gorgeous thing, for time to conjoin, to mingle, to not be erased. I can’t get enough. I also can’t pinpoint what this place reminds me of, only the emotions it stirs inside me - nostalgia, happiness, wonder.

On our first night we walk to the Sydney Observatory and stare out in awe at the skyline; the Harbour Bridge twinkling red and green like a Christmas Tree, the opera house way off in the distance like a paper fan on water, a brilliant crimson sunset. Someone is flying a drone. The boys run down the hill and attempt to climb a giant tree straight out of a Roal Dahl book. We could live here, I say stupidly, contentedly, and I kind of mean it. It’s possible to enjoy life, to eek every ounce of magic and wonder from it, without fear or fret. It’s possible to pretend we are a family of well-off nomads, traversing carefree, imagining a life abroad, living only for the sake of experiencing happiness. It’s possible for life to be like from a movie. Thoughts like this are hard to come by for me, and for ten minutes, sitting in the cool grass on a picturesque knoll overlooking a strange, gorgeous city, I allow myself.

There are more brown people is Sydney, more Asians, more tourists speaking Dutch or German or Portuguese, and in some street corners, as we head toward the aquarium, I even spy tattered sleeping bags which house the homeless. The line to get into Sea Life is long and winding and I am glad my kids will have to wait. I worry that always skipping ahead, or often flying business, or staying in five-star hotels is ruining them somehow - that they won’t know how to deal with real life, that soon they’ll take our good fortune for granted because it will cease to become out-of-the-ordinary and become banal. Which is why at every stop, I regale them with stories of my poor-immigrant beginnings. There was no Fast Pass when I was a kid, my husband quips. I sat in the back of the plane back when people were allowed to smoke, I point out, nine hours to Poland with only a book and my head aching from the fumes, imagine it. I want them to really imagine it, and later, when it takes us thirty minutes to get on the rickety Wild Mouse roller coaster at Luna Park, I am glad, and decide to get on too, even though I hate that shit.

Everywhere we go, the rooftops of old buildings boast edifices with historic dates inscribed into the original brick. On the sidewalks are stone slabs fitted into the pavement which tell short, amazing stories: “17 well-behaved convicts where made night watchmen here.” These reminders of the city’s history are beautiful, and I wish my adopted New York City showed the same pride and care. My husband explains that NYC is on a small island and in an effort to expand and make room, the city had to eradicate whatever stood in the way. It couldn’t bloom sideways or into suburbs - there are no suburbs, no outer city limits, unless you count Hoboken et al. Still, I wish Americans in general, held a higher regard for their architecture, and their roots.

The Langham Hotel on Kent Street is accented in pink. A creamy pink old-timey cab sits out front, the bathroom wallpaper is pink, and the pens bedside are pink and gold and so lovely that I slip one into my purse. When you walk into the lobby, you are taken aback by how immaculate every surface is, and by the floral scent in the air. This place smells like a bathtub, my seven-year-old announces and I know what he means. Like a bathtub full of rose petals. We could be in a Jane Austen novel, if Jane Austen had taken up the hospitality service. Everything is warm - from the silky sheets to the velvet floor length drapery - and opulent - from the extraordinary chandeliers in the lobby to the the enormous purple orchids arranged on many a marble tabletop. I’d live here too, if I was not a real person who went to sleep without wiping off her make-up, or who snuck vanilla nougat at 1am while reading a book about a recluse, or who grew up in the Glenwood Housing Projects and never forgot her past. I imagine my mother here, my sisters. I imagine my father, who would probably nit pick and point out discrepancies, because my father is a person who does not know how to trust beautiful things.

At a chemist’s my son pleads with me to buy him a pair of yellow sloughing shower gloves. These, along with a glitter filled rainbow-colored baton, are to make up his regalia. He is “The Wisher” now, and for the rest of our stay in Sydney he walks around wearing the gloves and gripping his baton, asking us to make wishes, which will, on an eighty percent guarantee, come true. I wish for a smooth flight back to Newark, and for my 41st year on earth to be the best one yet. The rare Pokemon my older son wishes for comes to fruition a few blocks later, much to his joy and to The Wisher’s complete shock. We walk around The Rocks, a neighborhood full of chocolate shops and galleries, making more and more wishes, until at the Museum of Contemporary Art we are told the baton must be cloaked. Instead, I bury it in my purse, and we roam around, not hiding our disdain for some of the more abstract artwork like blank white canvases, or a dried sculpture of an electrical plug. During security check at the airport, the wishing baton is left behind in a bin. I am unreasonably sad about it.

Things we talk about. Manners. Money. School. Food. Animals. Dreams. We find dream dictionaries online and look up flying, teeth crumbling, falling into holes with cousins, when a friend pushes the girl you have a crush on over a cliff. We wonder why dreams happen, we dissect the inner workings of our varied brains, while Bill, our driver pretends not to listen. He tells us about the beaches here, and what to watch out for. He tells us that Brad Pitt made him try the Batman free fall ride at Movie World. We talk about love, and what country we’d move to for a year if we had to, if we had a choice. We talk about how boring New Jersey will seem, and what we’ll do to occupy the remains of our summer once we are back home. We play endless rounds of Would You Rather - would you rather have penises growing our of your ears or a butthole on your chin? (Because, lest we forget I am in the company of three basic males.) We talk about our favorite things so far (snorkeling, the amusement park, seeing a wallaby with a baby in its pouch) and what we want to do before we depart. We talk about how we will not climb Harbour Bridge, because Kass doesn’t meet the age requirement and because well, mommy doesn’t want to die in Sydney. Mostly, we talk about how goddamn lucky we are.

The last things. Back in Brisbane, or Broadbeach, or Gold Coast - I still don’t know what to call it - we don’t fall asleep till very late. Our jet lag is gone now, no traces left. Instead we have trouble falling asleep and trouble waking up at a decent hour. I finish the book I bought at a wonderful bookstore I finally stumbled upon in the other mall, and having relayed the plot as I learned it to my sons, they are now eager to hear how it ends. I tell them, and we are all three, just a wee bit disappointed. It is eleven pm, and I start on another book, short stories about the indigenous and minority Australian experience. My husband puts in loads of laundry, and watches a rugby game on TV. Tomorrow is our last day and we have no major plans aside a final frolic in the ocean, a trip to the mall to purchase some local sports jerseys and more books. Maybe we’ll go to the movies. I have strange dreams about cutting off all my hair. We walk up at ten am, groggy, and quiet. We don’t want to go home just yet.

I am sitting on the balcony again. It’s hard to believe two weeks have gone by. It’s hard to believe our real life is waiting for us, and that in twenty-four hours we will be reunited with the dogs and guinea pigs, back in all the ennui and humidity the East Coast has to offer. Already we are making plans for more trips. There will be six weeks of summer left when we get back. This makes us happy. I look across the way warily, squinting to make out the familiar figures of my three boys, my companions on this journey. I love them more than I did when we started this trip, and perhaps that is the best outcome of any vacation.

There is nobody in the water but them - it must be truly cold today. The waves are no joke. Every time a child screams I stop and cock my head to ascertain if the echoing sound - of panic? joy? - is familiar to me. For a minute I worry that the something awful I briefly contemplated two weeks ago, will happen today, now, as I write this. A jellyfish sting. A rip tide. A shark. I sip my orange juice and remind myself about that sentence I jotted down in my husband’s birthday card, about how our story won’t end tragically. Our story will end quietly, naturally, after many adventures, many idle hours full of love, tiffs, and laughter. It will end when it is supposed to end, and I will have nothing to do with it. For now, I stare out at the mighty Pacific, and smile, my mind already humming with newly formed memories. I smile knowing that wherever we are, or wherever we end up next, as long as we are together - she’ll be right.

#australia #vacation #summer #nostalgia #travel #sydney

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norton-addiction · 7 years

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In reality, very few Russians are sinister mobsters who poison their foes with polonium or dangle them from skyscraper balconies. But western TV and cinema are very different from reality. In the 21st century, their on-screen representations rarely break out of that sinisterly psychotic stereotype. When are TV Russians going to be the good guys? Never is the Guide’s guess. There’s too much popular cultural investment in depicting them as evil mobsters, as the implacably butch Other to relatively mimsy westerners.

In the centenary year of the Russian revolution, the west is still bewitched by this threat – specifically the mob, which seems bent on exporting its criminal values over here. And the fact that Russia is currently led by an ex-KGB demagogue who burnishes his masculinity issues by hunting half-naked and, according to the news media, may or may not have had a role in hacking the US presidential election, doesn’t help either.

Arguably, Russians are the go-to stereotypes in popular culture right now because, in western nightmares, that stock character resonates with the image we have from the news of President Putin as an implacable hoodlum bent on subverting democratic values.

These kind of thoughts are preying on the minds of the makers of looming BBC drama series McMafia, starring James Norton, which is based on Misha Glenny’s book of the same name. In it, screenwriter Hossein Amini, along with writer-director James Watkins, has focused on a Russian criminal family whose new head is played by Norton.

Amini claims that what he has written avoids the otherwise ubiquitous Russian stereotypes. “The cliche is that they’re a bunch of goons in sharp suits,” Amini says. “What’s often missing from that is that they’re incredibly rich culturally; this is the land of Chekhov and Dostoevsky.”

And yet, as the Guide chats to Amini and Norton during a break in filming, the star of the show can’t quite resist telling me a story about how scary and tough Russians are. Recently, Norton underwent training in the Russian martial art of Systema for his new role. His trainer, David, explained the difference between English and Russian temperaments. Norton impersonates the Systema expert in his best sinister accent: “In England when you see fear you run. In Russia we see fear we shake him by the fucking hand.” Norton giggles amiably. But the point of the story is that even real-life Russians, sometimes, get a kick out of playing up to the hard-man image.

We’re enjoying the spring sunshine on the lawns of Munden House near Watford, which serves as a Russian mobster’s mansion for the eight-part drama series. Norton stars as Alex Godman, a young Russian-born British hedge-fund trader who’s sucked into the corrupting vortex of his family’s crime business. “It’s about someone who finds the Russian bear underneath the bowler hat,” explains James Watkins. What the director means is that beneath the genial suavity of British civilisation is the scary Russian psychopath, who’ll separate you from your windpipe if you look at him wrongly.

You’ll find Russian bears everywhere on TV and movies these days – and not just under the bowler hat. Many shows now seem to have a tough Russkie with mob connections, ideally played by a non-Russian actor, to up the narrative ante. In Orange Is the New Black, for instance, Galina “Red” Reznikov, played by Iowa-born Kate Mulgrew, rules her corner of Litchfield Penitentiary with an iron fist akin to Putin’s helmsmanship of the Kremlin. Plus, Mulgrew brings to the role the same gravitas she gave her character Kathryn Janeway in Star Trek: Voyager.

How did Red (named after her distinctively coloured hair) come to be in the slammer? She punched the wife of the local Russian mob boss in the chest, rupturing the latter’s breast implant. As a result, Red and her husband Dmitri were obliged to pay the repair costs through tasks including storing five corpses of mob victims in their freezer – corpses that led to Red’s conviction for murder. Moral? Punching mob boss’s wives in their breast implants is never a good idea.

What’s also striking is how well this stereotype plays with viewers and critics, at least non-Russian ones. When the mob comes to town to get vengeance in the recent fourth season of Ray Donovan, for instance, one critic wrote: “I love this show’s cold war-esque portrayal of Russian culture/mobsters. They’re all criminal drug addicts!” Liev Schreiber’s eponymous La-La Land enforcer is badass, but not as badass as what one US critic was pleased to call “Dmitri and his entourage of evil”. Having duffed up Ray’s Israeli muscle Avi and taken him hostage, Dmitri (New Yorker Raymond J Barry) phones Ray to demand the return of his relative. Or, as he puts it, terrifyingly: “Mr Donovan, bring me my niece or I kill your Jew.”

And that’s the problem: 21st-century Russians rarely break out of the psychotic stereotype on western TV or cinema. Even in Arrow, the adaptation of the DC comic about billionaire playboy Oliver Queen who is also a secret hooded vigilante, we learn that our hero’s backstory includes post-shipwreck years as a captain of the Russian mob. That’s why our hero can speak the language and why, in a flashback in season five, we see Queen go toe-to-toe with Dolph Lundgren’s Russian government strongman Konstantin Kovar, who resembles Putin with bigger pecs. Lundgren, significantly, has made a successful career from playing Russian hardmen. In 1985, at the height of the Reagan-era cold war, he played Soviet boxer Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, whom patriotic American Sylvester Stallone (in stars and stripes boxing shorts) was obliged to take down in a symbolic bout prefiguring by four years the fall of the Soviet Union. Then, Dolph was the symbolic patsy losing the old cold war for the Russians; in Arrow, more than three decades later, he’s the symbolic patsy losing the new one for them.

Dolph Lundgren, by the way, is not Russian, but Swedish.

Will McMafia buck or conform to the stereotypes? On the lawn of Munden House, James Norton tells the Guide that he hopes his performance will remind us that Russians are different to what is considered the norm on cinema and TV. He says that one reason he wanted to play Alex, the Anglo-Russian who’s both revolted and seduced by his family’s criminal past, was that he is so conflicted. While Alex is proud of his Russian roots (“He has a Dostoevsky book at his bedside and he goes to Systema classes a couple of times a week”) he also agonises over what being Russian means. Will Norton manage to bring such complexities to life, bucking the trend of stereotyping them as thugs? “I hope for Russians’ sakes it counters those cliches. There’s so much negative propaganda about Russia at the moment that we digest. Some of it’s true and some of it is certainly not.”

McMafia will air next year on BBC1

#mcmafia #article #james norton #dolph lundgren

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k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9 · 1 year

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Rocky IV (1985) written, directed by, and starring Sylvester Stallone.

#Rocky IV #1985 #80's #80s #American sports drama film #sports drama film #sequel #Rocky III (1982)#rocky film series #Dolph Lundgren #Carl Weathers as Apollo Creed #Dolph Lundgren as Captain Ivan Drago #Brigitte Nielsen as Ludmilla Vobet Drago #my gif #gifs #my edit #80's movies #80's film #80s movies

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komotionlessqueenmm · 2 years

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Would you ever consider another part to the sick fic with Ivan Drago and the reader? Only this time he’s the one to fall ill and the reader takes care of him? Curiosity gets to the best of me whilst wondering what Ivan would be like when he’s in a more weaker state. (Completely ignoring the match with Rocky when I say that lol) but yeah! I think it would be cool to see what would happen and how the reader would deal with all of his excuses like “I’m fine,” but fails to justify that when he bursts into a round of coughs or sneezes. Anyway, I think it would be rather cool to see what you could do! You’re fanfics have been a blast to read lately!! :D

Honey you just made my day! Normally I don't really do requests, because I suck at fulfilling them. HOWEVER I fucking LOVE this idea!

So here ya go sweetness for making me so ridiculously happy, this is part 2 of Imagine # 1,006. Where Ivan gets sick from nursing the sick reader.

Imagine # 1,006 (Part 2)

Gif NOT mine. (Found on Pinterest.)

If this gif is yours (or you know who's it is) please let me, so I can give you/them credit.

Gif credit goes to - Unknown.

Year posted - 2022

*Part 1 linked up top.

Tags - @wafners-eternity-serum - @80s4life @tonyestarque

Also I was listening to this playlist on Spotify while I wrote this. ╮(╯▽╰)╭ I reference a few songs on this playlist in the story so that's why I linked it. And the links in the story are to a post with the translations of the bits written in Russian.

"Oh Ivan I knew this would happen." (Y/n) sighed as she pressed her palm to her lovers forehead, frowning at how hot his clammy skin felt. "I'm fine." Ivan tried to wave off her worries, only for a fit of coughs to prove him wrong. "You silly man." She mused softly, pressing her lips to his temple. "Stay here my love, I'll go make you some soup." (Y/n) offered, rising to her feet before he could even contemplate refusing her offer. Putting on a record to play softly in the background as she cooked, (Y/n) hummed along with Elvis as he sang his sad melody, Are You Lonesome Tonight? The kitchen filling with the wonderful aroma of chicken soup, and making (Y/n) feel exuberant to have the chance, to nurse Ivan back to health the way he had nursed her just a few days prior.

"Ivan!" (Y/n) gasped in fear, her heart hammering the moment he wrapped his arms around her hips. "You scared me half to death!" She scolded her lover, who nuzzled his face into her neck. "Sorry." He sniffled a little, the large duvet still wrapped around his shoulders. "Missed you принцесса." He whispered, practically squishing her within his hold, making her giggle softly. "Oh Ivan you goof, I've only been away for five minutes." (Y/n) grinned, leaning into his hold. "To long." He huffed with a smile of his own, kissing her neck affectionately. "You're ridiculous, but I still love you." (Y/n) mused as Ivan raised his head from the crook of her neck, resting her forehead against the side of his jaw.

"I love you more." Ivan whispered, wrapping the duvet around her shoulders so he could pull her even further into his hold. "Not possible." (Y/n) giggled as she tilted her head back, planting a kiss against the underside of his jaw. "Now go lay back down, I'll be in there in just a minute." She insisted, smiling when Ivan only squeezed her tighter. "Not without you." He argued like a child, making (Y/n) smile. "I'll be there in just a minute, go rest my sweet." She urged giving him a small nudge, her smile growing when he pulled away, doing as she said. Finishing up in the kitchen as quickly as she could, (Y/n) gathered up the wooden tray, and walked to the bedroom. Her heart fluttering at the endearing sight of Ivan nestled in their shared bed. "That was three minutes." Ivan deadpanned, making (Y/n) snort as she approached the bed.

Placing the tray on the nightstand she shook her head with a grin. "Stop counting the seconds." She teased, a squeak escaping her when Ivan swiftly pulled her down and into the bed with him, trapping her within the blankets and his arms. "Ivan!" She gasped through her fit of giggles, hiding her face into his chest as she tried calming her thundering heart. "That's better." He hummed softly, nuzzling his face into her hair. Elvis's Can't Help Falling In Love, playing softly from the living room record player, making the moment feel surreal and perfect in so many ways. "Your soup is gonna get cold." (Y/n) mumbled against his chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns along his skin.

"I don't care right now." Ivan admitted, making (Y/n) chuckle. "Well I do Mr." She pulled herself away from his hold, sitting cross legged beside him, she reached for the bowl. "Open." She instructed as she held a spoonful in front of his face, Ivan rolled his eyes with a grin, doing as she said regardless. "Good boy." (Y/n) teased playfully, continuing to spoon feed him with a content smile. From the living room came the song And I Love You So by Perry Como, making butterflies flutter in (Y/n)'s stomach, realizing just how deep her love for Ivan ran. "You treat me like a child принцесса." Ivan teased after she offered him the last spoonful. "I treat you like my Настоящая любовь." She argued with a sincere smile.

Ivan had froze upon her declaration, before practically melting into the bed, pulling her back into his hold once more. "You are my Настоящая любовь as well." Ivan cooed softly, kissing the crown of her head, the both of them feeling more loved then they ever had before. "Maybe you should get sick more often, you're so soft on me when you're sick." (Y/n) joked with a grin. "I am always soft with you принцесса." Ivan argued, gently pulling (Y/n) up to look into her eyes, smiling at her adoringly. "Mm perhaps." She teased with a grin, giggling when Ivan quickly turned them around, so he now lay atop her.

"Would you rather I be hard?" He wondered aloud rather suggestively, laughing when (Y/n) blushed at his words. "Don't ruin the moment my Король." She shook her head, laughing when Ivan nuzzled back into her neck, peppering her skin with sloppy wet kisses. "Ivan that tickles!" She snickered, her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. "Good." He muttered against her skin, fighting the urge to cough by distracting himself with kissing (Y/n)'s warm skin. When he finally let up on his playful assault, he sat up peering down into her eyes.

"Are you feeling any better Ivan?" She asked as she held his face between her hands. "With you in my arms, yes I feel much better." He brushed his knuckles across her cheekbone. "You're so cheesy." (Y/n) mumbled with a grin, sighing happily when Ivan rest his forehead against her own, his skin actually feeling a little lest clammy. "It is your fault." Ivan whispered. "Probably." (Y/n) agreed before pulling him down for a proper kiss, not caring if she ended up sick all over again.

But when they pulled apart, Ivan quickly turned away, falling into a sneezing fit. "Oh my sweet." (Y/n) cooed as she rubbed his shoulder gently, finding his sneezes quite cute. "Ready to take some medicine?" She asked after Ivan finished sneezing. "Нет никогда." Ivan shook his head, burying it into the crook of her neck again, his words making (Y/n) snicker. "I'm afraid my love, that you are in fact a child when you are sick." (Y/n) taunted playfully, as she stroked his messy hair back, grinning when he only grunted in response.

*Gods this one was so tooth rottingly sweet, I was feeling so soft while writing this. (I blame the music lol) This one also ended up much longer than the first part, but to be fair, I originally wanted the first part to be much longer anyhow. I really hope you enjoyed it my lovelies! 💚

#imagine #gif imagine #extended #ivan drago #ivan drago x reader #Ivan drago imagine #rocky 4 #rocky iv #Rocky imagine #Rocky 4 x reader #Captain Ivan drago #dolph lundgren #dolph lundgren imagine #Dolph lundgren x reader #fluff #cute af #tooth rotting fluff #tooth rottingly sweet

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