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peemil · 3 years

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☕evangelion 😳

y'all are killing me

the more time i spend apart from this show, the more i find myself kind of hating it shsjhl;hjsdhjso;d. i am somehow now in an even worse place mentally than i was when i first watched evangelion but even so i am NOT letting myself fall in the same traps of woobifying shinji and excusing the behaviors i shared with him and vice versa.

starting with my most general take, i don't like the rebuilds. like, at all. granted, i haven't seen 3.0 + 1.0 yet, and i will be avoiding spoilers until there is an official english translation, but i feel like the rebuilds are kind of what you get when you listen a little too hard to people who didn't get the psychological parts of eva and spent the latter half of the series wishing it would go "back" to being a regular mecha anime (which it never was in the first place). the rebuilds lack a lot of the same internal conflicts that drive the characters (especially shinji), and higher budget means the rebuilds can be more direct in their storytelling and less reliant on alternative ways of communicating ideas, which causes the rebuilds to lose some of the avant-garde present in the original series. as a result, it's jarring to see some of the attempts made at this in 3.0, and painful to watch these attempts fail, as they have no real precedent in the film series. the best way for me to explain the rebuilds is they feel like sterilized and polished, but hollow versions of the original anime series. but maybe i'm just biased, because none of the things i liked about the original are present in the films.

on to more minutiae... i've said it once and i'll say it again, asuka langley soryu is a LESBIAN and there's nothing anyone can do to make me stop reading her character in this way. the only male characters she is depicted as having any romantic feelings towards in the series just (unintentionally) so... comphet. her obsessive flirting with kaji is rooted in her need to prove her worth as an adult, i.e., to prove to others that she is something she inherently is not. plus, he's older, and he's conventionally attractive, so if she didn't have feelings for him (or at least publicly perform having feelings for him), she'd be out of her mind, right? asuka is also someone shown to pursue connections out of convenience (literally citing it as her primary reason for wanting to be friends with rei), and any intimacy she shares with shinji (i.e., their kissing scene) is done only because 1. she's bored 2. shinji is the closest person available. i find the notion that she's a tsundere hiding her real feelings for him laughable, because we've seen what asuka is like around people she genuinely likes and whom she wants to like: the hatred she shows for rei takes a different form from her hatred for shinji: whereas asuka is disgusted by shinji, she is resentful towards rei. her resentment towards rei curiously begins only after rei rejects asuka's offer of friendship, so i am inclined to believe that asuka's feelings of anger when she sees rei receives more respect than she believes she does at nerv are compounded by the fact that she wanted to like rei and have a connection with rei, but wasn't permitted to do so. we also get to see how asuka acts around the one person with whom asuka is able to form a meaningful connection with, whom she lets herself trust and open up to: hikari. asuka actually has fun with hikari and feels safe enough around her to not only seek refuge with her and her family in her time of need, but also to admit that her rage is mostly towards none other than herself. her behavior towards shinji is nothing like her behavior towards either of these characters, but it is not much different from her behavior towards kensuke and toji, two other boys in her class, so maybe... maybe she just doesn't like boys? lol. i'm aware that asuka is genuinely homophobic and awful in the episode 24 drafts, and that it was in no way, shape, or form the writers' intent to turn that into some sort of commentary on internalized homophobia. but with the canon footage that did get animated, i'm really not sure how else i'm supposed to analyze this aspect of her character.

similarly, i don't appreciate how many fans will treat headcanoning shinji as gay instead of bi is somehow "bi erasure." number one, shinji's behavior and attitudes towards the women around him is actually kind of appalling, so i wouldn't necessarily want to use his objectification of and acts of violence against their bodies as particularly strong evidence that he's genuinely attracted to women. number two, of course a show about a young man made in the late 90's is going to try to portray the people to whom he is attracted primarily as women. partially because they can't start from the get-go with him having his teenage sexual awakening with another male—for a mainstream anime, that wouldn't be profitable—and partially because this is an anime and showing women and girls in a sexual light is profitable. and given shinji's role of audience surrogate, of course he is going to be the one doing the ogling and sexualizing because he is us, and after all, it is the viewer who wants to see the anime tiddies, no? shinji's more sexual encounters with the women in his life are always either deeply awkward, uncomfortable, and even unnatural, or they completely obectify and commodify the bodies of the women in question. for this reason, i have always seen these moments as existing without genuine attraction: only either confusion (because these situations really are quite blatantly sexual) or simply a disingenuous performance of the attraction shinji thinks he should be displaying, manifesting as the same objectification of women he has seen men exhibit for all of his life—it's little more than a mimicry of the bad behavior he has grown up watching, because that's what he thinks attraction towards women is supposed to look like. conversely, his actions with kaworu, while skittish, seem to come much more organically. shinji is constantly and consistently drawn to kaworu, in addition to being willing to open up to kaworu in ways he doesn't let himself with any other person. granted, kaworu is the only person to give shinji the love he desperately needs and craves throughout the entire course of the series, but the fact that kaworu is the first person shinji genuinely acts like a kid his age with a massive crush in a way that doesn't feel blatantly scripted around, as well as the fact that shinji goes on to feel more slighted by kaworu's perceived betrayal than any mistreatment he experiences from anyone in the whole course of the series (save for his literal father)... idk. sus lol

been awhile since i've done a proper rewatch of this show so i can't speak super generally since i unfortunately don't remember too much. one thing i will say though, i LOVE how the series is very upfront about the fact that shinji's loneliness and trauma (and loneliness and trauma in general) are going to be core themes in the series from the start. people say the first 6 episodes are slow just because they don't have as much action as some of the episodes in the middle of the series, but i remember speeding through them in one sitting because i wanted to understand more about shinji and his inner workings; i was fascinated by his psychology. people famously refer to evangelion as a bait-and-switch, and maybe that's true to a degree, because i don't think anyone really saw the shift to more trippy animation coming, but the psychological themes present in the latter parts of the series are still very present in episodes 1-4. i'm also amused by people who say they're "caught off guard" by the last four or so episodes, because the major shift towards being a show primarily about psychology really begins in episode 16, when eva unit 01 is consumed by leliel and shinji has to confront the "self within his self" for the first time in the train car of his mind. i know it begins as just another angel fight but like... guys... how did you miss that... episode 16, because it really is where this shift begins, is actually my favorite episode in the entire series. that, and it was where i was first introduced to this hegelian concept of each person functioning both as an actor or operator who carries out actions, as well as an audience perceiving and observing their actions, their thoughts, and themself. which, to a degree, solidifies the notion that anything and everything technically could be considered performance. it's made my work much, much easier and my day-to-day life much, much more dramatic.

#nge #he scream at own follower #i'm sorry for talking so much about shinji and asuka. the worst part is that theoretically i could say even more #i haven't even started with rei #though she reminds me of someone i lost contact with so i get too emotional about her to say much of any real value

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ashestoashesjc · 4 years

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A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend On A Couple's Retreat

Short Story 1/2/(3)/4/5/6/7/8/9/10

"RrRRrrrr... grrr? <Hey, uh, babe... seen my arm anywhere?>" rang Sett's voice throughout their cigar box of a house as he rummaged through closets, opened cabinets, overturned couch cushions.

Shutting and latching the front door behind him, Ulrick began flipping through the stack of envelopes clutched in his right hand. "Huh? Oh…”

“Okay, so… don’t get mad,” Ulrick began, as meekly and guilt-tinged as one can make a shout. “But... there was this huge, I mean HUGE silverfish…”

“GRrrr! Rrrrr. <Dude! Not cool,>” could be heard as Sett stomped his way to the foyer.

“I know! I’m sorry! I’m weak!” moaned Ulrick.

Sett sighed as he entered the cove and laid his single remaining hand on Ulrick’s left shoulder, the other sleeve draped flaccidly at his side. “Grrrr. <Well, yeah.>” he said. Ulrick snickered.

“You know, having your boyfriend kill a bug for you is exceedingly normal,” Ulrick said, separating the bills from the letters that weren’t bills. There were very few that weren’t bills. “Almost conventional.”

“Rrr. <True,>” Sett replied. “Rggrrrr. <Probably while the arm’s still attached, though.>”

“A mere quibble.”

“Rrrrgrrr? <So, where is it now?>” Sett asked.

“Ugh. Still getting cozy with the silverfish, I’d imagine,” Ulrick admitted, guilt creeping back into his voice. He covered his eyes with his free hand and shuddered. “In… the shower.”

Sett sucked air through his teeth in a compassion-filled cringe.

“Yeah,” Ulrick sighed, resigned to his trauma.

“Grrrr. <Don’t worry,>” said Sett. “Rraarr. <I got it.>”

Ulrick slid his hand down his face with a grateful groan. “God, I love you.” Sett pulled him forward by his collar and pecked his forehead.

Continuing to sort through the mail, Ulrick came to a red envelope and, seeing it addressed to Sett, handed it over. “Looks important.”

Confusion clouded Sett’s eyes for the first few, slow moments spent undoing the envelope’s seal flap, until suddenly, a surge of realization like lightning drove him to violently tear the crimson paper away.

As he scanned the contents of the letter contained within, words failing to do his emotional state justice, Sett began to fist pump wildly, God help anyone in the flight path of his singular elbow. Ulrick looked on in entranced bewilderment.

“Was there itching powder in that envelope?” asked Ulrick.

Sett shoved the creased letter in Ulrick’s face, his manic energy not yet dissipated. Ulrick took it and held it out at arm’s length until his eyes brought the words into focus.

“A couple’s retreat?” he wondered aloud, lowering the paper enough to peer over the top at Sett.

“Grrgrrrr. <An all-expenses paid couple’s retreat.> Rrrrrr. <At a swanky resort.> GrrrrRr. <Complete with water skis.>”

“This is from a contest?” he asked, rotating and inspecting the sheet. “When did we enter a contest?”

“Rrggrrrr? <You know those entry slips we’re getting in the post all the time?>”

“The ones I’m always throwing away? I’m familiar.”

“RrrRrrrrr ggrrrr. <Well, your aim could use some work, because some of them wind up in the mailbox,>” said Sett, with a shrug.

The sound that next filled the room, colored with exasperated mirth, was one Sett was used to Ulrick making, though one that never stopped bringing a flush of heat to the place where his heart used to be.

He grabbed Ulrick by the hips and the two began to sway back and forth. “Rrrrrr. <Just imagine it,>” he purred dreamily. “GrrrRRrrrr rrrrRrrr grrr...arrrr? <Massages, rock-climbing, a luau. And… did I mention waterskiing?>”

Swaying still, Ulrick looked up with his head cocked. "I've... never heard you mention waterskiing before."

"GrrRrrrrrr. <I enjoy a lot of things I don't talk about.> Rgrrrrgrrr. <Like country music, or bad chick lit,>" Sett said before twirling and dipping Ulrick in a blur. "Rraarrrr. <I'm a multi-layered zombie.>"

Breaking clumsily away from the songless dance and squeezing the bridge of his nose, Ulrick set down the remainder of the mail on the side table by the entrance and looked his boyfriend over. “It’s totally free?”

“Grrarrr. <It’s totally free,>” confirmed Sett.

Ulrick raised an eyebrow. “No catch?”

“Rrr… <Well…>”

“And streeetch! That’s right! Streeetch!”

At the front of Meadow Grove Resort’s famed yoga studio balanced - one foot planted on the ground, the other hooked deftly behind her neck - Chrysanthemum Smith, a remarkably limber 60-year-old instructor, urging her out-of-shape contest winning students to achieve the same feats of flexibility.

All around Ulrick and Sett, a pretzel factory’s soon-to-be-discarded collection of heinous, gnarly undesirables had been given life in the form of sweaty middle Americans.

That pretzels went through a less agonizing process being baked at 500 degrees was a fact Ulrick was both confident in and envious of. His legs were angled in a way he was sure he’d feel for weeks to come.

Sett, on the other hand, had apparently been a contortionist in a past life, the way he bent himself into poses, well, a pretzel would gawk at, holding each position stoically before moving gracefully on to the next. It also helped that he couldn’t feel what would leave most tendons shredded rags.

Ulrick gave up the pursuit of dislocating his pelvis and instead went to poke Sett in the cheek. Through his mask, Sett made a chomping motion at the finger, though remained otherwise totally still. "Okay, but this kind of bites, right?" Ulrick signed.

"A little. And not in the fun way," Sett signed back.

On a pair of blue, rubber mats to their left were two women - one in a biker's jacket and tattered, patched jeans, short red hair tied into a haphazard ponytail; the other a dark woman donning a shaved head, flower-patterned maxi dress, and combat boots - the former of whom suddenly grabbed Ulrick's attention with a nod.

"You're telling me," she signed.

And in an instant, they were no longer alone in the hazy, secluded sphere that made their reality.

So taken aback was he that he blurted aloud, "You sign?"

The yoga instructor shushed him from her place at the head of the wide room, leading him to duck down sheepishly. With the forced inclusion of an overly casual air, he said more than asked, "You sign."

"Oh, yeah," the woman chuckled gruffly. "Mom's Deaf."

Taking a sudden interest in the conversation, Sett's head swiveled to the leather jacket-clad woman. "Shit yeah!" he signed with fervor, eliciting a harsh snort from the woman. The instructor's head whipped around to glare her way, but went ignored.

Sett's hands jumbled for a moment before he continued. "I mean, I'm sure that must have been very difficult for your family and--"

She gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "Nah, don't worry about it. She's capital 'D' Deaf. A congenital thing. Whole family's been signing forever."

Her wife - Jen, they later learned - chimed in with, "Di does it at home, too. She's taught me half the lyrics to Boys for Pele."

"Wow!" Ulrick said with teeth-clenching enthusiasm. "That's so great! Isn't that so great, Sett?"

The mask did nothing to conceal Sett's raised, beaming features. "That's so great!" he signed.

"I'm sorry!" bellowed the lithe yogi, shattering all delusions of serenity. "Am I boring you?"

Several overlapping voices came to the general consensus of "Christ, yes."

One of the husbands, portly and somewhat resembling the famously affable capybara, asked, somewhat less affably, why they were being stretched into taffy when they should be outside taking one-on-one lessons with the beach volleyball instructor. He was joined by a few surly “yeah!”s.

They were met with an unimpressed crossing of the arms. Though it should be noted Smith’s foot was still being held comfortably behind her head.

"I would suggest, in the future, that you more closely scrutinize contest entries," Yogi Smith advised in as calm a manner as it seemed she could now manage, though with an unmistakable edge to her voice. "In order to partake in our facility’s more... physically involved activities, you’ll first need to align and cleanse your mental, emotional, and spiritual energies.”

This provoked a studio-wide groan, with the exclusion of Jen, who seemed just eager enough to cancel out the cloud of grim impatience encircling her.

“Unless, of course,” Smith said, shifting poses to something favoring the letter ‘G’, “you’d prefer to construct your own schedules. In which case, a full price admission to Meadow Grove Resort remains available.”

She sleekly extended her right leg, pointing its foot pin-straight toward the sliding studio doors. “Don’t, as the masters of yore were wont to say, let the door hit ya.”

When no one moved and the room went quiet enough to hear an acupuncture needle drop, Smith resumed a standing position and bowed three times to each division of the studio. “Namaste. Namaste. Namaste.”

Chrysanthemum Smith had in no way undersold how ‘aligned and cleansed’ couple’s therapy and its airings of dirty laundry and subsequent ferocious dissolutions of decades of marriage; couple’s pottery, the same thing but with clay vases; and couple’s finger-painting, a bonding exercise in shared humiliation, would make their minds, emotions, and souls through sheer gut-rending hilarity.

Ulrick almost didn’t want to stop watching people who, hours ago, seemed all confidence and bravado, now being brought to tears by an instructor’s criticism of their macaroni art lacking ‘depth.’

But their confinement was over and they were free to roam the grounds as they saw fit and Sett, without even feigning to look for a map of the resort, made a beeline for the largest body of water (and the largest gathering of humans) he could sniff. Ulrick was still surprised at times by how agile Sett could be on his feet when on the hunt for blood - or recreational watersports - and struggled to keep up.

Their long-awaited waterskiing adventure began almost as soon as they arrived at the lakeside, the instructor needing a volunteer at that instant to man the skis while he lectured another guest on the controls of the boat. At nearly a head taller than anyone else present, Sett didn’t need much more than a raised hand to stand out.

Things were going great; Sett mounted on skis as long as he was tall, the boat revving greedily for take off. At Sett’s thumbs up, the runabout hammered off in a thunderous roar. And then, all at once, things were going wrong.

The envisioned majesty of skimming the motionless calm of the crystal river was halted abruptly with a leaden Sett stumbling mid-lake in his skis, trying and failing to correct himself, going feet-over-head, and sinking like an anchor to the agitated silt of the riverbed below.

Ulrick, though he jumped with concern at the first hint of a misstep, expected a brief swim back, perhaps slowed a bit - but not much - by Sett's stoney limbs. He’d been the star diver of his local swimming hole as a teen and still maintained some of the underwater dexterity, though nowadays tended to lurk the floors of bodies of water like a carnivorous bottom-feeder; eating habits included.

But then a few minutes passed, and nothing. A lifeguard and two of the more experienced swimmers among the guests plunged into the river and searched for fifteen minutes, cracking the surface now and again for a gulp of air, all to no avail. The water was too cloudy with sediment to see past a certain depth, and the orange-purples of dusk were beginning to settle in. They'd need to return in the morning with a diving team.

It'd now been forty-five minutes, and three of the resort’s other guests were consoling Ulrick, one herself on the verge of waterworks. They'd just witnessed a man - someone's significant other - torn tragically from life's teat, and in front of the man he loved, no less.

Ulrick, for his part, was positively miffed.

"When I get my hands on him..." Ulrick started, before one of the grievers tossed him a teary-eyed questioning look. "Er, that is... would that I could only put my hands on him... again..." he corrected.

Just as Ulrick had begun mentally reviewing the basics of the Arts of Throttling, a movement, barely noticeable, shook the surface of the lake. Then bubbles, then the full break of the water as a head rose into view. Then the screams of onlookers as, in the fading light, a ghastly lake monster began its murderous approach. Then screams of a different kind as people began to make the connection proper. Then there was weeping, fainting, more than one declaration of faith renewed. It was a miracle!

Later, after insistences for medical attention were politely but firmly refused and the religious stragglers begging for just a smell of Sett’s waterlogged clothes were shooed away, Ulrick asked why he waited so long to resurface, to which Sett said, "GrrrrRRrr. <Well, at first I was just sort of embarrassed.> RrrrrrrGrrrRrrr? <Then I thought, "How often do these people see miracles?>"

"Oh, sure," groaned Ulrick. "A man comes out of a lake after half an hour and it's a miracle. A man comes out of a grave after a few months and it's "Grab the torches and pitchforks, everyone!""

"Rrrr. <Babe.>"

Ulrick gave a pouty grumble. "I'm just saying. One's a little more miraculous, is all."

Sett pulled Ulrick's head into his chest and stroked his hair. "GrrrRrrrRrrr. <Shh, I know, dude, I know.>" His heavy, soaked clothes and lack of body heat didn't chill Ulrick as much as they should have, and though a fine coating of sand covering him from head to toe gritted against Ulrick's cheek, it only made Ulrick rub his face in rebelliously.

"Okay," Ulrick said, resting his fists on Sett's chest and gazing up into his eyes. "What's the next activity? I think we’re... due-au for a luau?" The moment the words left his lips, his face collapsed into disgusted regret.

“Rgrrr... <Actually…>” Sett said, wrenching off his mask and shaking the excess water from his hair, teasing a blush out of Ulrick. “GgrrrRrrrr? <Doesn’t watching the stars by the lake sound pretty relaxing?>”

Ulrick grinned and took a seat on the shoreline, running his hands through the tufts of ryegrass stretching out in waves around him. He tapped a spot to his right and Sett, half-cocked smile in tow, came lumbering over to take it.

Hours flurried past, changing nothing about the image of the intimately silent pair but the number of stark white pinpricks in the sky they beheld.

They threatened to sit silently basking in each other forever.

And then Sett said, “GRrrrrgrrr, rrgrrr, graargrr. <So, Diane and Jen gave me their number, and they want to plan an outing.>”

Unease shot through Ulrick’s veins, but he held his tongue in search of the correct words. “O-oh?”

“Grrr? Rrgrrrrr. <Isn’t that cool? People want to spend time with us,>” said Sett, ensorcelled with the twinkle of every new star. “Rrrrr. <With me.>”

“That might be…” began Ulrick, before noticing the glimmer in Sett’s eyes and faint lift at the corners of his mouth as he stared up towards a great unknown. He sighed. “It’s going to be great.”

Sett rested his hand on Ulrick’s, their fingers interlocking. He smiled, and the two gazed into an ever-darkening firmament, speckled with a thousand stars and a thousand futures.

#A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend #short stories #supernatural #mlm #wlw #queer #series #A Necromance #original #fiction

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blackjack-15 · 3 years

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Leavin’ on a Jet Pack — Thoughts on: The Haunting of Castle Malloy (HAU)

Previous Metas: SCK/SCK2, STFD, MHM, TRT, FIN, SSH, DOG, CAR, DDI, SHA, CUR, CLK, TRN, DAN, CRE, ICE, CRY, VEN

Hello and welcome to a Nancy Drew meta series! 30 metas, 30 Nancy Drew Games that I’m comfortable with doing meta about. Hot takes, cold takes, and just Takes will abound, but one thing’s for sure: they’ll all be longer than I mean them to be.

Each meta will have different distinct sections: an Introduction, an exploration of the Title, an explanation of the Mystery, a run-through of the Suspects. Then, I’ll tackle some of my favorite and least favorite things about the game, and finish it off with ideas on how to improve it. Like with all of the Odd Games, there will be a section between The Intro and The Title called The Weird Stuff, where I go into what makes this game stand out as a little strange.

If any game requires an extra section or two, they’ll be listed in the paragraph above, along with links to previous metas.

These metas are not spoiler free, though I’ll list any games/media that they might spoil here: HAU, mention of DAN.

The Intro:

Yup, this is the jetpack banshee game.

Honestly, that’s probably the best introduction to this game. It’s semi-famous among the fandom for just being balls-to-the-wall nuts, and for good reason; while HAU isn’t quite as confused as some of the other Odd games, it’s definitely less organized, and there’s very little story to tell here.

And the story that is there? Well, we’ll cover that in The Weird Stuff.

The Haunting of Castle Malloy falls near the end of the Odd Games, and honestly it more than deserves its place. Sure, we’re in a different, ‘exotic’ location like…well, most of the Odd Games, but it’s not like it really matters, as Nancy sees very little of Ireland. A car drive, a brief interlude outside of a pub, and the weirdest outside interface ever seen in a Nancy Drew game (even being reused in the next game briefly), and for all of that we might as well be in the Florida swamps.

Let’s not even mention the teetotaler pub. The less said about that, the less silly that this game comes off. Everyone in Ireland drinks a tall, frothy cup of Juice when they want to relax.

Sigh. Honestly, HER. Just skip the pub entirely.

HAU is also a game that tries to contextualize itself in Nancy’s past, but doesn’t do a very good job about it. It’s not inside reference-y like Secret of the Old Clock, but it’s also not grounded in character like…well, all of the Nancy games (ASH through SPY). It just springs in the ‘hey remember this character you’ve never heard about nor had referenced because we made her up whole cloth for this game’ little mechanic and tries to whisk the player away with it.

Consider me unwhisked.

And maybe that’s the biggest problem – or rather, the biggest signifier – of The Haunting of Castle Malloy: it relies on whirling the player away in the Sights and Sounds and Juices of Ye Olde Greene Eire, but instead…well, it doesn’t have the power to whirl the player. It doesn’t even have the body to muss the player’s hair when the wind comes around.

HAU is very little like its source material; in fact, really the only thing that the book and game have in common is that they’re both set in Ireland, and that the mystery involves Nancy’s friends. Sure, in the book it’s Bess and George, rather than an obscure, hitherto-unknown exchange student, but since there’s nothing else, we’ll give them points for it.

The majority of this meta (and the majority of this game) falls under the weird stuff designation, so let’s pop on over and talk about what makes HAU truly odd.

The Weird Stuff:

The entire premise of this game isn’t too far off the mark of normal – Nancy’s summoned to help a family friend, which is the case for quite a few Nancy Drew games (more than the opposite, I believe, at this point in the series) — but it does stand out a bit that she’s going to be in a wedding as a maid of honor.

While I could see it for Bess/George, Hannah (which would be fun) or Ned (which is my personal headcanon), it’s a bit odd that this is a character we’ve never heard of who considers Nancy her closest female acquaintance. You’re telling me Kyler got through elementary, middle, high, and University without making a single friend other than the weird little kid she knew while studying in River Heights?

That’s weird enough to get a section by itself, but it’s not even scraping the surface of this game.

Going deeper, our predominant theme/conflict/effery in this game is a convoluted love triangle between the bride, groom, and their best friend (who for some reason isn’t involved with like anything with the wedding, regardless of the fact that he should be doing at least as much as Nancy is doing, and possibly more since he’s an actual friend of the couple), with Kit still being in love with Kyler (for some unimaginable reason) yet friends with Matt. Kit, notably, doesn’t really do anything about it, but just having that plotline being our main thread is a super weird choice, honestly.

This is also a story about marriage troubles; sure, they haven’t officially tied the knot yet, but the fact that Kyler thinks that her fiancé disappearing the night before their wedding is a “classic Matt prank” and not either something deeply worrying or a sign that he’s too immature for a commitment is a Huge Yikes.

Best case scenario and he’s playing a prank…does he think people won’t take this as a bad sign, that early-arriving guests won’t freak out, that this won’t cause any problems?

And worst case, he’s been kidnapped (the truth of course being even dumber than that), and the first 48 hours after a kidnapping are the most crucial, meaning that Kyler’s inaction could result in a death that didn’t have to happen on her watch.

What I think HER really didn’t think about was the implications of this setup. Either way, it doesn’t just look bad for Matt and/or Kyler (to say nothing of Kit), it looks bad for their future.

We have no faith that these two are actually interested in each other, let alone in love and committed to this relationship. Nancy, famously deaf to emotions like this, doesn’t really make any comments about how this bodes ill, but the player is bound to think that something’s not quite right if these two people are so mismatched.

In a slightly less uncommon theme for the Nancy Drew series, this is also a game about unrequited love. Let’s face it, for the majority of the game the only suspect really is Kit, since Donal isn’t big enough to kidnap Matt, and it’s a Nancy Drew game, so Matt definitely isn’t out there playing a very poorly timed prank on his bride to be. Kit even has suspicious documents (the land drawings) and such that add up to him wanting Matt out of the way, even without his unrequited love schtick with Kyler.

Honestly, how two people were in love with that chick is just…it boggles the mind, honestly. What is appealing at all about Kyler? Her weird hair? The fact that it looks like she’s wearing a green dress the whole game only to have it be pants? Her bland personality? Awful voice? The way she looks in the weird photographs in the game?

Sorry for the digression, but I am struggling here.

The last section within this section will talk about the thing that’s by far the oddest conceptionally in this game – the banshee/jetpack storyline. Most of the time when it’s a folk/faerie story in these games, it turns out to be not true, and that’s still the case here. To have it not be a banshee, but instead be a senile, badly mentally damaged old woman flying around on a jetpack from World War II, on the other hand…that stretches the limits of believability to where it would have been better to just have it be a banshee.

Fiona and her backstory and her jetpack are pretty much the oddest pieces, with none of them actually fitting into the larger themes of the story. Our backstory in this game — WWII Ireland and its scientific achievements — isn’t integrated at all with the present day, dethroning previous WWII-focused backstory game Danger by Design for ‘least related backstory’ award, and it’s not justified at all within the story or characters either.

The Title:

As far as titles go, “The Haunting of Castle Malloy” isn’t bad at all; it’s fairly standard, slightly pulpy Nancy Drew fare, and certainly better than the title of its book inspiration (“The Bike Tour Mystery”, so named because Nancy et al go on a bike tour in the book). It tells you the “what” (haunting) and “where” (Castle Malloy), and is fairly evocative.

I really just have a problem with it being the title of this game. Not only is the Castle not really relevant — sure, it’s where the game takes place, but it’s not important to the game outside a conversation or two — within the story, but the game doesn’t really pull off the ‘haunting’ side either. It’s established pretty early on that there are weird lights and sounds, but that’s about it.

If you want to keep the location, “The Banshee of Castle Malloy” I feel like would have been a better choice, as it tells us right away we’re dealing with Irish mythology, and shows it’s supposed to be a Haunting game (no matter how poorly it pulls that off) without any excess fuss. It’s also a little more specific, which is generally a good move to make the title more interesting — like how “The Shadow in the Fog” is better than just “The Shadow” as a title.

HAU’s title seems to be solidly in the middle of Nancy Drew titles, so there’s not much more to say about it. Let’s move on to the mystery it somewhat, but not completely, speaks of.

The Mystery:

Nancy’s been summoned overseas again, but this time it’s for pleasure, rather than business. An exchange student that Nancy and Carson housed for a few months is getting married, and wants Nancy to be her maid of honor.

And no, I have no idea why Carson wasn’t invited. Way to snub the man who fed and housed you, but invite his daughter (who was 14 at the time Kyler knew her) to hold one of the most important places in the wedding.

Anyway, by the time Nancy arrives — the night before the wedding; bad form Nancy — the groom — Matt Simmons — is missing, which Kyler suspects is a practical joke (as Matt has a reputation for pulling pranks) and Donal, the caretaker of the Castle, thinks is a sign of being kidnapped by faeries for the crime of being English and marrying an Irishwoman.

Out of the many crimes of the English, I don’t think this one ranks enough with the Fae to merit a stepping-in, but hey, what do I know about crudely-drawn stereotypes in a HER game. I’m sure they did all of the possible research, talked to experts about Irish mythology, spent about 5 minutes on the Wikipedia article for “banshee”…at least one of those.

The only other person on the Castle grounds is Kit Foley, Matt and Kyler’s friend — and Kyler’s unrequited admirer. A land developer, he’s literally the most suspicious person at the castle by being the only one actually in the castle and by holding the (honestly reasonable) opinion that Matt just got cold feet and left.

Once Nancy finds Matt’s broken glasses and Kyler mentions that he’s blind without them, however, the race is on to find Matt — who definitely couldn’t have broken a spare/fake pair of glasses as part of the prank, shush you — before the wedding the next day. What should have been a grueling search takes an hour or so, and they find out that he accidentally fell in a secret passage and got trapped there, being fed carrots and potatoes by the resident crazy woman like he was a blind, helpless rabbit.

Yeah.

As a mystery…I mean, is this even a mystery??? What honestly went on in the pitch room that day? “We’re gonna write about fidelity, unrequited love, the stress of a wedding, a friendless woman who invites an 18-year-old because she never made any friends…and a crazy old woman with ties to World War II. And a jetpack.”

I don’t even know how I would begin to rate this mystery. Bad? Because that’s honestly the word that comes to mind. I’m never a fan of “oh it was all a Hilarious accident, ho ho ho” endings to mysteries, and this one is worse than most. Nothing follows, the backstory is such a non-entity it really doesn’t bear spelling out, and the characters aren’t even a little likable. This section could delve into each problem with the mystery but, honestly, that sounds exhausting and I’m gonna go over the bigger points below anyway, so let’s get to the clowns that make up this circus.

The Suspects:

Beginning with Kyler Mallory, our bride to be who, for some reason, has her hair and tiara done the night before the wedding — I guess she’s not planning on sleeping? — is searching for her prankster groom to “teach him a lesson” and so he knows that once they’re married, “no more pranks ever”.

Sounds like she loves him dearly and wouldn’t change a thing, huh. If that wasn’t worrying enough, she’s not super fussed that he’s disappeared the night before their wedding, and considers it a “Classic Matt” sort of thing to do.

As a culprit – man that would have been a dark turn, to have her kidnap/hide away Matt to teach him a lesson about not pulling pranks. It, of course, would have made a friendly acquaintance of Nancy’s into a bad guy, and that’s a huge No-No for HER, but it would have been kinda cool all the same.

Kyler’s groom is Matt Simmons, an Englishman who is decidedly unwelcome in Ireland (at least, according to Donal) and who has a strong reputation for being a little too heavy on the pranks — so much so that when he disappears, his own fiancée just thinks it’s another prank. To be fair to her, he did disappear while pulling a very sad little prank on her, so she wasn’t entirely off base.

As a culprit…how would that even work? That would be like FIN’s Maya kidnapping herself for no purpose whatsoever. Matt isn’t really given any character beats other than “prankster” and “fed like a rabbit”, so there’s really not much to speculate on here. I do wonder what Kyler sees in him…but then again, I also wonder what he (and Kit) see in Kyler, so we have that as well.

Next up is the couple’s friend Kit Foley, who’s sporting an enormous shiner to the wedding courtesy of a wayward branch (and a bit of karma) that smacked him while he and Matt were pranking Donal. He’s in love with Kyler (why????) but seems happy enough for his friends, and is of the opinion that Matt simply got cold feet and left.

Not sure why you’d be friends with someone who’d do that, but no one in this game has any character at all, so we’ll blow past it.

A land developer, Kit is basically the only suspect and yet a terrible suspect at the same time. Sure, he’s in love with Kyler (again, why???), but he also doesn’t really gain anything from them not getting married, just like he doesn’t gain anything from them getting married. I never thought I’d see the day where a brooding best friend is so…unaffected by the marriage of his long-time crush, but that just goes to show you how little depth even Kit — who somehow has the most depth of any character — really has.

Finally, Donal Delaney is the caretaker of Castle Malloy, and a firm believer in the Fae. He’s also really the only Irishman in the cast, which isn’t a great look for HER. He thinks that the Fae have taken Matt in return for being in Ireland and sleeping in the old nursery room in the castle, and is easily frightened.

Seriously, that’s his whole character.

As a culprit…as much as Donal is grumpy, he’s not really any sort of entity as a suspect. He hangs out at the pub, drinks fruit juice, and talks about the Fae, and that’s the extent of his involvement in the plot. The most importance he gets is inadvertently being the source of Kit’s black eye, and that’s so tertiary to the plot that it might as well not be there.

The Favorite:

Even though this game is, by all accounts, a ridiculous non-entity, there are a small amount of things that I do like.

I’m actually a fan of the opening sequence; it’s like a better version of CUR’s opening, has Nancy crashing her car (always fun) while telling Ned she’s not gonna crash (even more fun), and she doesn’t show up right away at the castle. Honestly, the first about 10 minutes of the game are actually solid, and more fun than the rest of the game as a whole. So that probably qualifies as my favorite moment in the game, spliced with the revelation that Matt has been subsisting on raw carrots and potatoes, which is just…honestly unimaginably funny.

My favorite puzzle is the seating chart for the wedding. Veterans of this meta series (all 5 of you) will know that my favorite types of puzzles are word and logic puzzles, and this is a great logic puzzle. I honestly could have done an hour of that puzzle and been happy as a clam. It really stands out as, well, the only fun I had during the majority of the game, but it was honest fun.

The Un-Favorite:

And then, on the other hand…

There’s a lot about this game that isn’t great, but almost none of it do I hate; there’s just not enough effort for me to hate it.

Except the background setting.

Having already done WWII as a backstory, HER really should have thought twice about returning to it only five games later. With Brendan Malloy developing fuel for armored vehicles, only stopped by it exploding in his (and everyone’s) faces in 1944…honestly, there’s no reason that this game’s backstory should take place in World War II, other than to have a reasonable chance of Fiona still being alive. It also makes it seem like ‘oh the War really didn’t touch Ireland that much hahahaha” which isn’t a great look either.

Honestly, HER’s treatment of Ireland is pretty ‘un-favorite’ here, but since HER never really does a good job handling any country (or most states outside the Pacific Northwest), it’d be fairly pointless to begin talking about it at length now.

My least favorite moment is probably the reveal of the culprit/mystery at the end; it’ so anti-climactic, honestly, and only comes after much struggle through two very stupid puzzles. It doesn’t give any meaning to the game, no one learns any lessons, and — probably unpopular opinion here — it probably would have been better for everyone involved (including Fiona) if Fiona would have died in that explosion 60+ years ago.

My least favorite puzzle would actually be the two puzzles at the very end — the chemicals and the rocket ship. The chemical puzzle is the worst offender, but both are pointless, do nothing for the story, and really feel like they’re there because Nancy Drew games have to have a puzzle at the very end. Putting something into a game because you ‘have’ to is never good, and this is a prime example of how annoying that obligation can truly be.

The Fix:

So how would I fix The Haunting of Castle Malloy?

The first thing I’d say is that, despite the games in the Nancy Drew series often containing one, I don’t really think the HAU needs a historical backstory. If you must give something to the Castle and the explosion, set it back in World War I, which would at least be something different.

But honestly, it’d be better to just get rid of it entirely. It’s old, it’s a castle, it’s in ruins, move on. The present has enough potential for drama without mucking up the past.

The second thing I would do is to take out Fiona entirely. Sure, still have the legend of the banshee going around the area, but it’s all things that are (mostly) easily explained, like in most haunting games. Figures in the fog? That’s just grounds crew who have been working for months to prep the site for the wedding. Strange lights? Well, yeah, the castle wouldn’t be wired for electricity if it’s been abandoned, so the workers have to bring in their own lights. Screaming noises? That’s just pre-marital jitters. Or something; you get my point.

As in all haunting games, have one or two unexplained things to suggest that the banshee actually was real, mourning the “death” of the last Malloy — because Kyler’s taking Matt’s name, or some other such nonsense. The sad thing is that it doesn’t really matter; anything that adds meat to the story would be an improvement on such a nothingburger of a game.

I would also bring in Alan, the best man, as more than a phone contact. Let’s face it, only having Kit and Donal as suspects (as Matt’s gone and Kyler doesn’t even pretend to count for a second) is really stupid, and this game needs some more detail and at least an hour more of playtime that doesn’t just involve getting lost in the bog.

Bring in Alan who is confused as to why he was chosen as best man, but suspects it’s because Kyler also has feelings for Kit and thus didn’t want Matt to choose him to be the Best Man (in other words, take out the weird social climbing angle). It would take a subtle hand, but I actually wouldn’t mind Alan having a bit of a thing for Matt himself, just to re-emphasize the “love is like an Egyptian painting; everyone is looking at the back of someone’s head” sort of theme we’ve got going on in this game.

The last thing I’d do is to bring Ned in, and have him be in the car with Nancy on their way. Think of it; usually wedding guests get a plus one; it would be a good excuse for Nancy to ask Ned out rather than leaving him behind as per usual, and Ned would probably be able to relate to Kit/Alan better than Nancy can, on account of Ned having actual emotional intelligence.

I wouldn’t say to have him be player-controlled, but I think Ned hanging around the castle, trying to help out with the emotional snarl that the guys have gotten themselves into (with Nancy focusing more on Donal and Kyler) would not only be in character, but would be a great way to make room for some emotional depth — something that Nancy herself, if not the games, usually skirts around or ignores entirely.

Would these changes fix the game completely and make it a winner? No, I don’t think so. I think the game is too structurally weak to really ever rise above mid-level, and possibly not even lower mid-level. But I think, along with some sprucing up of motivations and puzzles, these changes could help make HAU better than it is — and that’s worth it, no matter if it makes it into the Top 10 Nancy Drew Games list or not.

#nancy drew #clue crew #nancy drew games #the haunting of castle malloy #HAU #nancy drew meta #my meta #long post

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coffeesandfilm · 4 years

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See you at the Crossroads, Crossroads, Crossroads

DISCLAIMER: I know Crossroads (dir. Tamra Davis, 2002) is iconic and Britney is an icon, and while I can appreciate its place in pop culture, I thought it would be interesting to analyse, and also to see what is says about American attitudes in the early 2000s.

Now even though this is a fictional story with fictional characters, Lucy Wagner (played by Miss Spears) is clearly meant to represent Britney herself. First we have to look back to the hazy days of 2002, when Britney had sexed up her image with the release of her third album, Britney (2001), featuring classics such as, “I’m a Slave 4 U”, “Overprotected”, and “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman”. Despite its success, a lot of the public and media were unhappy with her pull from the ‘virginal, teen-idol’ image she originally embodied. She famously claimed at the start of her career that she wished to remain a virgin until marriage, and boy, was she ever allowed to forget it. Subsequently, she was constantly hounded by the press to see whether there was any update on this front, and if not it meant people could continue their creepy Lolita-esque fetishisation of her. I suppose this film was Britney’s way of breaking free, and telling the world that she was not that girl in the school uniform anymore, but becoming a young woman in her own right (hence the song title) without being too direct and completely alienating her audience.

To briefly summarise the plot, Lucy (Britney), Kit (Zoe Saldana) and Mimi (Taryn Manning), are three former best friends who now move around in completely different social circles, and are on the verge of graduating high school. As children they buried a chest which featured a treasured belonging from each of them, with the promise that they would meet up and re-claim these tokens after graduation. When the time comes, they begrudgingly agree to meet up once more and do what they promised, with the nostalgia fuelled by re-claiming these belongings inspiring Kit and Lucy to join Mimi (and some random guy) on a road trip to California. Mimi wanted to go to an audition in L.A, Kit wished to go to visit her fiancé, and Lucy wished to be dropped off in Arizona to meet her mother, who walked out on her family when she was young. The random guy who gives them a ride is Ben (Anson Mount), who later becomes a love interest to Lucy, and who she eventually loses her virginity to. As expected the girls have their ups and downs, but ultimately bond becoming closer than ever by the end of their trip, realising how important their friendship is. There are other themes and side storylines included, but more on that later.

You simply cannot watch Crossroads today without appreciating how of its time it is, the 2000s fashion trends, the clichéd high school dynamics, and of course, prime Britney. The three girls are American high school caricatures of sort, Kit is the bitchy but beautiful Queen Bee, Mimi is the edgy bad girl, who is also 5 months pregnant, and Lucy is the sweet, nerdy girl that most of the boys do not notice (yeah right Brit). Lucy’s father (played by Dan Aykroyd, which was a choice) is the stereotypical firm but loving single-dad who works a blue-collar job as a mechanic and has no time for 'anybody's nonsense’. I also enjoyed how Britney possessed the knowledge of a professional mechanic simply through her father being one, pretty standard teen movie logic of course. The girls jamming along to N*SYNC’s “Bye, Bye, Bye” in the car was pretty on the nose too, especially as Britney was still dating Justin Timberlake during this period, but ultimately this is what makes the movie so fun and nostalgic.

In spite of this, I cannot deny there were certain elements of the film that rubbed me the wrong way. Mimi reveals that she became pregnant through the result of rape by a man who took advantage of her when she was drunk, which in itself I believe was a very brave and progressive plot line to include in the film, and the scene itself was heartbreaking and very well done. What I thought was ridiculous was the fact that this was apparently the first and only time Mimi had been drunk, and of course she had to get punished for it, resulting in her rape and pregnancy, a questionable lesson to teach young girls I think. It is a not so subtle way of saying that, girls partying = bad, I am not denying that safety concerns surrounding partying exist, but there were other ways they could go about it. Of course the question of abortion never even arose within the film as that would be too controversial, the closest we got to her giving up her baby was adoption, and she did not even want to do that. The worrying fact is, is that Mimi being raped is less controversial and more digestible than the concept of abortion, which in my opinion, are some very backwards and conservative priorities to preach. Ultimately as the baby was a product of rape, and Mimi was a teenager, she was never going to be able to keep it in teen movie world, and I was waiting to see how she would lose it. Whilst fleeing a confrontation from her rapist (who turned out to be Kit’s fiancé in a shocking twist of events) she trips down a block of stairs, resulting in her admittance to hospital and miscarries. Whilst still under care, she confides to Lucy that she “decided to keep her” baby before the accident, solidifying the film’s pro-life stance and the idea that she was conforming to motherhood. Everything concerning Mimi’s situation is completely violent and horrific, and to be honest, pretty downright cruel to her character, but ultimately this was still seen as a more acceptable option to abortion. I think this period of time represented a more Conservative America, with post- 911 sentiment resulting in more traditional, Christian values being re-introduced. Even though this film may seem somewhat boundary pushing initially (when dealing with topics such as rape and sex), its whole direction and morals are drenched in Conservatism, which are quite prominent tropes in the American media.

If I had to do a rundown of the three most ridiculous parts of the movie it would be:

1. Ben having a mini fit because the girls kindly decide to drive his car when he falls asleep at the petrol station. He makes them pull over and starts shouting at some rocks, proclaiming how his car is “the only thing that hasn’t been taken over by chicks”, one of the most fragile things I have ever heard, and one of the most unwarranted reactions ever.

2. When Lucy’s father confronts her about running away from home, going on a road trip across the country with basically no communication, no money, and with a random stranger, all she has to do is say ‘sorry’ and he forgives her immediately, saying “you made a mistake, everyone makes mistakes, you’re forgiven”. Yes he literally says “you’re forgiven”, a shockingly quick resolution and not the greatest writing in the world.

3. The most cringe-inducing part of the film would be the climactic romance scene between Ben and Lucy. In a heartwarming moment Lucy reads Ben a very personal poem she wrote, which ends up being the lyrics to the song “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” in spoken word form. It is pretty difficult to take seriously, but then again the whole film is difficult to watch if you take it too seriously.

On a more positive note, I thought Lucy losing her virginity was pretty tastefully done. I mean, it was a fairly standard teen movie scene, but I liked how it was not with some random guy who she had met 30 minutes earlier, or with some ex-boyfriend who she was secretly still harbouring feelings for. She lost it to some guy who she met on a road trip who she gradually developed a crush on, sure they were probably not going to get married and be together forever, but that is standard teenage life. I also appreciated how her deadbeat mum who ran out of the family when Lucy was young (played by Kim Cattrall), remained her deadbeat mum. There was no magical reunion, no moment of enlightenment, her mum was just weak and undeserving of Lucy’s love, which in itself is a difficult pill to swallow. In a way, I thought this was even more progressive than the inclusion of rape, teen media usually preaches Conservative values and the glorification of the nuclear family to its audience. Lucy attempted to reunite her nuclear family, but the film dismissed this notion, and she learnt that the family she already had: her, her father, and her friends, were just as much a family without a mother figure.

All in all, yeah the film is far from perfect, it was never going to be a an Oscar contender, though I doubt that it was ever its intention. Sometimes a silly fun movie is just a silly fun movie. Britney proves her star power once again, and I was very impressed by her acting, going so far to say that she was the best part of the film. I cannot deny that watching the film makes me feel a ping of sadness, especially as we know what happened to her a few years later, but this film helps keep her legacy alive, and as someone who grew up idolising her, seeing happy Britney will have a special place in my heart.

#britney spears #crossroads #zoe saldana #taryn manning #kim cattrall #dan aykroyd #anson mount #crossroads 2002 #i'm not a girl not yet a woman #overprotected #britney #tamra davis #i'm a slave 4 u

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faunusrights · 4 years

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OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 14

IN THIS EPISODE OF THE OFFAL HUNT LIVEBLOG:

On the other end of the line, Cinder let out a tight sigh. “Yeah. Okay, well—I’m in a difficult position right now. I’m balancing a lot. So, that wasn’t, you know, directed at you or whatever… I’m just trying to deliver you to Atlas. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Glynda said. “This apology sucks.”

CINDER FALL TRIES TO HAVE MANNERS. AND FAILS. BUT SHE TRIES.

it’s been a WHILE but i’m STILL HERE!!!!!!!!! also i’m a little late to the draw and also unlike w/ prior chaps i did actually read this one when it came out so i’ve had my first run already. BUT that means i actually get 2 Focus so lets get this party started

so we’re now entering into the New Umbraroot Arc which Frightens me on a deep and intrinsic scale because now i have no padding to ready me for whatever the Hell is going to occur, but i do know it will be gay(er) than the current content was (is/shall be) and here’s the proof

It had only been a day, but the sound of Cinder’s voice was a relief to Glynda’s senses.

glynda that’s gay. hey. hey. glynda have u been told yr a lesbian. lesbeeb. besbion--

“Not at all.” Thank god. It was one thing to be traveling with Cinder Fall. It was entirely another to have her checking in on Glynda’s well-being.

cinder: my well-being is SHIT but thankfully there’s someone nearby doing WORSE than me, which makes me feel better at least,

“Oh.” Our sounded strange in her mouth.

my favourite thing abt any gay media and content is that it’s gay in ways that hettie(tm) nonsense can only dream of being. when a story is abt a guy and a gal all the romantic tension comes from like. looking at a tiddy or getting naked or w/e the shit. here? it’s literally found entirely in the use of the word our. such power. i love it.

I went from unknown to one of Atlas’ most wanted overnight, which is charming… And also annoying, because they refuse to stop pasting wanted posters on every street corner.

i feel like cinder is the type of bitch to send pics of them back to emerald like ‘is my face ACTUALLY that janky??? my hair is a state. you think they’ll use a selfie if i ask nicely???’

Cinder hummed, affirmative. “Which would be unnecessary, if you hadn’t reported me.”

Glynda returned, “I wouldn’t have reported you if you hadn’t been committing a crime.”

glynda you snitch. you narc. you bootlicker. does be gay do crime mean NOTHING to you,

We left a funny taste in her mouth, almost as strange as when Cinder had said our. She tried not to examine it too closely.

again. look at this shit. this is real slowburn hours. this is how u DO IT.

Her heart was beginning to feel like a pin cushion with all the needles pulled out, little holes left in their wake.

would i be showing my age if i glanced at this and wondered if it were a reference to the inciting og offal hunt inspiration fic or. it does doesnt it. okay moving on.

“Okay.” And then, in an effort to change the subject to something lighter: “I’ve never broken into a country before.”

glynda’s complete and continuous inability to actually like. do what she plans on doing is SO funny to me. she’s going to be stealthy, she says, throwing a man aside in obvious fashion. i’m going to be subtle, she says, being as conspicuous as possible. she’s a disaster and i live for it.

"The Faunus." Cinder's voice was cold. "Don't speak to her."

this part of this fic is subtitled ‘cinder’s rank opinions time’, apparently. not that u can tell. but it is. dsfhgjsdfghjghfjdk

In the silence that followed, Glynda thought of the stunted horns jutting above Cinder's hairline at the restaurant.

Glynda murmured, "That’s a horrible thing to say."

"Don’t start." There was no concession in her words. “I mean it.”

“...I just didn’t expect that from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There was something in Cinder’s tone that told Glynda that nothing she said would be correct. She said nothing.

cinder’s! rank! opinions! time! honestly this section victimises me the MOST as i very famously cried over an earlier section in which cinder thought abt all the faunus she grew up with, so i know that kc and diesel were looking to hurt me directly. that said i DO find it funny that cinder, yet again, looks like a pile of shit. she can’t do anything right. naturally inclined to be the villain completely unintentionally. what a moron.

A harsh laugh. “What do you think we are, friends?”

“Well, no—um. Not really, but—”

YOU SEE. CINDER. PLEASE. £10 FOR U TO BEHAVE FOR FIFTEEN SECONDS.

“Then, just—just listen to me. I’m going to get us there. I p-promise.” There was a soft sound, like disgust or the prelude to a gag. “Urgh, your soul—give me more space.”

cinder: i’m inclined to being an asshole glynda: every time yr mean 2 me i’ll make u feel worse cinder: ah no. ah shit. i have to be nice??? ah fuck. what the shit is this.

Glynda thought of Ozpin. It wasn’t a comforting thought—more like the memory of a near-accident, like sliding on ice and feeling the world shift beneath you. It was a flinch-thought, and it would have made her miserable instead of just homesick had she not shut it out so quickly.

god the writing in this fic is so especially pristine. everything feels so real and visceral and you just know Exactly how that feels. it’s brilliantly punchy and i adore the way u get have the exact sensation click into place. it’s SO good.

She wondered if it was the same moon Bacia and Vivienne had looked upon. If they had felt the same beneath its pale light. The Great War had seen two shatterings of the moon, so perhaps it had appeared different, but… Glynda couldn’t help but wish that it was something they shared, even lifetimes apart.

👈😎👈

actually im a little nervous abt doing fingerguns because WHAT IF SMTHNG HAS CHANGED... but i think this bit is. safe. maybe. diesel. kc. am i safe,

Glynda closed her eyes and tried to feel out that instinctual power within her. Tried to know herself better. It resonated around her like a water in a tank, nearly palpable.

again this is just GREAT storytelling. i just LOVE how well kc and diesel turn abstract ideas into such physical manifestations it’s completely unreal. r y’all seein this shit???

upon checking his number, she’d discovered it had been blocked.

i love that glynda is abt as knowledgeable abt little jumps like this as the reader is. are we surprised as a reader? yes. is glynda also surprised? HELL YEAH SHE IS. SHE AIN’T GOT A FUCKIN CLUE MY DUDE.

Remembering the notes to herself not to trust Winter, Glynda opened the log hesitantly.

glynda no yr sending read receipts to yr future gf and thats a bad move on everybodys part

The indicator showed this wasn’t the first time Glynda had accessed the message. She couldn’t remember doing so.

OH NO BITCH U ALREADY DID

“Special Operative Schnee, things are…” Glynda paused, searching for something suitably vague to say. “Proceeding.

do you see what i mean abt glynda’s ineptitude. it’s slapstick levels of ridiculous and i’m living for it.

Do you suspect she’s attempting to cross the border?”

“Maybe.”

‘sure,’ glynda says. ‘you could word it like that if you wanted to.’

“Bold of her, if nothing else. She should know there will—” Glynda skimmed through the rest of the paragraph to reach the end, the corners of her mouth curling. “—can make arrangements. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

HGSDFGKHJSFDGHKJDF JESUS CHRIST

its like in fallout 4 when someone tells u important info and when u click past it the main character just goes ‘uh huh’ ‘yeah’ ‘okay’ ‘sure’ ‘mm-hm’ as the text boxes whizz by GLYNDA PLEASE

Bubbles appeared, showing that Cinder was typing. Glynda waited.

And waited.

The bubbles appeared and disappeared four times.

She flipped back to Cinder’s conversation and found that, after all that time, Cinder had finally settled on a reply.

It said:

“Good.”

i just had to pair these up for a second if only to say: dis me lol

okay let’s double back for a second just to cover this Juicy Lore:

If you’d like, I can arrange a bouquet of flowers to be left at your mothers’ memorial site. My thoughts are with you.”

For a long moment, Glynda simply stared at the screen. [...] In quick succession, she realized that it had been sixteen days since she’d met with Cinder in the restaurant and that it was soon to be the anniversary of her mothers’ deaths.

WHAT IS THIS LORE MA’AM AND MX??? **MA’X**??? firstly idk what the HELL the Black March tragedy is but im fascinated but also: did u have to do that. can ONE person in this fic not have [spoilers redacted cant say that yet no sir] problems??? no??? die. dsfhjgghjkfsddf

Glynda picked herself up from the armchair, neat and tidy, and disassembled into bed, pulling the covers up to her throat. With her Semblance, she turned off the lights. She closed her eyes.

It was quiet. Cold. The only thing she felt was the weight of her soul.

Her Scroll buzzed. Glynda answered it.

“Glynda.” It was Cinder. “I can feel that.”

okay following on from cinder’s text message, i just. love that cinder’s having such direct repercussions to her shitty shitty actions. like this is all tying together in some 👈😎👈 instances but having cinder be her usual callous self and having to literally turn around and start fucking Being Nice For Once is VERY gratifying. fuck you you lil round-faced one-braincelled baby. time to learn to have some Manners. jgdsfghsdfghfjd

She’d simply resigned to the loneliness of having no one to trust but Cinder, and then, not even having her.

... thats gay. hey lads is that gay? its gay. it feels gay.

“Yeah,” Glynda said. “This apology sucks.”

this feels like a reference to 👈👈👈😎👈👈👈 (IS IT. AM I RIGHT. IT IS ISNT IT) but also: LOOK AT CINDER GO. TRYING. BADLY. BUT TRYING. i love her she sucks so much shes such a dumbass. feel the consequences. feel them.

Glynda chided herself; Cinder Fall wasn’t capable of remorse, but she was more than capable of simple math. It seemed the worse she treated Glynda, the worse she herself would feel.

glynda: she’s doing this because it makes her feel better, not me cinder in like idk 20 chapters down the line:

(i guess thats another 👈😎👈 moment but for GOOD REASON)

There was a shift, like Cinder was rolling over, or maybe propping herself up. Was she in bed also? It triggered the remembrance of Glynda’s own physicality, and she turned over as well, searching in the dark for the nightstand and the lamp upon it. The light clicked on. The room brightened. Glynda settled in, ready.

OOOOOH THE PARALLELS. glynda turning the lights off and sinking into darkness and the void versus perking up and sitting up and turning the lights on when talking to cinder!!!!!!! POETIC CINEMA. OOF. OOF. HOW DOES FIFTEEN POINTS OF LOVE TASTE.

“Great! Lovely. Glad to hear it.” Fangs rounded out the words like scissors. A pleasant sense of satisfaction unfurled in Glynda’s chest. “So, once upon a fucking time—”

there were two gays and they were enemies to lovers but didnt know it yet. but they will be.

THATS CHAPTER 14 BABEY!!!!!!!! i LOVED this chap and i can rly feel kc and diesel gearing up for umbraroot. its great being able to like. feel the shift of focus goin on here and im SO ready to see this arc play out. once again offal hunt is the best fic ever made. this is a fact.

#rwby #liveblog #offal hunt #i almost typed 'offal hut' which is not the pizza hut experience i want

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studiesinconnoisseurship · 4 years

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Vermeer

Inside my copy of Ludwig Goldsheider's Phaidon Press Vermeer I wrote my name and the date of purchase, 1958. I was then fourteen years old. The battered volume is a record, therefore, of an attraction to this artist that stretches back to childhood. Not unnaturally I would like to find a way to acknowledge all that he has meant to me over the intervening years. I have no gift to write of his art like Lawrence Gowing - still less like Proust - but in any case my preference is to use connoisseurship to extend, if possible, our understanding of his oeuvre by seeing if there are viable addenda that can be appended to it; and that is the main purpose of this Study. A secondary aim is to draw attention to the dangers involved in 'cleaning' what we already have. By way of caveat I urge any readers I may have not to expect everything adduced to look like their idea of 'a Vermeer'. Connoisseurship has to allow for development. An early Cézanne does not look much like a late one.

To begin at the beginning of Vermeer's career as a painter is chronologically proper but somewhat frustrating because we know that he is farthest from where he needs to be and where we wish him to be. Through his and his father's picture-dealing he comes into contact with Italian paintings of a religious and mythological nature which encourage him to try his hand in a similar vein. What survives of this derivative, experimental period is the St Praxedis - his version of a composition by a Florentine artist Felice Ficherelli - and the Diana and her Companions.

St Praxedis by Ficherelli (left) and Vermeer’s copy (right)

Being by Vermeer, these are not bad pictures; indeed the St Praxedis is that rare thing, a copy better than its original. In both works there is a fluency of brushwork, a Baroque rhythm, and a palette that at this stage includes a yellow, a deep blue, a winey brown, and a rose red that, mixed with white, becomes a violet.

I can only suggest one work to add to this early phase of Vermeer's oeuvre and that is a picture of the head and shoulders of a rosy-cheeked girl.

Portrait of a Girl by De Bray (left) and detail of St Praxedis (right)

When it passed through the hands of a London dealer (Chaucer Fine Arts) in 1989 it was attributed, not very accurately, to Jan de Bray. The face is painted in a style hard to reconcile with any of the young female faces in later Vermeer, but it does seem close to that of St Praxedis and to the facial types in the Diana picture. Common to all of them are the rose-white-violet juxtaposition, the swirling drapery and soft sfumato.

Christ at the House of Mary and Martha (National Gallery Scotland)

With the large ‘Christ in the house of Mary and Martha’ at Edinburgh we may be moving backwards rather than forwards chronologically, but Vermeer seems recognizably more Vermeerish. He is still in his broad-brush Religion and Myth phase but the religion is as domesticated as it can be in that story of Mary and Martha, so one feels that he is moving towards the territory that he will make his own. Even in the earliest pictures it is noticeable how women predominate as we know that they will in the future. On the relative merits of Mary’s life and Martha’s, Vermeer's art is, and remains, tacitly neutral: it pays tribute to both. As if to illustrate this there is a study in watercolour for the figure of Mary, and a drawing that is not for the figure of Martha (being stylistically later) but certainly alludes to her servant role.

In the Printroom at Leipzig is a remarkable wash drawing which Bernhard Degenhart included in an anthology of European drawings (Europaisches Handzeichnungen) published at Dresden in 1943 as the work of the landscapist Jan Siberechts.

Drawing attributed to Siberechts (Leipzig) and detail of Martha

That attribution can be dismissed because there is nothing in Siberechts to support it beyond the flimsy fact of there being a landscape drawing on the verso. The little pen sketches of figures at the top and lower right of the sheet are by another artist; disregarding those, I think that there is a strong possibility that what we have here is a study by Vermeer for the figure of Mary in the Edinburgh picture; there the listening head is swivelled a little further round towards Christ. The light in consequence falls differently, but otherwise the similarities are close: there is the same profile with slightly parted lips, the same headcloth with the same striped pattern on it, and the same bright lighting from our left if we allow for the turn of her head.

It is the dramatic lighting, with maximum contrast in the folds of drapery and in the face too, not of Mary in the picture (now in shadow) but of Martha, that most accosts me. I notice as well the jugular vein in the neck of Christ. The wash is applied quickly but with complete assurance. The shadowed area of the face is conveyed in a manner that looks forward to the shadowed halves of the two heads in Washington, the Girl with a Red Hat and the Girl with a Flute.

Girl with a Red Hat (left) and Girl with a Flute (right) (National Gallery Washington)

The strange wavy border that the bright light creates on her cheek, from the near edge of her eye down to her chin is typical of Vermeer’s observation of light, how it produces form, without line, in the most surprising ways. In this respect the Leipzig drawing seems more advanced and prophetic of his future powers than the painting.

The Leipzig drawing, as we have seen, is scarcely a drawing in the linear sense at all, but at Besançon there is a sketch of a more conventional kind. In what becomes his favoured graphic medium - black chalk heightened with white on blue paper - it shows a servant holding a shallow circular basket or tray.

Woman with Tray signed ‘De Hoogh’ (De Hooch)

She is probably not a study for Martha, but one can see the folds of her sleeve following the pattern of light and shadow that is distinctive at Edinburgh in the sleeves of all three participants but more particularly on Christ’s outstretched arm. Her face has the signature oval shape and high-arched brows.

Portrait of a Lady (Royal Collection Windsor)

A third drawing may still be quite early but marks a change to something less loose, less generic, much more personal. This is in the Royal Collection at Windsor, a ‘Portrait of a Lady, Anonymous, Flemish school 91/2 x 7in, black chalk on white paper with red chalk for the flesh and the necklace of pearls’. The cataloguist comments that it is the ‘work of a follower of Rubens lacking peculiar characteristics’. If we stop thinking about Rubens, perhaps its characteristics will start to seem more peculiar, and peculiar, I suggest, to Vermeer. It is likely to be later in date than the Edinburgh picture, but the similarity of facial features if we compare the profile of this middle-aged woman with that of Christ is, for me, compelling.

Detail of Christ at the House of Mary and Martha (left) and Portrait of a Lady (right)

It cannot be proven but my hunch is that this tender portrait is of Catarina Bolnes, Vermeer’s wife, bearer of their many children, and also likely model for the painting at Amsterdam of the pregnant Woman in Blue reading a Letter.

Woman in Blue and detail of face (Rijksmuseum)

Placing her tête-a-tête with Christ and putting aside the double chin so truthfully recorded, notice the mouth, the cupid’s bow upper lip and projecting lower, the depth of the upper eyelid, and the straight nose that nevertheless marks where the bone ends and softness begins. As for ribbons and pearls, they are fashion accessories worn by women in the paintings of other Dutch artists, so their presence in this drawing can only be corroborative evidence; still, we know from later paintings by Vermeer how much he liked his family members to sit or stand for him wearing these adornments, particularly pearls because they represented drops of light.

Whether or not I am right about Catarina, this sensitive, fairly rapid sketch does demonstrate that Vermeer needed to make drawings of his models. The camera oscura was invaluable for helping to accurately determine how furniture and figures are disposed within a chosen perspective, but that tool does not solve everything and I always thought it probable that for the faces at least he would have made some preliminary studies in chalk or oil paint on paper, even if no such drawings survived. Fortunately, as already suggested, a few have, and this is a particularly beautiful example.

Portrait of a Young Man - Anonymous

At Rennes in France there is another close-up drawing, of a youngish man's face, his eyes directed down to our left as we look up. This is texturally very similar to the Windsor drawing, but it more particularly demonstrates three features found in the paintings. One is the drawing of the eyes, the almond shape of the eye itself, the broad strap of upper lid, and the elevated brow. This is famously clear in the Girl with a Pearl Earring at the Mauritshuis, but also in the Kenwood Girl with a Guitar, the Wrightsman Study of a Young Woman (Metropolitan Museum NY) and the two close-ups at Washington, Girl with a Red Hat and Girl with a Flute.

Details clockwise from top left: Girl with a Pearl Earring, Study of a Young Woman, Girl with a Guitar, Portrait of a Young Man, Girl with a Red Hat, Girl with a Flute

A second feature is the lips being parted, as in several of the works just cited. A third is the generous oval or elliptical shape of the face as a whole, which is the result of underplaying the chin and cheekbones.

Studienkopf - Study of a Boy’s Head, attributed to Vermeer

‘Oil paint on paper’ and the above remarks about oval faces are a cue to insert here a small study of a face in that medium that is in the Berlin Printroom. This has long been attributed to Vermeer, not by all but by many scholars from 1907 onwards. It bears all the signs of being by his hand and, besides being a fine and precious thing in itself, is a helpful link to other things. Notice, again, the shape of face that is different from what we find in other artists’ work, the mouth with its wavy upper and sensuous lower lip, a certain relationship and distance between eyebrow and eye, and of course the light that shapes everything. Whether this is an abandoned self-portrait no one can say for sure, but it could be. If one looks hard at oneself in a mirror, the eyes do narrow and squint a little, producing the fixed ‘tunnel’ gaze that this face returns to us so straightly and directly while giving, it must be said, nothing away (but what else would one expect of Vermeer?).

Singender Jüngling - no attribution

From Berlin to Vienna now, and from oil on paper to oil on oak: a small panel in the Kunsthistorisches Museum. This is of a young man singing (Singender Jüngling). The piece of paper he is holding does seem to be a sheet of music and as he is turned towards us with his mouth open he is probably singing, not talking to us about a letter. In any case what matters is that a living moment is caught in a turn of attention with a turn of the head, and thereby temporally and pictorially stopped for ever, as happens over and over in Vermeer. Is this picture by Vermeer? I offer it for consideration. If it is, it is not classic mature Vermeer, nor on the other hand is it very early. I would place it close to the Boston Concert (now sadly missing), the Frick ‘Girl Interrupted At Her Music’, the Metropolitan’s Servant Asleep. It is smaller than any of them, only 91/4 x 71/4 inches, the size, roughly, of the Louvre Lace Maker or the two Washington Girls.

The Concert (stolen)

Girl Interrupted at her Music (Frick)

Servant Asleep at a Table (Metropolitan Museum)

At this point the Berlin oil study on paper provides a helpful comparison: for the shape of the face and of the eyes, the form of the lips (albeit closed in Berlin) and for the lighting if one imagines the face at Vienna upright, not tilted, and facing us straight on.

Detail of Singender Jüngling (left) and Studienkopf (right)

As for the palette the wine-dark brown mantle over the Singing Boy’s right arm reminds us of the colours in the dress of the Sleeping Servant and of the companion of Diana who sponges her foot.

Details of Servant Asleep (top) Singender Jüngling (btm left) and Diana’s servant (btm right)

From surviving images of the Boston Concert, we can not be certain but it seems likely that boy's orange ‘beret’ may be comparable with the chairback of that missing artwork.

Orange beret from Singender Jüngling (left) Chair-back from The Concert (right)

Lighting here is from a source to our left, but Vermeer – if it is he - is not yet committed fully to daylight; the boy is lit within an ambient darkness, much as in a Caravaggio or any number of portraits. The other thing to notice is the way the boy is holding the paper with both hands. One might think that numerous Dutch pictures would show hands in a similar position, but it does not appear that this is so; it is, however, a gesture that recurs in Vermeer, in the Lady in Blue at Amsterdam, the Girl Interrupted at he Music in the Frick, in the Dresden Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window and, we shall see, in another putative Vermeer.

Details from Singender Jüngling (top), Woman in Blue (left), Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window (centre) and Girl Interrupted at her Music (right)

With the Vienna Singing Youth we are, as noted, not out of dark and into sunlight; we are by no visible window and the light has no sparkle. We are in an enclosed world like that of the tavern or the brothel, the venue of the Procuress at Dresden where what light there is, golden and silent amid the muted voices, seems to move surreptitiously, illuminating part of a collar, a bit of wall, a patch of rug before landing in a blaze on a yellow jacket, a scarlet jerkin, a binary echoed in the carpet.

Here is another large early work, disconcertingly different from what precedes and what follows it. The oil medium is drier here and carefully applied with no broad-brush bravura, no squiggles of highlight. Where in the future it is light that will seem liquid, poured into a room as into a tank, here it is shadow that spreads downward, drowning much of the left side of the picture, all but hiding faces, turning the folds of the carpet into dark ravines, and generally claiming the territory. Here is an artist revealing himself, for now, to be potentially as great a poet of shadow as he will be of light; one is readily reminded of Caravaggio’s Calling of Matthew in Rome.

Detail from The Procuress

If we are to find anything to accompany the Procuress in this possibly short-lived stage in Vermeer's development, it must exhibit that dry handling of paint that we see in the depiction of the woman and her client. Again what I offer is a suggestion appended to a sad admission in this case that I have no idea where the picture is. It is a portrait known to me only as an old photo placed among other portraits that have been attributed at some time or another to Velasquez. It is at any rate not by him. It once belonged to a Mr A. W. Leatham.

Portrait - attribution and whereabouts unknown

Here we clearly see, even in a photo, the dryness; but what lends credence to a Vermeer attribution is the face when one compares it with that of the Berlin oil study: within the same generous oval are the same eyebrows, nose and lips; the eyes in the Leatham picture are much more open but otherwise compatible. If this were to be Vermeer's it would be our only independent painted portrait - of whom we may never know.

Maidservant Warming Her Feet - attributed to Vermeer

In the volume referred to at the top of this essay, the 1958 Phaidon Vermeer by Ludwig Goldscheider, there is one drawing included among the main body of plates, a drawing therefore that Goldscheider clearly thought was definitely by Vermeer. It had been published once before, by H Leporini in 1925, but Goldscheider helpfully reproduces it in its actual size. He calls it Maidservant warming her Feet; the original is in the museum at Weimar. The monochrome reproduction gives one a good idea of the soft graininess of the black chalk finely hatched in strokes that run at right angles to the pose of the seated servant. What cannot be seen are the touches of red chalk added to neck and forearm (much as in the Windsor drawing) or the white heightening that in a photo looks deceptively like the white of the paper though the paper in reality is blue.

Why is this beautiful drawing omitted from subsequent books on Vermeer? Could it be that scholars are sceptical on account of the artist’s monogram V M drawn on the side on the footwarmer? One can agree that this is unusual, but that by itself should not be ground for exclusion; genius can be allowed some eccentricity, and anyway it is not too difficult to imagine that this very finished and presentable drawing was in fact presented to someone, possibly the model for it, and that the monogram was added as a mark of the special occasion or as a token of gratitude or to pay a debt. Nobody suggests that it is an outright fake from a later century, so it has to be of Vermeer's time and I question whether any contemporary could produce a drawing of this quality and of this kind - a drawing where form is defined so consistently by light. This is Vermeer's photographic vision, as it would be Seurat’s in a later age.

The Love Letter - Vermeer’s use of light is comparable to Maidservant Warming Her Feet

The sitter, besides: is surely the family's stalwart servant, Tanneke, the same who pours milk and delivers a letter (in two paintings) and maybe holds a jug as she opens a window.

Details from The Love Letter and Milkmaid for which Vermeer used his maid Tanneke as a model

The date of the drawing is anyone's guess, but it clearly belongs in the period of the great cameral pictures. Another drawing, of unknown whereabouts and less remarkable is of similar facture and shows a servant asleep.

Drawing of a Servant Asleep - unknown

View of Delft by Moonlight - attributed to Vermeer

Scepticism regarding the Weimar drawing seems to have led to doubting generally that any extant drawing is by Vermeer. This is a pity because there is much to be learned from his draughtsmanship. Take this drawing at Frankfurt, a supposed copy of the famous View of Delft from across the canal to the south of the town.

The Original ‘View of Delft’ by Vermeer

Why would a copyist take such liberties with what he is copying from? Why alter the arrangements of the buildings, omit barges, totally change the sky and foreground, remove figures and substitute fishermen in boats? He would be a remarkably inventive copyist who did all that! How much more likely that this is a drawing Vermeer made in situ on a day when there was a busy sky with rain-threatening cloud but with sun behind him that lit the south-facing walls, towers and spires of the town. The painting in the Mauritshuis, like a large ‘Academy’ Constable, is the outcome of onsite visits and studies all of which contributed to his decision-making, but none of which was exclusively determining.

It is very believable that a painter with Vermeer's temperament, seeking always a calm resolution, would not in the end choose a hectic cloudscape, would want to clear the foreground of weeds and bushes, would reject as picturesque a man in a boat who distracts attention from the town across the water, and would decide that the town could not cohere if too many surfaces were lit at the same time across the whole piece. Instead, as we can see in his final consummation, he creates a series of long horizontals from the left, lowers the red- tiled roofline, extends the town wall and the quay, and emphasises all of this with a long placid reflection in the water.

The gap in the reflections comes where the two southern gates of the town connect at the bridge, and that is where he chooses to have the sunlight begin to illumine, not the immediate edge of the town but the buildings beyond and within it; this illumination then continues, ducking and weaving, to the limit of the picture on our right. It can therefore be said to be an outdoor view with an interior, of the town, lit from the right, as only the Lacemaker is among his indoor pictures.

Something curious about the painting vis-a-vis the drawing is the effect created by clearing the foreground of everything except very small figures that lead our eye from a point directly under the reflected left tower of the Rotterdam Gate, across the deserted sandy back to the two women talking, and thence to the group waiting for the ferry at the far left. Vermeer has radically revised in a way that manages to make the town as a whole seem nearer than the foreground figures but as calm and reflective as any of his single figures in a room. At the same time he has concentrated the light in the right half of the picture and given it a warmth to match the pale ochreous emptiness of the foreground that starts from the left, dies towards the right.

Old reproductions of this extraordinary painting show that the cloudscape was perhaps once much more modelled and interesting than it now is. As too often happens, there has been a flattening, a loss of density and volume in clouds that Vermeer knew to have both.

Vermeer’s painting before (left) and after (right) cleaning

If the drawing is original, then it tells us that Vermeer was no different from Ruysdael, Jan van der Cappelle or any of his country's great skyscapists in his understanding that clouds have a superstructure and an undercarriage and as such constitute a sort of moving architecture as they build, dissolve, and build again - a match for earthly buildings shaped by light.

Painting of Maid and Child - attribution and location unknown

The same lesson may be learned from the last item I can offer which, like the Leatham portrait, I know only from a photograph. I do not know its whereabouts or even whether it exists. Coming across the photo lying among unattributed Dutch paintings was nevertheless a memorable moment because I connected the image at once with Vermeer, specifically with his family’s servant, Tanneke, she of The Milkmaid, sitting in her place in the kitchen with a letter held between her hands - in that now familiar position - as she turns aside to attend to a child with a bowl. It seemed clear that the original, of which this may be the only record, was unfinished, abandoned by the artist for whatever reason.

If the original was indeed by Vermeer, then it would be unique among his known works in being a composition with a child in it. Why are there no children in Vermeer's paintings? Did he exclude them because they were too excitable, would never stay still? Did he exclude the elderly because they reminded him of the nearness of death, the fate of too many children of his time, including some of his own? In this case a child does get included, but how securely? Did the artist have doubts? If he took the child out, it would leave the servant looking down to our right for no obvious reason. Her pose is towards our left but her attention is to our right. If the child stays, the chiasm demands something - a small window - in the upper left corner.

Such is the rationale of the image as a composition, but the photo also suggested something about the original’s texture and lighting, factors which go together. What I particularly noticed and was excited by were incipient signs of those lovely beads of light so uniquely characteristic of Vermeer's art.

Details of painting techniques in The Milkmaid (left) and The Glass of Wine (centre) which could be compared with the portrait of Maid and Child

I had supposed that they were last touches, yet the photo appears to make them part of the earlier planning of a picture, prefigured elements in his vision of a scene. If the original ever turned up, we could be satisfied about these technical mysteries.

For myself, I am not sure that I want or need to know how Vermeer painted his pictures; I am reasonably content to marvel at the mysteries and credit them to genius. However, in view of the damage, as I see it, done by conservators to some of the Vermeers that we have in our museums the above old photo from 1947, of a lost picture that passed through the hands of a dealer called Katz, is valuable evidence that from the start of a painting Vermeer knew that what he wanted to record was light, and that light falls in a logical way which creates, according to the time of day, profound areas of shadow that can abut the light with little or no gradation.

Above are two photos using natural light and shadow (left and right) Detail from Lady Writing a Letter with her Maid (centre)

This is most true on a sunny day in the morning, less true by early afternoon. The contrast, clearly visible in the photo, between the lit and shadowed side of a sleeve is extreme. We all know this because we all live in the age of photography, the age that began just before Vermeer started to be rediscovered. Unfortunately for his paintings - and certainly not only his - we also inherit the preoccupations of the twentieth century which to a large extent revolved around the picture plane and its flatness. Combine flatness with iconography, another leading concern, and you get a visual sensibility that finds the pattern on a carpet more important to clarify than the logic of the light which would keep it dark. Here are two photos to illustrate (in the original sense of the word) the contrast that must be respected.

I am not a conservator. Even the thought of surgical intervention in the surface of a Vermeer makes me nervous; but if intervention is ever necessary I think two rules must apply: always respect the logic of the light, and never, if you can help it, reveal the canvas or other support. Vermeer's art is one of illusion, a very poetic and light-sensitive version of trompe l'oeil. Expose the canvas and you destroy the illusion; a wall ceases to ‘be’ a wall and becomes what it mostly is in de Hooch, a bit of brushwork pushed around over a bit of stretched cloth.

In conclusion I hope it is clear that drawings and even old photos can tell us important things about the essential nature of an artist's vision, the imagination that shapes images, in Vermeer's case through light and light’s dark accomplice. Having opened this essay testifying to my own long admiration for the art of Vermeer, I can best end it on a similar note but in the context of Delft. A painter called Cornelis de Man lived there at the same time as Vermeer and painted some pictures of domestic interiors that are testimony to his own admiration for those of Vermeer, a fellow-townsman and Guild member whom he personally knew.

Still Life with Lute and a Jug - De Man

The picture of Vermeer that is now at Miami (and which was later engraved) is by this artist and very much in the Vermeer manner though crude and inferior by comparison.

Portrait of Vermeer by De Man (left) and engraving thereof (right)

Also by this artist is a far better and more finished picture at Polesden Lacy near Dorking.

The Game of Cards - De Man

It shows a middle-aged man facing a young woman over a table where they are playing cards. A young child to the right who stands hardly higher than the table on which one hand rests looks out of the picture to direct, perhaps, another child's attention to the grown-up’s game. The young woman looks round towards us as one might turn to a camera.

Details from De Man’s Portrait of Vermeer and The Game of Cards

Comparing the face of the man with that of the painter in the Miami picture, I think it very probable that we are looking at Vermeer himself relaxing opposite one of his daughters, with another of his many children beside him. The picture can stand in any case as a pleasant memorial to that genius of a ‘family man’, celebrant of town, home, kin and friends, who was happy to include those closest to him in what are still, despite the cleanings, some of the greatest of all representational paintings.

Julian Pritchard

March 2017

#vermeer #art history #dutch painter #flemish school #art theory #painting techniques #stolen art #frick museum #metropolitan museum of art #kenwood house #cornelis de man #girl with a pearl earring #connoisseurship

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yourpharma360 · 4 years

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On March 29, 2009, 45, Robert Stewart, stormed to the Pinelake Health and Rehab nursing home in Carthage, North Carolina and opened fire, killing eight people and wounding two. Stewart target was his estranged wife, who was employed as a nurse. She hid in a bathroom and was unharmed. Though there was evidence that Stewart's actions were premeditated (he allegedly had a target), Stewart's defense team successfully argued that since he was under the effect of Ambien, a sleep aid, at the time of the shooting, he was not in control of his activities. Instead of the fees Stewart was convicted on eight counts of second-degree murder. 142 -- 179 years was received by him.

Ambien Overdose

As a result of this Schweigert verdict, an attorney used the Ambien defense by asserting his client's arrest had been shifted six months following by the drug's labeling to overturn a 2006 DWI conviction for a New Jersey woman. The court agreed, stating it would be an"injustice to hold her accountable for the side effects of a popular and readily available medication that she was lawfully prescribed and properly handled." Not many prosecutors will consider the Ambien defense, and its position within criminal rules that are established is tenuous. It doesn't actually fall under"voluntary intoxication," in which somebody is responsible for their intoxication and some other events that happen as a consequence of that intoxication. The Ambien defendants took the medication, but they weren't aware they were drugging themselves in a means that could produce anything other. The defendants knowingly took the medicine, because they're recorded as potential side effects in the information, and also the responses weren't unpredictable. In the end, there's the"unconsciousness/sleepwalking" defense, where the individual is not responsible for the crime if he did not intentionally cause the sleepwalking or unconsciousness. So that this defense does not really apply the whole motivation for taking Ambien at the first area is to create unconsciousness.

Ambien 5mg vs Ambien 10mg

After its approval, Ambien Dose rose to dominance in the sleep aid industry. Travelers declared by it to fight jet lag, and girls, who suffer more insomnia purchased it. Sanofi, the French manufacturer of Ambien, made $2 billion in earnings in its summit. In 2007 Ambien's generic version was published, Zolpidem, and in less than $2 a tablet, it remains among the most prescribed medications in the usa, outselling painkillers such as prescription and Percocet strength ibuprofen. Not everyone who engages in bizarre behavior of accepting Ambien as a result ends up in trouble. And a few people today enjoy the large they get from the drug so much they are willing to miss the blackouts and effects that result. Recreational users started out taking the drug to treat insomnia, but discovered that if they fought the sleep-inducing effect of the drug, they could get really high. "It's like having that drink in the pub when you realize you need to go home -- I would combat the pill's effects and stay up, often telling my friends mad things like how to turn the light inside the room in energy, or the way that paintings of forest scenes in their walls were actually drawings of mermaids bathing themselves into blood," writes one young woman whose dependence on Ambien caused increasingly bizarre and alienating behavior. She continued staying awake regularly until one morning she awakened with a cut and two black eyes across her nose and taking the pill. Her cushions were bloody, and a stranger was, wrapped in a rug, on her floor and naked. This situation jarring, was not sufficient to get her to give Ambien up; the high was too good. It wasn't until she was discovered wandering the Brooklyn streets in the middle of the night, almost nude, that she managed to give it up.

Guideline For Ambien 10mg

Ironically, you are likely to succeed with the Ambien defense should you injure or kill someone than if you crash into a car or a tree. DWI laws just need the prosecution to show that the defendant got and was loaded into a vehicle to drive. There's no requirement. When someone is hurt, nevertheless, it is up to the prosecutor to demonstrate that the suspect was conscious enough to become guilty of the crime. It's hard to claim that they have knowledge of their actions, if people on Ambien are behaving in an automatic, or unconscious state. That's why people prefer Lindsey Schweigert get permits while Donna Neely, that was sleep-driving on Ambien and murdered a mother of 11, was acquitted of vehicular manslaughter. Tiger Woods was also famously associated with Ambien when one of his mistresses claimed that she and the golfer could have"crazy Ambien sex" Ambien reduces inhibitions and erases memories, an perfect combination for someone who's cheating on his spouse. The buzz created by the drug seems to boost sex. One girl described feeling"quite relaxed and sensuous" when she had sex on Ambien. "I suddenly have floaty energy. . I am tired, but lively. It's almost like I'm at a state. I could compare it somewhat to weed, but nothing I've done really contrasts, in all honesty."

Ambien is one of the best dose

Lindsey Schweigert took one Ambien Sleeping Pills prior to getting into bed at 6pm. She woke up with no idea how she'd gotten there. In the following weeks, Schweigert pieced together the events of the night. She'd gotten out of bed, drawn a tub, and left the house. After leaving her house she began driving to a local restaurant but crashed shortly. She was explained by police as glassy-eyed and swaying. The flipside to Ambien's supposed attributes is the fact that it's becoming increasingly used as a date rape drug. Actually, the single case of"sleep-sex" that appeared at an 2008 medical journal review of case reports on Ambien-related sleep behaviors involved the Ambien taker being raped. The identical absence of inhibition together with amnesia which makes it possible for people indulge in behavior that is dishonest, to commit offenses, and also have sex on Ambien is an ideal formulation for a sexual predator. Ambien is also readily accessible and more widely accessible than rohypnol, the drug related to date rape.

Ambien Overnight

Schweigert had. She had never been in trouble with the law and was scared of losing her job and having a criminal record. Prosecutors initially wanted to inflict a six month jail sentence as well as other punishments, but Schweigert's lawyer contended that Lindsey's bizarre behaviour on the night in question was a result of a drug which cautioned right on the tag that"After taking AMBIEN, you may get up from bed whilst not being completely awake and perform an activity that you do not understand you are doing. In fact, the attorney argued, Schweigert must have been taken to jail, not to a hospital. Prosecutors dropped the charges and enabled Lindsey to plead to the lesser charge.

Shortly Ambien users resisted Sanofi because of eccentric behaviours while. Based on attorney for the class action suit, Susan Chana Lask, folks were eating things like buttered eggs and cigarettes, complete with all the shells, while under the sway of Ambien. He blames Ambien, but for lapses in his memory within five decades and an extended period of writer's block. "...a great deal of my memory is gone. If you've ever taken Ambien, I don't know, but it's kind of a memory-eraser. This shit wiped out five decades of my life. People might tell me stories, and it's like,"I did that?" Eminem has maintained a few of his writing from this period, confessing to Rolling Stone that"It fucking out me...Letters all down the page -- it was like my hands weighed 400 pounds. I have that shit. As a reminder that I don't ever wish to go back."

Final Words

A part of the category of drugs known as hypnotics, ambien, was accepted by the FDA in 1992. It was designed for short-term use to fight insomnia and was a welcome change in the prevailing sleep aid at the moment, Halcion, which had been implicated in psychosis, suicide, and addiction and had been banned in half a dozen countries. Ambien works by activating the neurotransmitter GABA and binding it at precisely the exact same place as the benzodiazepines such as Xanax and Valium. The extra GABA action triggered by the drug inhibits. To put it differently, the brain is slowed down by it. Ambien is effective at initiating sleep working within 20 minutes. Unless it's taken in the release type, it does not, however, have an impact on sustaining sleep.

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years

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Tamlin stared down at the letter in his hand. He had been staring at it for a long time. The servants he could hear, whispering and hushed, out in the hall. Their masks may have blanked much of their expressions, but their eyes gave enough away, didn't they? It was almost over. Tamlin's own mask did not move; neither of them did, either the one affixed to his face, or the face itself. Grief at Feyre's death still beat dully within him and he wondered if he really had come to love a mortal so much, so fast.

There were two men who stood before him. One wore his foxlike mask easily, for all that Tamlin knew he would have clawed it off and taken half his skin with it, if it would have worked. The other, unmasked, smiled easily, dark wings folded behind him.

She dumped a winged man over our border to die, and you didn't even care. Were you the one who tore them off, at her command? Did you wonder what it would feel like, if done to you?

The letter had his nightmares written into every line, but… there was something else here. Something that would save his servants, save Lucien, save the Spring Court. He could not let them be taken as Amarantha's slaves. Tamlin knew the stories of how the Queen Under the Mountain treated slaves.

"Well?" Rhysand drawled the word out, turning one syllable into two, into three. "You have to admit the offer is generous. You lost the human woman, and still she offers to set your Court free if you come to her willingly. You could hardly have asked for a better outcome." Rhysand shrugged one shoulder slowly, a gesture Tamlin loathed. "The Spring Court answers to her, of course, but you see she's even given you leave to name a Regent."

"I'm surprised she gave so much slack to your leash," Tamlin snapped, eyes narrowed. "To come so far, and it's not even Calanmai. I thought you weren't allowed outside any longer. After you refused to kill Feyre."

Rhysand did not rise to the bait, but a pulsing swallow in his throat told Tamlin his aim had been true. "Her Majesty thought I made a fitting emissary today, since you will soon replace me."

Tamlin's eyes drifted back to the letter. She must have written it herself; the script was elegant and beautiful and yet there were jagged, dangerous edges to the swirling calligraphy. Amarantha, who pretended at a royal bearing but never quite had the patience for follow-through. Amarantha, summoning her new pet home. With the death of Feyre, all his hopes were gone. Even if Rhysand had refused, Amarantha herself had never even hesitated. She'd torn Feyre apart.

Tamlin shook himself all over, trying to calm his mind. Lucien could keep order, until things were settled. The Spring Court would not be left unattended, although even now he could see darkness pooling at the edges of the woods, hear the songs of the trees become muted and mournful.

It was over.

"I… accept Amarantha's offer of mercy for my Court. Give her my thanks," Tamlin said through gritted teeth." I will appear before her tonight, of my own will. I understand that the deal is done."

At first, Rhysand did not move, only raised one eyebrow. Lucien stepped up, effortlessly putting himself between Rhysand and Tamlin, fixing his good eye on Rhysand as his metal eye whirred, just barely audible. "The deal is done, Rhysand. If Amarantha finds this… generosity in her heart, my Lord will honor it."

"Can't wait." Rhysand's voice was nearly a sneer, but even he had thinly-veiled relief in his tone. "I've waited a long time for this." He spun around and stalked away. There was a scramble of servants as he passed through the doorway into the outside air, and winnowed himself away. All of them battling to not be touched by the High Lord of Night's awful darkness.

Tamlin grasped for words that would not come. He raised his eyes, looking slowly all around Rosehall's beautiful walls. Thinking of the gallery he had shown her. The first few smiles that he had brought out from Feyre's face. Discovering she could not read and writing limericks for her as a kind of gift, some way to break the ice between their races. Strange, to have so much of her reflected here when he'd really hardly known her at all. "Lucien. You will act as High Lord in my stead? I am… not sure how much aid I will be able to give, Under the Mountain. I don't know how much... power she'll give you."

"Yes." Lucien did not look at him. His red hair seemed dimmed, somehow. Tamlin stood there, for a long moment, trying to come up with something to tell his Court, some message to pass on. Words had never been an easy thing for him, and neither was giving up; but Feyre was dead and with her, all the hope he'd placed his own survival on.

"You will… say something, to all of them? For me?"

"Of course, Tam. I'll come up with something moving and eloquent. Everyone will be duly impressed. You'll be written into history as a great speechgiver, in the end." The humor was bitter, and Lucien's voice trembled in a way Tamlin could not bear to hear.

"I'm going to my rooms," He muttered, and turned to leave.

Lucien cleared his throat. "Tam…"

Tamlin paused, glancing sidelong at him. Rage boiled within his chest, a helpless child's rage at a world he could not change. "She sent an outfit," Lucien said, softly, pityingly. Tamlin could feel the edge of his claws pressing against his knuckles, wanting to tear and rip and kill. Would he ever have a chance to hunt again, down in the darkness? "You are expected to wear it. When you are… presented. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. I want you here. I want…" He trailed off, thinking of her eyes. "I want someone to be safe." Tamlin paused, his jaw working, staring down at the floor. He tried to say something more. To explain, to even begin, what Lucien's friendship had been for him.

Finally, he simply growled wordlessly, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw it to the side, and stalked away. Lucien closed his eyes, good eye and metal, as the servants outside the door collapsed into murmurs, a mix of excitement - finally, the masks would come off! - and fear that, perhaps, Amarantha might not keep her end of the bargain at all. Amarantha's mercy was famously subject to her whims.

Finally, Lucien reached down and picked up the letter, gently unfolding it, reading it himself. What he saw there made his eyes flare, just slightly, and his face blanched. He looked the direction Tamlin had gone again.

"Shit."

He took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Then he snapped his fingers, Alis appearing as if she'd waited her whole life for the summons, staring at him. He could see tear streaks on the bark-skin of her cheeks, where they trailed out from under her mask. "Alis, I need a new robe. And a dead chicken."

Alis nodded and hurried away. Lucien swallowed.

I have a Suriel to catch.

The outfit was simple, his usual shirt with a baldric, although the pants were tighter than he liked. He could hardly hunt in pants like this. Well, you're the prey this time, so no worry there. Really, though, even that wasn't so bad. What bothered him was what the outfit meant. The shirt, baldric, and pants were all the same flat shade of black. Tamlin wasn't exactly vain - well, compared to the rest of the fae, he wasn't - but he knew it did not suit his skin, or hair.

What was left of his hair, anyway. What wasn't in a pile on the floor behind him.

She was dressing him like a doll, in clothes that didn't look right and hardly fit, just because she could. He'd agreed, after all, to go to her tonight. Willingly. He would kneel before the Queen. His stomach flipped and he fought to keep himself calm.

The outfit wasn't completely flat. In certain lights he could see a silvery trace of letters and patterns, like tattoos. Like Rhysand. Tamlin fought back the urge to vomit. She was really piling on the subtlety, wasn't she?

He stopped before a mirror looking himself over. He'd done what she had ordered in her letter; used a knife to cut his long hair short. A bit of blond fell just over his eyes, but the rest was as close-cropped as he could make it. He'd put on the black outfit, down to a pair of newly-made boots in a leather so expensively fine that even he had never seen anything like it. His damned mask, the emeralds making him sick in their leaflike whorls, could never hide enough. It couldn't hide his disgusted sneer at himself.

The orders in the letter had been exact, and the threat had been precisely spelled out. Do what she says to the letter, or forfeit the Spring Court to her service forever. Everyone, down to the children, would be given to her will. There had been a very… detailed threat in there about what would happen to Lucien.

I don't think he'll need his tongue any longer, unless perhaps you beg me to leave it as a gift to you. Perhaps he could use it on you. I of course will leave him his eye, so he can watch while you-

"For my Court," Tamlin said out loud, in something just louder than a whisper.

He straightened the way the tunic laid over his hips, frowning at himself. The black washed his skin out to nearly nothing, even with his tan from time spent outdoors. He looked like a short-haired ghost of himself, with only his green-and-gold eyes a splash of color in his expression. Exactly what she intended. An eternity so far from the sunlight… he could feel himself withering at the thought. No more spring. No woods. No hunt.

As if Rosehall itself mourned, he heard cracking somewhere above, the sound of a mournful wind shifting the foundation of this very old manor.

Go on, then. He swore he could hear the manor itself whispering. Go be Amarantha's whore. Rhysand could use the recovery time.

He snorted. There was a sound outside his door, and he paused. He could see shadows through the crack at the bottom of the doorway. Feet. It must be Lucien.

Tamlin walked over as if to open it, but paused his with his hand on the door. The two of them stood, one man on either side, in a long, drawn-out silence. Tamlin never saw it, but Lucien raised his own hand, the red-headed man standing in silence with his fingers resting on the door in exactly the same spot as Tamlin's.

Finally, the shadowy feet simply turned and walked away. He listened to the footsteps disappear down the hall, and leaned his forehead against the door.

It was never supposed to come to this.

"I haven't got all day," A silky voice purred behind him. Tamlin spun around to glare at Rhysand, dressed in his own finery. One raised eyebrow told him Rhysand noticed the similarity in their outfits. Where the black suited Rhys, it washed Tamlin out.

Mirror images. We're mirror images of each other. She's not going to let Rhysand go. She wants a set. Does… does he know she won't let him go?

"How are you here? These are my rooms! Get out!"

"Your time is up. The deal is done, and you belong to Amarantha. Now." Rhysand smiled, languidly, and his tone dropped to something softer, a lover's voice. "I can find anyone who belongs to her, wherever they are. She asked me to come and get you. Apparently she thought you might waste time if left to your own devices."

Tamlin, never one to have ready words for any occasion, only growled, the roar of the beast an echo behind the sound. Rhysand, after a moment, simply shrugged again and winnowed the both of them away.

Amarantha had spared no expense for the celebration. Spiced wine poured from huge fountains. Guests simply dipped their cups as they saw fit and drank them full nearly to the brim, laughing at the droplets that found their way down the side of the glass to splash onto the stone floor. Tables groaned under the weight of delicacies from every Court in the kingdom.

Musicians played in the corner, a series of mocking mutations of the Spring Court's favorite melodies, changed into minor keys, slower tempos. Turning sprightly into seductive, and cheerfulness into lust.

When Tamlin entered the hall, the sound of the crowd quieted. By the Cauldron, there are so many of them here to watch me fall. He ignored their stares, the whispers behind their hands at his close-cropped hair that fell just barely over his eyes, his skin seemingly paler set against his black outfit, following Rhysand like a puppy.

He ignored most of all the familiar faces he saw mingling through the crowd, the members of the Spring Court who had chosen to suck up to Amarantha, to kiss the ring. Others who had stayed here for one reason or another, but with their masks intact. How right their choices seem, compared to where I am now. The High Lords were here, no doubt at least a few happy to witness his humiliation. Perhaps not, though; it was only a reflection of their own humiliation at her hands. It was their power she was using to hold him.

Everyone would have their stories to tell soon enough, Tamlin thought. His black boots dragged as he forced himself to walk forward, Rhysand falling behind to greet a courtier here or there. His mask slipped, just slightly, and he took in a sudden breath at feeling a hiss of air touch the skin underneath.

"Almost off," Rhysand muttered from just behind him. "Play your part, Spring."

"I fucking hate you, Nightmare," Tamlin snapped, but he kept it a whisper.

"You're going to hate fucking her more," Rhysand replied, that smug smile playing on his face once again. Tamlin fought back the claws that teased at the ends of his fingertips. He could have ruined Rhysand for Amarantha forever, he thought, and never batted an eyelash. Torn his mouth to pieces so he could never smile again. Ripped him apart where it mattered most to someone like Amarantha, left Rhysand's mutilated cock in her bed. Calm, Tamlin.

"High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court!" Amarantha cried joyfully, announcing his entrance and calling every single fae to turn and look right at him. Tamlin's face burned with shame and he froze where he stood, stone heart a hammer in his chest. Her joy was evident, her bright eyes shone. He had never seen her wicked face so radiant. Tamlin clenched his hands into fists. "Welcome to Under the Mountain, where you will now make your home, by my side."

There was a curl of thought inside his mind, a whisper that did not belong to him. You'll writhe in my bed. Tamlin flinched, and felt Rhysand put a hand on his arm.

"I should have told you she does that, here," He murmured. There was something like sympathy in his face and Tamlin snorted, disgusted at the position he'd found himself in. He had never been one to beg for pity. He should have simply slept with her when she asked. He should have been her lover, until she tired of him. None of this had to happen. He'd done it all to himself. He should have protected Feyre, sent her away in time, gone to Amarantha and tried to bargain.

He should have torn them all limb from limb, all of the fae, left Under the Mountain a bloody mess with Amarantha's corpse as its centerpiece, to turn to bone and be buried. Let the mortals find them someday, when they were brave enough to breach the wall and see why the High Fae's presence was gone. His hands twitched. There was a hint of fur standing up, sharp teeth to bare. He could feel his claws-

"I won't have you do any of that without my permission," Amarantha said from her throne, and the welcome reassurance of claws and teeth just… vanished. He struggled to recover it, but nothing happened. His heart dropped to somewhere near his knees. Amarantha watched his obvious panic with delight.

"The Court of the High Queen of Prythian recognizes Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court. You may approach the throne," Amarantha purred. She crooked her finger to him.

Only Rhysand's soft nudge got him to move forward, each step like a clanging bell in his mind. He went to her, standing before her throne. Her crown, with its jagged golden spikes, was a thing of hideous beauty. Jurian's bone hung at her neck, and his eye looked up at Tamlin with some strange intensity from the ring on her finger. Amarantha was beautiful, in the way that certain venomous snakes are beautiful. Her hair was in a pile of elaborate, perfect braids, immaculately pinned into a pattern that nearly made him dizzy. Those wide eyes focused intensely on his. His remaining powers were wilting here, more as he stood before her and felt her magic settling into him, into his bones and under his skin. He wondered if Rosehall would simply collapse, without a High Lord to care for it.

What could Lucien really do? It wasn't his Court, and it was a Court under Amarantha's sway, now.

The smell of her was everywhere, a cloying vanilla touched with cinnamon. A sweetness with rot underneath. He felt drunk on it, terrified by it. She stood and leaned over just a little, put her hand out, rings up. "Kneel, Lord Tamlin. You are High Lord no more."

What am I, then?

He hesitated, but there was an ache between his shoulders and an unseen pressure that simply compelled him helplessly downwards until his knees cracked on the stone floor. He did not flinch, to his credit. He reached out, taking her hand in his, looking up at her as he slowly kissed Jurian's eye. It twitched, under his lips, and he fought back sour bile. "I am still Lord, my Queen," was all he said, but every seething ounce of hate he felt for her was in his whisper.

Amarantha smiled at him. The love in her smile was so genuine, so carefree and pure, that she looked like someone else entirely. This woman he could have loved, might even have helped ascend the throne. She could have fooled him for decades, with a smile like that. Centuries. He understood, now, how the High Lords had been so easily deceived. Her smile softened her, made her look almost like… but it was gone, replaced by the sneer he knew so well, saw in his dreams. Nightmares. She stepped back and sat back in her throne, several feet away. "All this could have been avoided if you had come to me in the first place, accepted my love for what it was without being forced. The Court of the High Queen's Consort could have wielded great power and influence."

"You know I could not do that." Why not? He'd doomed himself and Lucien and all of them in the end.

"No," She said thoughtfully, pulling her hand back. "You couldn't, could you?" As Tamlin went to stand, she shook her head. "No. Crawl to me on your knees."

In the hush of the court, he could do nothing else. His body was no longer responding to his commands, only hers. He felt fear, an icy stab through his chest, a stone settling cold into his stomach, as he crawled on his hands and knees the last few feet to kneel before her.

Was this why Rhysand never stopped helping her along with her schemes? Was his body truly no longer his own?

"The High Queen can show mercy," She said, now loudly, a performance for her court. Representatives of each court were there, the other five High Lords in attendance, Rhysand lounging in the shadows, as well as chosen courtiers. That vanilla scent was so heavy he felt himself gasping for air. "The Spring Court is free of its curse. But stand against me and the curse will be so much worse than his." She stood, making the most of every moment, tilting her hips to one side. Tamlin chose to stare down at her feet, realizing with a start that they were bare.

"Look up," She commanded. His eyes slowly rose, to meet hers. She reached down, ruffling her hand through his hair, smiling at him with that sparkling honest genuine joy. "I win, Tamlin," She said quietly. "You should have come here 49 years ago." She touched the side of his face, and his stomach twisted with disgust and… something else.

Something darker, and shameful.

Amarantha removed his mask, easy as you please, and dropped it onto the floor with a clatter. There were answering happy cries from those members of the Spring Court present as they freed their own faces. In Rosehall, he thought, Lucien must be pulling off his own mask, stepping outside into the air. Truly feeling the breeze on his face for the first time in fifty years. For you, Lucien. For the Spring Court.

"Stand, Tamlin. Rhys, if you will." He stood as he was commanded, feeling Rhysand at his elbow again, grasping it gently. Tamlin swallowed and looked down at the ground. They were all watching. Every inch of his skin felt like it was caked in shame and slime.

"Say it, Tamlin," Amarantha commanded. "Say I won. Make it loud enough for them all to hear. Let your courtiers take that moment back to your precious Lucien. Tell them what has happened here."

Tamlin felt Rhysand slowly turning him to face the crowd, but he was somewhere else, somewhere far away, trying to get a handle on how frightened he was. He'd never been good with words. He'd been better at war, but he wouldn't see any down here. Not the kind he knew how to fight.

He thought of Feyre's flashing eyes, her beauty, of the hope he'd had that she would be the one. He thought of her broken body, of his own servants carrying it away to be tended to. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as she'd died, a mix of genuine grief at losing her and fear of what it meant for his own future. It had been his own fault, for not sending her back over the border in time. For letting Amarantha find her.

He had hesitated too long to obey. He felt the compulsion again, the ugly twist of pain between his shoulder blades, the way even his body wanted to do what she said, although his mind resisted.

"You win, Amarantha," His voice said, as if from a distance, muffled in his mind. Someone shouting down a long cave. "My time has run out. I could not meet your demands." There was laughter, from some in the crowd. Cruel, jeering laughter. The other High Lords, though, did not join in. Tamlin fought to hold his head high, and saw in Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court, an answering rage that made him wonder if he might still have an ally or two, after all.

"My mercy has been great, for your Court," She said smugly. "I will hold to it. The Spring Court now belongs to me, but I will let them live in a bottled land. Let Lucien play caretaker, Lord-in-waiting, whatever he fancies himself. We have quite the new world to build, my love. Take him to my chambers, Rhys, and wait for me." She turned to address the crowd. "My new paramour must wait patiently for my attention, of course. My heart is only for my Court."

The courtiers tittered and jeered and Tamlin's face was crimson. He had never felt so ashamed of himself, of his failures. He would have roared at them all, but no words came to mind. His hands hung empty at his sides. "Rhys, darling?" Amarantha's voice drawled. "You remember your first night?"

Tamlin saw Rhysand's jaw tighten, teeth gritting together. Some old pain flashed in his eyes. If he heard the scandalized whispers of the courtiers, he did not show it. His head was held high. Tamlin realized the inner strength it took for Rhysand to withstand this, day in and day out. "Yes, my Lady. I remember."

"Prepare Tamlin just the same."

Rhys bowed at the waist, his hand still on Tamlin's arm. "Come with me, Tam, or she'll order you to," He muttered. The usual sneering hostility was gone, replaced by a simple emptiness, something that echoed the empty space inside Tamlin's own mind.

Tamlin went, drifting like a boat loosened from its moorings. Only Rhysand's touch kept him moving in any particular direction. They made it to her chamber doors before Tamlin simply could go no further, shivering like a leaf. He felt a sudden sympathy with the animals he had once hunted in the wood.

He stopped in his tracks as Rhysand opened the door and gestured him in. He turned to look at him, unable to hide the panic. "I can't-"

"You have to," Rhysand said, softly. "I'm sorry for what is about to happen. Please believe that. If it's a comfort, you'll enjoy it, in the moment. She makes sure you do." That flash of pain again.

"I don't want to enjoy it," Tamlin's lips were numb. Rhysand pulled him in, and he stared around. What nightmares Tamlin had often took place in some version of this room, especially as the countdown to the curse's end had begun to weigh on him. It looked nothing like he imagined. It was beautiful in here, not nightmarish. Well-lit and with a crackling fire adding a bit of warmth. It was the sort of room he would have loved to give Feyre. Everything was finely carved, smooth and shining wood everywhere he looked. Bookshelves, a vanity with a large mirror, everything a Queen might want in her private chambers.

Including you.

"You don't get to not enjoy it. You don't get to control it." Rhysand was lost in some inner world. "You will have no choices to make here."

The bed was huge, and could have easily fit a half-dozen people sleeping in it or more. Silver like moonlight snaked up around the wood at each corner, to the canopy that let a filmy black veil, speckled with starlight, slightly obscure the pile of blankets and pillows within. The walls seemed to shift as he walked, patterns moving in the wallpaper, forming eyes, as though they were watching him.

"Do you sleep here?" He asked. He'd mocked Rhysand for what he was so many times. He'd never imagined he would be her whore, too. He'd always thought there would be enough time.

Feyre. I thought we had more time. I should never have kept you close to me.

"No. I have my own chambers. She doesn't usually like me to stay, after. Thank the Cauldron for that, at least."

"Will I have my own, too?" There was something to hope for. Privacy. He felt himself cling to the thought like a raft in a storm-tossed ocean. In war and in hunt, all things made sense. In this, it was all chaos, and fear, and helplessness. It had been so, so long since Tamlin had felt so helpless.

"I don't know. I assume so. I… need to get you ready, Tamlin." The sneer was there, but for the first time it occurred to Tamlin that it was not a sneer of hate or smugness, but something self-protective. The ugly superiority was a mask he wore, a shield, a protection against the harm she could inflict.

"Ready how?"

Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly, eyebrows furrowing together. "For your first night." He gestured to the bed, pulling Tamlin over to it. As he pulled a cord, the veiled curtain was lifted on one side, and Tamlin saw what he has missed when they first came in. What the veil had obscured just enough to hide it.

A band of heavy, ugly iron was affixed just above the headboard, and ran the full length of it. There were twelve small circles soldered in. From each circle hung a chain, which began as links of that ugly ironl but gradually changed, silver beginning to twine around and through until the last few links shone in the firelight. At the end of each chain there was heavily engraved, thick silver cuff with a hinge. The bands hung open like terrible hungry smiles, a chorus of watchers, ready for him.

Six sets of silver cuffs.

Tamlin pulled back and away from Rhysand, staring at him wide-eyed. He tried to call for his claws again, and nothing happened. Nothing. "I don't do that. Not even with-"

"You don't have a choice." Rhysand cut him off, frowning, that strange inward expression again. "You never get a choice."

"I don't want it like this."

"Good for you. She does. Get on the bed. Please, before she-"

Do as you're told, Tamlin. Let him chain you up. Enjoy it.

"Cauldron," Rhysand swore, softly. "She must be listening to us." They both flinched at her syrupy-sweet voice, as loud as if she'd been shouting inside their minds. For a moment Tamlin fought himself, tried to step back further, to get away.

The twist of pain in his shoulders hurt enough to make him grunt, and he stumbled onto his knees. Her magic threaded through every pore, that vanilla scent seeped into his nose until it was the only smell there was.

"Get up, Spring." Rhysand snapped. "It's not worth it. Focus on survival. Get through tonight, and the next night, and the night after that. If I can do this for fifty years, you can last for a few nights. And never stop planning for your way out."

"There isn't one," Tamlin said through numb lips, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet, moved into the bed. The mattress gave way invitingly underneath him as Rhys gently pushed him. He could feel the silk and fur and velvet of her sheets and blankets. Rhysand pushed him until his back rested against the headboard. He stared into Rhysand's face as one wrist was gently lifted above his head, trying to find some hint of his future in it. Rhysand was empty of expression, but his eyes were a wild shriek of pain.

The other High Lord's face was close to his, and Amarantha's orders murmured into the back of his mind. You're going to enjoy this. He felt himself stir, just a little, towards arousal, a sudden rush of blood between his legs, as Rhysand closed the shackles around his wrists.. He fought it back with a snarl of disgust.

Rhysand's eyes dropped, taking in the situation much more slowly than Tamlin thought strictly necessary, then drifted back up to meet his. "My beauty truly must be legendary," Rhysand smirked, the expression emptier than ever. "I told you she ensures that you enjoy it."

When Tamlin's furious eyes met his, the smirk gradually faded. Tamlin saw, for perhaps the first time in centuries, Rhysand making a genuine and unprotected expression. Worry for me. He wished just as quickly that he hadn't. Rhys leaned in, whispering into Tamlin's ear. "She hears everything. Learn to keep even your thoughts down. Just survive. If there's anything I know in the Night Court, it's ambition and scheming. You'll get out from under her, one day. We both will."

The silver cuffs flashed suddenly blue, and then the light faded again. They were molded expertly perfectly, to the size and shape of his wrists. Where the silver touched skin, he felt cold as ice. Tamlin understood snares in a whole new way. "She's dead, Rhys. This is all I am, now. There isn't any way out."

Rhysand gave him that same smug smile. "Not with that attitude, there isn't. I'll tell her you're ready."

"Do you have to announce it, Nightmare?" Tamlin snapped. "I don't see why I have to be an animal on display-"

"That's what you are," Rhysand drawled, the protective sneer back on in a flash. His wings ruffled, almost. Like an animal going into a defensive crouch, Tamlin thought. "You are her animal. Her victory. Her display." He stood back up, brushing imaginary dust off one dark sleeve. He shouldn't be so pale, Tamlin thought. Fifty years of darkness would do that. He blinked, looking down at the shirt, baldric, and pants. At the boots. He thought of how Feyre would have considered the cost of each piece of fabric.

"I'm still wearing my-"

"She likes to cut them off," Rhysand snapped at him, pointing off to the side. Tamlin, knowing even as he did so that it was a mistake, looked. On a side table next to the bed lay yet another thing he'd been too distracted to notice. A double-ended dagger lay on the table. One end was a shimmering, sharpened silver. There was a space in the middle that seemed to be iron or some other, lesser metal. It had a grip carved into it. The other, where the hilt would normally be, was simple wood, narrowed and sharpened to a deadly point.

Tamlin knew ash when he saw it.

Rhysand stalked away. When the door slammed behind the High Lord of the Court of Night, Tamlin was left alone, chained to her bed, feeling his body working hard to betray him.

He could see himself in the great mirror that hung over her vanity, dimly through the veil, and quickly looked away. As he shifted in the bed, trying to get into a position that did less to pull the fabric of his pants so tightly over the maddening, stubbornly developing arousal he was trying to ignore, the throbbing that grew each time he moved his wrists or tried to shift position or, Cauldron forbid, actually thought about Rhysand chaining him to the wall above the bed (how does she control even this, with an order?), some flicker of reflected light caught his eye above him. He looked up.

The entire top of the bed, on the inside, was one large piece of mirrored glass.

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Please Don’t Skip the Therapy Scenes on The Sopranos

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This article contains some spoilers for the six-season run of The Sopranos.

Classic HBO series The Sopranos is now old enough to find new fans who weren’t even alive when it originally aired. Zoomers, or kids born in the late 1990s and early 2000s are increasingly intrigued with the iconic drama for many of the same reasons folks were wrapped up in it back when it premiered in 1999. The show depicts violence in a very raw and realistic manner and shows a faction of organized crime that feels like a time capsule of a period that is now well in the past, while also touching upon a general sense of nihilism that modern viewers can appreciate.

Not coincidentally, The Sopranos also was one of the first programs to dig into human psychology via therapy on a level that wasn’t corny or cartoonish (nobody is lying on a couch in an office with a doctor taking notes in a pamphlet during the session here). The subjects of mental health and the mafia don’t exactly go hand-in-hand, and the shorter attention spans of the modern TV viewer have led to a lack of appreciation for the former topic.

Caught up in the excitement of the dark, violent New Jersey underbelly, some newer fans report getting bored by Tony Soprano’s (James Gandolfini) psychotherapy appointments with Dr. Jennifer Melfi (Lorraine Bracco). Reddit threads are littered with discussions on the odd habit of completely skipping over these scenes throughout the series:

I’m watching for the first time and am on season 2 atm. I just find the scenes with Jennifer Melfi the psychiatrist totally irrelevant and annoying, to the point where I have skipped every scene with her in it. The scenes just feel like a recap, where she explains obvious things that just happened, as if the audience is so dumb we cannot keep up with what is going on in the show.

Other viewers completely understood what the objective of the sessions was, but found it redundant after the first few seasons:

For the first 2 or 3 seasons, I enjoyed the psychiatrist scenes. But after a while I feel they are more of a nuisance and not worth watching. I know it’s a way for the audience to peek into what Tony is thinking, but I don’t find it being worth it.

This is where the show runs the risk of losing an audience that is used to watching media that moves at lightning speed. TikToks, YouTube videos, and cliffhanger culture has zapped the brains of the younger generation to the point that it can be hard to revel in the minutiae of a character’s psychology. They know Tony Soprano is interesting, but they don’t want to figure out why they find him as such.

The Sopranos proved that it was viable to put a murderous criminal in the protagonist role, show him execute his victims, and then go home to his wife and kids like any other American man of the 2000s would. Tony Soprano added obsessive infidelity, mommy issues, sexism, homophobia, and toxic masculinity to his list of deplorable traits, yet the audience still sympathized with him and wanted to understand where he was coming from.

A lot of the audience’s sympathy for Tony can be attributed to his therapy sessions with Dr. Melfi. As has been famously discussed for the last two decades, the show was one of the first to depict a patriarchal man in a position vulnerable enough to seek out professional mental health advice. And those who skip these scenes are skipping one of TV’s best ever storytelling devices.

Tony starts visiting Dr. Melfi in the pilot after experiencing a panic attack while watching a family of ducks flying away from his backyard pool. He continues to visit Dr. Melfi throughout the series as the panic attacks recur and he looks for answers to all of the other predicaments and depressions that overwhelm his inner psyche. He also spills his guts on many matters that painted him in a bad light, but occasionally we get to see his explanations for those inadequacies.

One of the show’s big goals is to demystify and demythologize these mobsters, specifically Tony, depicting them as real people who have personality quirks, idiosyncrasies, and who endure emotional hardships. The whole thing can get very dense because there are multiple layers and subtexts exposed to the audience within a short period of time. Seeing Tony talk about what it all means to him makes it so much easier to contemplate what it means to us.

There is a larger literary debate that extends out much further than just this show: if an author puts something in a text with a specific intent, but the reader gleans something in juxtaposition to that original conversation, is our understanding of the work valid? Is there room for analysis that contrasts with what the artist put out into the world? Without Dr. Melfi, creator David Chase’s work is rife with confusion and laden with concepts that can go awry if absorbed by the less thoughtful TV viewer. She is our Tony Soprano for Dummies handbook; she is the mediator between us and the complex anti-hero on the screen. Tony is relatively the same person at the beginning and end of his therapy, but the treatment is required viewing for us to understand why he performs the actions he does outside of the doctor’s office.

Jennifer Melfi is her own fully formed character herself though, with thoughts, emotions, and opinions on the psychoanalytical treatment she is giving; this is a huge reason why we are able to live vicariously through her. She seeks guidance from her own therapist, Elliot (Peter Bogdanovich) about this criminal client, and in a way is asking the follow-up questions that we still want to know after listening to Tony.

Through it all Melfi is capable of maintaining her own moral compass, passing up the opportunity to use Tony’s violent proclivities to her advantage when she is sexually assaulted in the third season and avoiding the temptation of sexual advances from him in the fifth season. Because she is so grounded, she serves as an effective conduit between us and Tony. If she were compromised in any way, she would run the risk of influencing or enabling Tony’s despicable behaviors more.

If you skip over the therapy scenes, you are missing out on what Tony claims he feels about a lot of the issues that happen in his personal and professional life (his emotions can often cloud the reality of his situation, though.) He wears his emotions on his sleeve a lot more when in the chair than he does in the Bada Bing or sitting with Carmela, Meadow, and A.J. at the dinner table. The main reason for this is because those three people shape his outlook on life a tremendous amount, along with his mother, Livia, and Uncle Junior. His relationship with those five delves into a deeper discussion on how traditional masculinity connects with his Italian heritage and Catholic values.

Melfi helps Tony realize that his mother’s cold child-rearing methods led to confidence issues and doubt over what it means to “be a man” (this is one of the only signs of progress he ever makes in the show). This epiphany becomes a crutch that Tony leans on heavily when compartmentalizing the differences between how his life turned out and the heavy contrast to his own son’s future.

His narcissism creates a void for A.J., who struggles with suicidal thoughts and severe depression when he can’t live up to the depiction of masculinity that Tony exudes. Tony tells Melfi that A.J. is weak and shameful, an admittance that would never come from his mouth when around his family. With Dr. Melfi, we get these fascinating diatribes on the outdated tropes that shape Tony’s own view of himself as a Gary Cooper-esque man in American society. Fast-forwarding is literally skipping past Tony’s characterization.

Additionally, a social issue comes into relevance in the first half of season 6 when one of Tony’s main capos is outed as gay. The majority of the mafia is made up of toxic men with incredibly fragile makeups of masculinity and they immediately want him whacked, or at least eliminated from the group in some way. Tony reveals to Melfi that he doesn’t share all of his associates’ homophobic tendencies, instead putting credence into what a valuable earner his capo is for the DiMeo family. While he’s still not capable of harboring evolved social values outside of the context of the business, he’s revealed as someone who has put thought into what is right and wrong. He’s a bad person, but he’s three-dimensional. Not every layer is evil.

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That is why you are truly missing out on who Tony Soprano is if you skip his sessions in therapy. You will only get to see the violence, the hateful rhetoric, the devolved sexism, and the illegal day-to-day activities that make up a typical mobster. With psychiatry, you get to engage in the vibrant cesspool of personalities that create Tony Soprano, the legendary anti-hero archetype of TV lore.

The post Please Don’t Skip the Therapy Scenes on The Sopranos appeared first on Den of Geek.

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sleepyskunk · 6 years

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Deconstructing the 2017 Movie Trailer Mashup

Why deconstructing a mashup? Because these videos are often perceived as a random mess of pretty images from movie trailers. While that’s absolutely true, there’s an opportunity to explore themes and also pay a few obscure tributes to elements that don’t belong in the video itself but that are generally widespread within pop culture. These montages have been going on for a few years now, and it’s hard to edit the footage in a way that won’t feel reminiscent of one of the many great retrospectives put out by other talented editors in years past. I have to say that trying to build a narrative with all that footage has now become more enticing to me than to highlight the moments that made the year in cinema within their proper context. Let’s get right into it, shall we?

Someone on Reddit commented: “starting off with GEOSTORM, that’s a bold move!” and it didn’t even cross my mind. The shot was exactly where I wanted to go right off the bat - a blend of childlike wonder and eerie caution reminiscent of earlier Tim Burton films. The track was composed for a television spot called “A Wonderful Day” from IT and it showcases major Danny Elfman influences. Thus, this was my small tribute to the Burton/Elfman collabs happening under snowfalls like EDWARD SCISSORHANDS or BATMAN RETURNS. I loved the contrast in dialogue from PERSONAL SHOPPER which was such an under-appreciated indie film this year. Every mashup has its horror section, but I am gently sneaking you in by the supernatural door this time around. It’s just innocent enough to deceive those who hate horror.

Childlike wonder flawlessly captured in one shot, from the lens of Matt Reeves. I can’t say I connect emotionally with his APES movies, but the quality control on every frame, CGI or otherwise, it pretty much above and beyond all industry standards. That facial expression is exactly what I needed, you can tell she’s not too sure whether she’s safe or not but without feeling properly scared either. This is like the part in the original POLTERGEIST where kitchen chairs are moving on their own and the family still thinks it’s kind of fun. Kind of.

KING ARTHUR is the best type of release when it comes to trailer mashups because 1) it had a fantasy undertone 2) it was tracking poorly and 3) it went way over budget. Big studios know months in advance if they have a major bomb on their hands, and they have two choices at that point: either stop spending a penny on it and dump it for a quick theatre run and VOD release (more common if the movie didn’t cost that much) or, like in this case, spend extra millions of dollars to sell the shit out of that movie on opening week-end before everyone realizes it’s bad. Those extra millions go towards CGI money shots like the one above, which is really meant to make the marketing more attractive and oh dear lord, did KING ARTHUR have some last minute money shots to offer or what? It was a joy to pick and choose from its nine trailers.

This is where I put my cards on the table, whimsy never happened and I am taking you all to creepytown. That shot from ANNABELLE: CREATION is one of the many that upstages the featured evil doll in that wonderful movie and the film’s cinematographer Maxime Alexandre reached out because he was happy so much of his work was featured. You never know in front of who your videos can end up and industry people are keen on celebrating the year in film, especially if their own works are included. This is just a top notch unsettling shot clearly inspired by THE SHINING (the girl’s dress and the way her arms look lifeless.) On a side note, I always manually add all sounds including that floor cracking. If anyone reading this is starting off editing mashups, I promise you one thing: using professional, isolated, studio-recorded sound effect packages such as BOOM library is much superior to the original trailer track (unless you get a clean sound within the trailer.)

Another random insight (if you’re interested in making your own movie mashups) is to try as much as possible to avoid that one marketing shot everyone recognizes. You can revisit a memorable moment but going straight to the most oversold shot of a film hurts you. While you’re eager to make everyone relive the most epic imagery of the year, some value gets lost when a studio bombarded the same shot over and over and you go for it. Two quick examples: Giant hologram JOI pointing at Ryan Gosling in BLADE RUNNER 2049. I wanted that moment, but the original side-scroller shot was so overused that I went with her from a closer angle (see video thumbnail). Another example is that uncomfortable sniffle from Daniel Kaluuya in GET OUT which I favored over the super overplayed mouth open crying paralyzed shot from every marketing piece. In both cases, I assume you know which shots I am referring to without having to show them. Trying the alternative makes us relive the moment without its obviousness. It gives that other shot they didn’t choose its moment to shine (and more often than not, it’s just as effective.)

Someone’s not getting much sleep. A CURE FOR WELLNESS is a gorgeous-looking film no matter what you think of its bizarre plot points. I spend much of the first segment flirting with the creative key points from IT. One I tried to play around with is the idea of Pennywise as a half-real/half-fiction monster, and how similar to Wes Craven’s A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET his realm of terror extends. A few winning concepts in both films: 1) He isn’t real but he can really hurt you so you have to stay on your guard at all times and 2) Only a select few have been cursed with having to deal with him, adding a psychological layer to an already spooky premise. Dane Dehaan looks like a kid from Derry, or Elm street if you prefer, whose mental focus seems affected by the fact that he saw something, and his friend saw him too. Meanwhile, I throw in a completely out of context quote from Vanessa Redgrave which ties in that mysterious “sickness” from Verbinski’s film.

A shot from PROFESSOR MARSTON AND THE WONDER WOMEN from a trailer edited by Kees van Dijkhuizen Jr. for Annapurna Pictures where he works as an in-house editor now. In 2015, I talked about Gen Ip’s storytelling approach and last year I praised Matt Shapiro’s famously epic crescendos, so this year, let’s talk about Kees a little bit because I find all their influences fascinating. My first observation is how far his much-adored Cinema series has taken him, and that one of the top production houses in the business (if not the top, sorry A24 and Fox Searchlight) hired him so he could bring his own distinct style onto their major features. The whole trailer mashup craze started off only a few years back and so many editors were recruited right off YouTube to turn their passion into a livelihood down in Los Angeles. I can think of at least six editors whose names you’d recognize and who are now living the dream, and I consider this to be really inspiring because none of them initially got into it thinking something like that was ever possible. (side note: I also moved to L.A. and was poached by a trailer house but prefer to keep things on the low-end until it’s been long enough. I wouldn’t want to jinx it.)

The second observation about Kees is how much influence he’s had on every mashup that gets uploaded on a daily basis every December (me included) - I will link his Cinema series below. Instead of pairing clips into a horror bit, an action bit, a laughing and dancing bit, a kissing and crying bit, Kees was always out to create new feelings and nothing ever seemed more important than proper flow. Many shots would pop-up that you would never expect thematically, images of moving objects like a breaking glass transitioned with a girl’s hair waving through the wind (also see the lie detector in the previous shot.) He would connect nature documentaries right along with major superhero blockbusters and the movements flowed so perfectly that nothing ever felt out of place, quite the contrary. He was the best shot curator we’ve ever seen, and the order in which he put them together was beyond logic and predictability. Imagine “One Perfect Shot” but with 275 perfect shots back-to-back. If you want a prime example of what I’m referring to (random objects and flow), check out 2:49 - 2:52 from his Cinema 2011 (links below). Kees set the bar so high that attempting an end-of-year mashup certainly felt foolish at times, but hoping to improve made the editing process all the more inspiring.

CINEMA 2008 | CINEMA 2009 | CINEMA 2010 | CINEMA 2011 | CINEMA 2012

So apparently, they have the internet and flat-screen TV’s in RINGS but landline phones are still a thing. Quite frankly, I haven’t seen RINGS and I bet it’s aggressively ordinary, but how retro horror is that shot? Paired up with the voice of THE SNOWMAN saying “Mister Policeman” it’s a throwback to Nancy being terrorized by Freddy in the original Nightmare of Elm Street (minus the tongue.) I was also pleased with the aesthetic of HAPPY DEATH DAY, clearly the product of horror fans who grew up during the low-budget slasher craze of the early ‘80s. It’s got MY BLOODY VALENTINE written all over it (meanwhile their poster was paying homage to APRIL FOOL’S DAY.) Retro horror, in all its disturbing practical gore glory! Rick Baker, Tom Savini, how much we missed you in our modern times where only a few major productions have enough VFX money to escape the uncanny valley (and even then... *cough* JUSTICE LEAGUE.)

I always tend to edit right on tempo, which means switching shots at the exact moment the music beat tells you to. But over here, I thought this elevator drop from FLATLINERS looked so frenetic and out of control that I started it half a second before as if the beat couldn’t keep up! Like in cartoons when the car accelerates so fast that it takes off but their eyeballs are standing still for a little fraction. This whole mashup sequence is meant to be a little cartoony and tongue-in-cheek. To anyone who found this to be disturbing (and yes, I heard from a few viewers who said it was too much) I must admit that it wasn’t my intention. I won’t apologize for my work, people choose to watch if they want to or not. But if I really tried my best to scare the crap out of you, I can assure you THE LEGO NINJAGO MOVIE wouldn’t have made the cut.

Now channeling a CHILD’S PLAY vibe thanks to this retro television shot from the highly underrated BRIGSBY BEAR. A kids program works well as an element of fear because it’s supposed to be a safely protected zone of positivity and care, just like a doll or a clown for that matter. Once that turns on its head and begins to attack, you basically have nowhere else to hide. It also makes for great contrast, and Andy Muschietti must have had an absolute blast this year incorporating this component into his remake of IT. The bear costume was one of the many shots that wasn’t from a horror movie and yet I used to great effect in this section. I know there was a new CHILD’S PLAY movie this year but sadly, it didn’t hold a candle to the Hitchcockian original.

“At the end of the day, people are out for themselves.” That’s not true, and only people who are out for themselves could believe that. Because if you’re weighing low on the morality scale at some point in life, you still wanna go to bed thinking you’re a good person. So if you can’t justify what you did, the best logical next step is to convince yourself that human nature is to blame, that everyone else would have done the same as you. Ask people who were charged with insider trading on the stock market, they’ll always say “everybody was doing it.” I could refer to a certain World War to keep hammering that point but instead, I’d like to point out the interesting contrast between this and Part 3. I try to disprove that very statement by showing in the finale that everything we do that matters is for others, and others are the only thing that matters once everything else has come and gone.

The KING ARTHUR studio spending extra millions of dollars to sell the shit out of that movie on opening week-end before everyone realizes it’s bad money shot festival continues. EPIC! In fact, that shot is so gorgeous, you could place it anywhere in any mashup ever and it would probably work.

Having a bit of fun giving a more literal visual cue to IT’s “We all float down here” with Guillermo Del Toro’s hypnotically beautiful THE SHAPE OF WATER. However, it’s not the tudum tssshh, get it? movie connection that works here. It’s the underwater sound effect and the incredible sound mixing by trailer house Buddha Jones so that Georgie’s voice seems to come from the bottom of the ocean. This is likely the best sound work you’ll hear in the entire mashup, and I didn’t mix it, the editors behind that teaser trailer did. In fact, their work was so effective at scaring people that it earned twice the amount of views on YouTube than what Avengers: Infinity War received. A fact Kevin Feige will likely never admit.

That moment when you realize your manic pixie dream girl wears white socks! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I've used vulgarity in the past but not every year, depends whether it brings value. Some of you may remember “Game on, c***suckers” from KICK-ASS 2 in 2013 or “Nap time, motherf***ers” from COOTIES in 2015. Perhaps there’s another guilty pleasure at play here, however, which is that feeling of pure creative freedom. As mentioned earlier, not everyone digged the horror undertone of this year’s Part 1 and that’s okay because it went exactly where I wanted to go and no compromise was made. No client notes. No studio revisions. No censor beeper (which makes it worse because we seek to find out what the word was.) If you get into professional careers that are creative in nature, you’ll find that teamwork, compromise, and not taking anything personally are all essential components for success. But when the movie trailer mashup comes around, I report to no one. And that moment from THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING MISSOURI is one I wanted included as soon as the red band trailer came out.

This shot comes from a small movie you should seek out called MY NAME IS EMILY starring Evanna Lynch (aka Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter movies.) The film was directed by Simon Fitzmaurice who was diagnosed with Motor Neuron Disease (ALS) a few years ago, the debilitating disease for which the viral ice-bucket challenge was based on. He wrote the screenplay for this movie while his body was entirely paralyzed, and the only way he could communicate with the cast and crew while shooting the film was through eye gaze technology. There was a documentary following his brave journey that played Sundance called IT’S NOT YET DARK. Check it out if you need some real work ethic motivation and want to feel truly inspired about overcoming challenges. Much better than THE DISASTER ARTIST which is a spoof about a millionaire with no talent who mistreated the people who worked on his film. Okay, it’s still very entertaining and James Franco is hilarious but I don’t get a ‘never give up’ vibe from it, more like ‘maybe this isn’t for you.’

With the second segment, I was going for a British Gangster film vibe, hence the music cue Main Offender by The Hives. No movie captured that feeling better than Ben Wheatley’s FREE FIRE this year. I find the criminals in British movies are equally as clever in their quips as they are dangerous and often have the appearance of fair, well-behaved citizens until they have a reason to go mad. Jon Hamm’s performance in BABY DRIVER was also a textbook definition of that archetype, because all the build-up scenes where he acts friendly and discusses music with the titular character only bring an element of surprise at the end of his arc (spoilers: he’s not that nice in the end) I am aware that BABY DRIVER takes place in America but it’s directed by a Brit so it counts!

If Kubrick only knew his famous jump cut from 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY that connects a flying bone to a space shuttle would lead to this fifty years later. What a shit show jump cuts have become! But they’re fun, and let’s be honest here: 7 minutes of serious quotes about life would get a little heavy. The way you edit jump cuts is the same way to solve a puzzle with over a thousand pieces. Extract dozens of short action clips onto your timeline and try to make them fit with one another over and over until you’re entertained. I mean, the music stays the same in the background, all I am doing here is deciding which projectile this pair of underpants from CAPTAIN UNDERPANTS will become. The answer was a tranquilizer from the underground mall chase sequence in Bong Joon-ho’s excellent OKJA. Maybe we should try one really long domino of jump cuts one day. Should take forever to edit, but how much fun would it be?

Did you know that Academy Award winner Alicia Vikander was a professional ballet dancer before she started acting? Work ethic applies in everything you do. When you hear about successful actors, you often discover people who are world-class at delivering under pressure and dedicating themselves to their craft with an insane amount of work. Acting is hard and yet so many people think they can do it, which makes it even harder. At least ballet puts constraints right off the bat, you need flexibility and a specific body frame. Part 3 is about finding your passion AND putting in the work. Just finding your passion is hard! It’s not always the bottomless pit one could hope for, especially when it becomes a real job with hours upon hours of work. Many people don’t even know what their passion is, they know what they’re good at but don’t love it. “Without your passion, it’s very hard to find our place in the world.” I don’t think you need your income to come from your passion in order to find said place, but I wish everyone that many of the limited hours they have each day goes towards their passion, and not towards something that feels like a waste of time. Wanting to wake up has everything to do with what happens after your first cup of coffee. Put your time towards something meaningful to you, even if it’s only on evenings and week-ends and you’ll never make a penny from it. If you love animals, volunteer at a shelter. If you love to travel, just GO!

But what happens when your family conflicts with your passion? Would you leave them behind to pursue your dreams? We all remember the tragic scene from DEAD POETS SOCIETY where a young scholar gets forced by his father to become a doctor instead of his passion and commits suicide. And then we have this year’s COCO, Pixar’s big comeback, where music is prohibited in Miguel’s family but it’s all he dreams about. But that conundrum doesn’t even have to be confrontational in nature. What if you wanted to work in a low-paying field like online journalism because it’s what you love but your single parent (who always took care of you) became sick and needed you to take care of their treatment. What happens then? What comes first? I humbly try to answer that later in the segment, of course.

We always told you Daniel Radcliffe... you’re special. That’s why you have a scar on your forehead that looks like a bolt... Just kidding, poor guy. I look at Mark Hamill in THE LAST JEDI and keep thinking that if studios are still a private enterprise in 40 years, some new Harry Potter movie will come out in which an old bearded Radcliffe will be teaching at Hogwarts. (PS: he keeps making bold choices, so much so that I am willing to watch anything he’s in.)

A man’s reach... (or woman, btw) should exceed his/her grasp. Words from a poem by Robert Browning, suggesting that, to achieve anything worthwhile, a person should attempt even those things that may turn out to be impossible. The downside with attempting the impossible is two-fold, however. 1) You may spend your life trying and never succeed. 2) If you do get there after so much sacrifice and effort, the world will expect you to do it again, or to keep doing it at the same level or better. If you won a Gold medal at the last Olympics, what are the expectations for the upcoming Olympics? That’s where passions and dreams enter a darker road, one many people choose to avoid altogether. But whatever happens, it’s worth the risk as long as you have the one thing along the way that’s a hundred times more important. And that thing is...

...people who love each other! Look at this guy, he just figured it out!

Kate Mara in MEGAN LEAVEY really seems to be the one thinking out loud in this shot while we hear a quote from THEIR FINEST. I had a blast with the Freddy Krueger references earlier but this is my favorite part. Audiomachine make the best tracks to bring that crescendo to its proper peak. You can say this part of the mashup is more in my comfort zone. And the influences from Kees that I discussed earlier can be felt here. Some shots of objects and landscapes that aren’t thematically connected but keep a nice flow. I also handpicked the best cinematography of the year all at once here. MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS was a damn pretty movie, then SHAPE OF WATER, then THE MAN WHO INVENTED CHRISTMAS, then OKJA. Every shot looks like a million bucks. Notice the use of paper, letters and ink. I want to see you again, a character from EVERYTHING EVERYTHING writes on a sheet.

Family comes first is nice, but along with family comes conflict and distance at times. Things we said that we regret. Times we let each other down, or weren’t there when we needed to. All the papers dropping from the bridge, all the shots that refer to letter writing, that’s where I was going with that. Not always obvious because it moves so damn fast which is why I do this deconstruction blog post every year!

The final big lift from Disney’s BEAUTY AND THE BEAST! Also, the first frame I added onto my AVID timeline. This is how I organize my work basically. I pick the right songs, then I identify the exact moments in that song where a big moment should happen - if you use trailer music, it will be crystal clear what those are. And then I try money shots in each of these spots over and over until one really, really fits. Then, I ask myself how did we get here, how can I get to that point? And build around these big moments. The second shot I added into the mashup was the little girl in Part 1 under the bed who points to another version of herself sleeping in her bed and says “Shhh! That’s not me.” I put that in right when the music stopped, it became a big moment, and then I built around it in order to get there. Every editor works differently, but I am just sharing how I personally prefer to do it. Back in 2012, the first clip I added onto the timeline was “I have an army. We have a Hulk.” from THE AVENGERS which means I’ve been editing this way for five straight years.

Those letters of reaching out to people you care about. Apologies or wondering how they’re doing. Flying everywhere around Winston Churchill (that’s my dog’s name, he’s a Pembroke Welsh Corgi!) I guess you should always be the one to reach out in difficult situations with important people. The mistake is to not reach out, or convince yourself that they were dragging you down and you’re better off without them. That’s rarely the case, and you’ll never get over them when you know that’s not the case. Maybe they will reply someday, maybe they never will. But you swallowed your ego and you decided to give it one more shot. That’s the bravest thing we can do in this life, and I hope you’ll see it that way if the time comes. Happy New Year! Achieve your passions, take care of the ones you love and make it a wonderful day! (Halle Berry: “Aaaarrh!")

- Sleepy Skunk

#2017movietrailermashup

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the-revisionist · 7 years

Text

a good fixed star

LTiH, Caroline/Gillian.

Prompts: “things you said under the stars and in the grass” and “things you said while we were driving.”

Notes: Chapter title quotes are from letters of Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, except for the last chapter, which is from Vita to Virginia. And the longer italicized quotes in text are from Virginia’s letters to Vita. Apologies for any errors of transcription or misattribution; a scholar I am not.

For my dear @farminglesbian, who suggested the prompts.

i. “The whole thing is very splendid and voluptuous and absurd.”

Gillian first saw Clash of the Titans with a group of friends at a movie theater in Manchester during the summer of 1981. She was 16 and stoned and—to the delight of her parents—finally growing out the purple streaks in her hair. The previous year—not to the delight of her parents—she’d had an abortion. She was, she thought, done with boys. For a while, anyway. So in spite of the heat she wore a motorcycle leather jacket over her Gang of Four t-shirt and hoped her profuse sweating would repel the idiot sitting next to her, a friend of a friend named Derek who wore a pink Lacoste shirt and whom she barely knew, and who kept trying to convince her to give him a hand job. While she did not appreciate this constant distraction from the smoldering beauty of Harry Hamlin and the troubling voluptuousness of Ursula Andress, eventually she gave in toward the end of the film because he was everyone’s ride home, including hers, and she knew otherwise there was no way she’d get back otherwise. At least he bought her fish and chips afterwards.

Since then she’s seen this guilty pleasure of a movie so many times that it’s become a family joke; this morning Raff had texted Clash of T on telly 2day but u probs already know. So some 35 years later here she is, watching the same bloody film, ignoring that unsettling summery feeling somewhere between restlessness and lassitude, and thinking that her life is on repeat with only the most pathetic of variations—this time she’s alone, divorced, sprawled on the couch with her head hanging off the cushion so that she’s watching Lawrence Olivier upside down, and wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear because it’s hot as hell outside and she hasn’t the faintest intention of really working today. The sheep are fed, watered, and sheltered; that’s all she cares about. A bottle of lager sweats on the table in front of her and creates a puddle that dams against the mobile, which rings at the crucial moment when Olivier famously intones, “Release the kraken.”

Cursing and flailing, she reaches for the mobile and falls off the couch in the process. Eyes on the kraken, she swipes the damp edge of the phone against her t-shirt and answers with a grunted “Yeah,” assuming it’s Raff and he needs a babysitter because no one else really calls her unless some sort of favor is required.

This is true even of Caroline, who messages her regularly and usually about Flora or work or some random bad date she’s had—I loathe women a recurring motif as of late and leave it to Caroline to casually drop the word loathe in a text—so Gillian bobbles the mobile when she actually hears Caroline purring, “Make yourself pretty for me.”

She laughs. In addition to the texting they actually see each other more now than in the past couple years and if Gillian actually trusted anyone other than Caroline for confession, she would swear that to her complete and utter consternation, the woman in question actually flirts with her now. She has a hundred reasons why this cannot be true, but two primary counterarguments suffice: (1) it’s delusional wishful thinking on her part and (2) Caroline doesn’t really mean it and is simply practicing flirting techniques on her—and not doing such a grand job if all her dates are shit, apparently. The situation, such as it is, percolates within her, giving rise to a fluttery feeling at best and, with cheap lager in the mix, outright nauseous terror at worst. Men are easy, women are complicated; this is normally her blanket excuse for why she had never seriously attempted a romantic relationship with a woman. In Gillian’s mind there is a Venn diagram comprised of two circles: one labeled flirting and the other women, and the convex sliver where they deliriously conjoin is marked oh fuck and this maddeningly curvy demimonde is where one Caroline McKenzie Hyphen Fucking Dawson currently resides in her jumbled brain.

Gillian watches the kraken thrash around onscreen while Lawrence Olivier quietly contemplates a professional nadir. “What’re you on about? Don’t you have a thing today? Work conference?”

“Canceled!”

“Oh. Why?”

“Outbreak of food poisoning!” Caroline says with unabashed glee.

“Hurrah for salmonella.”

“Actually it was staphylococcus. Had dinner with them all last night and everyone put mayonnaise on their chips, I noticed, except for me.”

“You’re like the Sherlock Holmes of bacteria.”

“So I’m a free woman this afternoon. Let’s do something.”

“Do what? Too bloody hot to do anything.”

“Which means you’re just sitting around in your underwear drinking beer and watching some shit movie.”

“Do you have a spycam in my house?” Gillian takes a moment to glare suspiciously at her mobile. “Or are we Skyping by accident?”

“I cannot tell you how impressed I am that you know what Skype is.”

“Twat.”

“Come on. We’ll go for a drive somewhere. Didn’t you say you wanted to go to that weird bookstore—the one in the old church?”

“Caz, that’s like on the other side of Leeds. One of those little villages where they’ve probably filmed a hundred episodes of Miss Marple.”

“So? We’ll make a day of it. Put on pants, I’m five minutes away.” She rings off.

Gillian stares at the phone. Indeed, the kraken has been released. “Oh fuck.”

She runs upstairs. Her jeans are all in various stages of smelly, filthy, and unwearable, so she throws on a dress—subtly flowered and linen, the only dress she owns that has earned some kind of positive response from Caroline. Distinctly she remembers the time she wore it last summer: family dinner al fresco at the farm, Caroline’s smiling appraisal with head tilt and cool murmur of approval—you look nice—and the resultant blush fire blazing across her face. She could not remember the last time anyone made her cheeks burn like that. She pulls on battered Chuck Taylors, looks in the bedroom mirror and sees all these overlapping iterations of identity, an entire life visible in one weary reflection: punk wannabe, mother and grandmother, survivor, slag, widowed farmer, and, currently, middle-aged idiot smitten with her stepsister. She groans “oh fuck” one more time and goes downstairs, finds a cooler and dumps some ice in it along with the only bottle of white in the fridge, and then strides outside just as the Jeep Cherokee pulls up to the house.

Caroline rolls down the window. She wears aviator sunglasses that bring Mad Men’s Don Draper to Gillian’s mind and, no surprise, carries them off just as well as he did. While she may not be as successful with women as Don Draper, she is certainly garnering a lot of attention from the scant lesbian population in the area because lately she’s going out on dates with seemingly random and vaguely energetic young females every other week or so. Gillian knows this because she is always the one assisting with the dismal postmortem every time, nodding sympathetically as Caroline ticked off romantic defects: She thinks “The Archers” are a boy band. She used the wrong fork for the entrée. She asked if I was interested in rock-climbing. She admitted she drinks wine out of cans. She said I reminded her of her aunt.

To Gillian’s unbridled delight she once again gets the head tilt and the compliment: “You look nice,” Caroline says. She nods at the cooler. “What have we got here?”

“We’re having a fucking picnic,” Gillian says. She puts the cooler in the back seat and climbs into the Jeep.

“Fantastic. What did you pack?”

“Pinot grigio.”

“And?”

“Ice.”

Caroline puts the Jeep into drive. “Hell of a picnic.”

Before they even turn around, however, an argument ensues about the air conditioning: Caroline wants it on, Gillian wants it off.

“What’s the point of having a summer drive if the windows aren’t open, if we aren’t feeling the breeze?” Gillian says.

Caroline looks at her uncomprehendingly. “My hair will get messed up.”

“Oh, the vanity.”

“I’m not vain, I just don’t want to look like an escapee from the mental ward.”

“No one’s going to see you, just me, and maybe a bunch of nerds at a bookstore. And you always look b-b—um, really good anyway.” Gillian folds her arms and glares straight ahead. “And it’s f-freezing in here,” she adds, even as another blush rampages across her face. “It’s not healthy, we’ll get summer colds and I can’t afford to get a cold because—”

“—you’re a farmer and you can’t afford to take off a single day because you’re hard-working salt-of-the-earth-blah-blah-blah—yes, I know, you’ve run that line on me before and yet here you are, abandoning your precious farm on the hottest day of the year.”

Gillian pouts.

“It’s the hottest day of the year,” Caroline repeats in the vain hope that reality will weigh in favor of reason and air conditioning.

Gillian ratchets up the pout into a sulk.

Caroline sighs and relents: The air conditioning is turned off, all windows glide down. “Right then. We’ll be smelling sheep shit until we hit the M62.”

ii. “But I do adore you—every part of you from heel to head.”

Women belong to summer. Or so Caroline thinks. In this season of bounty her heightened senses take note of women to delirious distraction: curling hands and lips, swirling dresses around bare legs, swaying hips, swelling cleavage, all of it—sweat and fading perfume commingle sweet as honeysuckle, throaty laughs, rich, wine-soaked voices. She has always attributed her frustratingly inexplicable attraction to Gillian to this summer madness—especially in that fucking dress, oh God—but the fact remains that she has desired this sullen, stubborn sheep farmer clad in any variation of plaid shirts, torn jeans, grotty jumpers, mechanic overalls, and even Elmer Fudd-esque winter caps, all of which render her desperate self-diagnosis null and void.

On the motorway they’ve gathered speed, creating a roaring hot-air wind tunnel within the Jeep’s interior. When Caroline looks in the rear-view mirror all she sees is the Medusan rage of her hair and barely restrains herself from melodramatic groaning.

Gillian leans out the window, almost dangerously so—half-perched off the seat, gripping the doorframe, and screaming woo-hoo into the void of the surprisingly sparse M62 traffic. Even as she takes quiet joy at the sight of Gillian—hair wild, squinting into the sun, wind plastering the summer dress against her strong thighs—this hanging out the window like a demented Labrador makes her nervous and she shouts, “For Christ’s sake, sit down.”

To her surprise Gillian plops into the seat with uncharacteristic obedience, even putting on the seat belt. She looks at Caroline, hair streaked across her tanned face, laughing, and Caroline thinks I will remember you like this always.

“Sorry,” Gillian hollers into the din.

“I just don’t want to scrape you off the road.”

“It’d put a damper on everything, wouldn’t it?” Still smiling, Gillian leans back and closes her eyes for a moment while pushing hair out of her face. A tendril remains curled along her cheek and across her lips, a bit of ornamentation run amok outside its prescribed patterns. Caroline notices her stereotypical farmer’s tan—bronzed arms, face, and neck in contrast to bare white legs, upper bicep delineating the pale and the tan courtesy of dozens of t-shirts. The edge of her dress flutters tantalizingly around her thighs and Caroline forces herself to look at the road. Her relationship with Gillian has always possessed an inevitability about it—a fantastic, fatalistic entanglement courtesy of their star-crossed parents—but she has never loved anyone or anything so wildly unpredictable as this woman who now sits next to her in so deceivingly still and innocuous a manner that Caroline’s naturally suspicious mind expects that her next move will be to climb onto the roof of the Jeep and start singing “Sempre libera” from La Traviata in homage to Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Except that she knows Gillian loves the movie, but hates opera. Nonetheless Caroline’s feelings remain a source of trouble, so much so that not only has she mindlessly thrown herself into dating and then ridiculously rejecting out of hand any woman who shows the least bit of interest in her, but also that at the present moment she misses the correct turnoff from the M62 and they end up meandering around the outskirts of Leeds in search of the tiny Miss Marple-ish village for a good half hour despite the continual hectoring of both the GPS and Gillian.

“How could you miss the bloody turnoff?” Gillian grumbles again as they pass a sign that says WARNING: OWL SANCTUARY, LOW-FLYING OWLS for the third time.

Wisely—just like an owl, yep, that’s me, Caroline thinks, who are you kidding, you pathetic numpty?—Caroline declines the option of admitting the truth, which is that she was so distracted by the continuous sensual writhe of the dress around Gillian’s thighs that she would drive around for hours just to witness the play of shadow, sun, and linen upon her skin and imagine how satisfying it would be to remove that dress and—

“Maybe we should visit the owl sanctuary,” Caroline manages to suggest after loudly clearing her throat.

Slouching and petulant, Gillian folds her arms. “If they give me sanctuary from your fucking driving, I’m all for it.”

iii. “I try to invent you for myself”

Finally they discover the bookstore—in its former incarnation known as St. Botolph’s, a modest, squat, moss-covered stone church—in a village with a blink-and-you-miss-it name: Marston Something, Offnor, Colward, Fuckward, who knows. So Gillian takes it upon herself to dub the unknown hamlet Owlshitshire: “Say it fast three times,” she dares Caroline. While Caroline parks across the road from bookstore-church and fusses with her hair, Gillian stares at the building with newfound apprehension. “You think we’ll spontaneously combust, entering a church together? The lesbian and the slapper?”

Caroline adjusts—but does not remove—her sunglasses. “As if the joint force of our sins will merit our ruin? It’s deconsecrated, isn’t it?”

“Reckon so. I’m just worried this will end up like The Omen.”

Caroline sighs. “Everything is a bloody movie with you.”

“Thought that was one of the things you—liked about me.” “There are,” Caroline replies slowly, “many things I—like about you.” With the Jeep at a sweltering standstill, sweat sprouts upon Gillian’s upper lip and falls in a tingling wave along the edge of her scalp. The white noise of her heart becomes clearer as Caroline leans in toward her—one more hundredth of a millimeter, one more sliver of a hairsbreadth and I swear to Christ or whatever pagan deity hanging about that I will kiss you, sweaty lips and all— Inscrutable as an Italian film star from behind those bloody sunglasses, Caroline grins as she hits the button releasing the seat belt, which slithers off her body in perhaps the dorkiest strip tease known to humankind but that, unsurprisingly, still leaves Gillian breathlessly and idiotically aroused. “Alas, my dear, that is not one of them.” The bookstore is second-hand—damp and disorganized, marinating in the sweet reek of old paper, wood polish, and pastoral, Anglican ideals long past. As she happily waltzes through the chaos, Gillian’s eager fingers tap random piles of books as if she is a pianist lazily running through scales and contemplating a piece for performance. Then her hand hovers above a heart-stopping find: The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf. Before picking it up, however, she glances around with a stiff furtiveness that would be screamingly obvious to anyone witnessing her blatant, nervous interest in the love letters between two women. But there is no one in the store except an elderly couple and the proprietor behind the cash register, who is chatting up Caroline. Apparently he has discovered that she is a headteacher and is going on at length about the ruin of the education system thanks to political correctness and multiculturalism. Briefly Gillian considers swooping in for a rescue, but she knows damn well that Caroline can decimate this type of bloviate without working up a sweat; indeed, she leans in and murmurs something to him that shuts him up right quick. So Gillian turns her attention to Virginia and Vita, her thumb ruffling musty tea-colored pages while fearful of the dive into words that she suspects will only grant more clarity and substance to the inchoate feelings within her. I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about—with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you. Because I never seem to run out of tenderness for you and because I need to feel you near. Excuse the bad writing and excuse the emotional overflow. What I mean to say, perhaps, is that, in a way, I am never empty of you; not for a moment, an instant, a single second. It’s like standing in church when the bell tower rings and the vibrato rattles your bones and stiffens your spine with a clarifying chill. And I’m in church right now, Gillian thinks, kind of appropriate, I reckon—then Caroline is beside her, so close that her breast brushes against Gillian’s upper arm. Her pale skin is flush with warmth, her fancy sunglasses glint on her head like a hipster crown and she smells good, like sun and sweat and grass and Gillian doesn’t know how she does that, she hasn’t been anywhere near grass unless she rolled around in a field before showing up at the farm, and Gillian’s senses riot and the beautiful words she just read tumble out of her head, the glue of their cohesion melts away. “What’re you looking at?” Caroline asks casually. “Oh—um.” She tilts her head to look at the cover and Gillian stares at the shade of her jawline, the golden down along her cheek, and the strong lines of her throat because it seems the safer to look at these things rather than the freckled pointillism on her chest leading one astray into cleavage—though I walk through the valley of cleavage, I shall fear no evil, for the thought of wine in the cooler comforts me—or even the bracing blue of her eyes, those dangerous lodestones that, for some unfathomable reason, have always drawn out the deepest measure of truth from Gillian.

“Interesting.” Caroline nods at the cover. “Do you like her writing? Woolf, I mean?” “What I’ve read, yeah. I mean, I’ve not read much. Just a couple novels,” Gillian mumbles. “They kind of made me aware—” Now Caroline touches her elbow and she devolves further into a stammering, sweating mess. “—of, um, the interior life? Interior lives? How they could, er, work. How the mind kind of works some-sometimes.” She looks around frantically—why is it so bloody hot in here? “Sound like an idiot.”

“Not at all. Have to admit I haven’t read much of her writing. You can blame John for that. Every time he wanted to prove he was a feminist he would quote from A Room of One’s Own.” Gillian laughs, and looks down at her ragged old Chuck Taylors. “That would do it. I—I’m sorry he ruined her for you.” “Should probably give her another go, what do you think?” “Yeah.” Gillian gnaws at her lip. On one hand, she wants to sit around and talk about Virginia Woolf and books and everything under the stars and sun with Caroline but on the other hand, she wants to be alone with the book and let it continue speaking to her like an eloquent oracle sans riddles. The latter might be best because right now words for her are scarcer than crow’s teeth. Usually she can turn on the tap and let language run rampant, not give a toss what she was saying to anyone about anything. More often than not, this got her in a fair amount of trouble; this time, she wants to find the right words that will lead into the right kind of trouble. Caroline’s fingers tap playfully against her forearm and Gillian glances at this invisible tattoo, patiently waiting for some intricate design inked in a riotous rainbow to blossom on her skin. “Tell you what—I’m going to dash out and find us proper sustenance for a picnic.” Gillian busts out a nervous, relieved smile. “You bored already?” “Not in the least.” When Caroline replies to her stroppiness with a certain kind of lovely seriousness it always prompts in her innate, immediate trust. Then, predictably, Caroline goes off and sounds the schoolteacher and mum that she is: “But it’s probably not wise for us to consume nothing but a bottle of cheap white wine on a day like this.” Why not? Gillian wants to say, but no—this is not a time when she wants wine rendering her into sloppy foolishness. “Right.” “Be back before you know it.” As she walks away, Gillian experiences such a ridiculous tightening in her throat, her chest, a physical manifestation of an irrational sense of abandonment—even though she knows Caroline is not some stupid toff boy with a fancy car who would leave her stranded in a big city or even, like here, the middle of nowhere—that she cannot prevent herself from blurting out Caroline’s name, even though she stops herself from bleating pathetically, you’re coming back, right? Caroline stops and turns around expectantly. The precise spin of her heels, the way she pitches forward as if she’s a dandyesque soldier determined to enter a fray she’s entirely unprepared for—the cumulative effect of her movement assuages Gillian, is more than a guarantee of her return. Relieved, Gillian smiles. “I may be cheap,” she says, “but the wine’s not.” Caroline laughs at the easy joke and Gillian then permits herself the lusty luxury of watching her walk away. Alone, she tucks herself into a dusty corner of the bookstore on a faded burgundy settee with the Virginia and Vita book in her greedy hands; when she looks up again the sun slants suspiciously low through a high stain-glass window and casts jeweled baubles on the wall near an aged reproduction of a George Lambert landscape. The bookstore is empty, silent. Cursing herself for entering some kind of literary fugue state, she drops the book on the settee and commences working her way to the front of the church-store, dipping and swaying around so many claustrophobia-inducing shelves and tables and piles of books with such careful, sweaty precision she feels as if she’s performing an elaborate renaissance court dance. At the front of the store sits the bookstore proprietor in all his balding, cranky glory. He squints at her and ruffles the pages of his newspaper, perhaps hoping its scant breeze will somehow propel her away on a powder-puff of air. She stares at the old, heavy doors barring her way and is strangely bereft. I suppose it is good for the soul to be hurt and perplexed perpetually. I know at least that I miss you damnably: that is a good fixed star. Amused, the owner watches her frowning at the door and then drawls sarcastically, “Oh, don’t worry, love. I’m sure your wife will come back for you.” Gillian laughs. Of course, Caroline must’ve told this tosser they were married when he was bothering her earlier. After the divorce from Robbie came through earlier this year, she firmly declaimed to no one but herself that she was done with marriage; being Caroline’s imaginary wife for a day is, however, a union more satisfactory than reality has ever granted her. “Yeah. Damn right she will,” she says. “Know why?” He shakes his head. She leans heavily against the cash register. “ ’Cause I’ve got the only keys to the sex dungeon in our flat.”

iv. “It seems to me that I only begin to live after the sun has gone down and the stars have come out.”

The rush of sunset brings cooler air through the Jeep, which runs parallel to some tributary of the River Aire. Venus glints in a layer of darkening sky above a thinning band of vermillion while Gillian sits with an open bag of brandy snaps in her lap. She’s already eaten half the bag despite Caroline’s admonishments not to spoil her appetite. The weakening sun jabs through the green interlace of tree branches and in those brief outbursts fills her eyes with light. Somewhere along the river they find the right spot, kick off their shoes, and sit on an old blanket retrieved from the boot of the Jeep. They drink cool wine from a bottle blistered with damp and eat bread, cheese, and berries, and Gillian’s tongue loosens enough so that she talks haltingly about To the Lighthouse and of time passing, then she stops abruptly when the wind flutters the hair along Caroline’s serious brow—she listens so intently, Gillian notices, and it’s unnerving—and Caroline’s eyes resonate as a cynosure in the deep blue evening. In that moment everything stirs wild within her and she cannot keep still because she fears what she’ll say next. Barefoot, she walks through the grass to the river, the alternate swish and crunch of grass wet and stiff underneath her gait give way slowly to soft dirt and pebbles that press into the pads and arches of her feet as if pearls desperate to remain embedded in soft sanctuary. All while Caroline yells at her about the dangers of ticks and other hazards such as snails, broken glass, and used condoms. At the edge, she stops. In darker times now past, she thought of drowning herself. Like Virginia Woolf, except without the eloquent note or a death notice in the papers. She doubted anyone would really miss her. Even Raff. Still, she could not, would not, do that to him. Bad enough the millstone of his father’s death hung around his neck; to have both parents labeled as suicides—regardless of the truth—would be too much to bear. She likes to imagine that if she had drowned herself back then, her body would have found its way to the freedom of a sea—silly, she thinks, but largely due to a proverb that always stuck in her mind: The sea refuses no river. She always liked that one. Many of the proverbs and verses she heard in church as a child seemed focused on judgment, control, condemnation, behaving in a certain way. But in the embrace of the land and the water, well, you belong to it—and not the other way around. Its silence carries no censure. Dusk drizzles over thickening clouds and she tastes the heavy humid air. A smattering of stars now attend Venus. The river has led her to this moment—not to drown, but to declare herself. She turns around and glances quickly at Caroline, who is on the old blanket in an elegant sprawl, legs crossed at the ankles, calm demeanor belied by the continual flexing of her calves. “It’s beautiful here,” she says. “You’re beautiful,” Caroline replies. Uneasy, Gillian laughs. She’s been called a lot of things over the years, but beautiful has never been one of them and she’s old enough now that she mistrusts any easy compliment—even from the likes of the unimpeachably honest, unrelentingly forthright Caroline—and she is not to be won over that easily. Or so she thinks. “Well now. Your game’s gotten strong—all those girls you’ve gone out with lately, eh?” “I’m not interested in games. Or those girls, really.” Caroline sits, draws up her knees, and adds softly: “You must know that.” “Do I? All I know is, here we are, picnic on the river, you saying nice things—” “How dare you,” Caroline says with mock indignation, “I’ve said only one nice thing to you thus far.” “—a woman could get the wrong idea.” “Or the right one, as the case may be.” Gillian frowns, bites her lip. Even in the face of blatant confirmation, her nerve falters spectacularly. Because nothing and no one has mattered so much to her in such a long time, she cannot remember. “Gillian.” “W-what?” “Tell me all the things you have in your head, that won’t ‘stir by day, only by dark on the river.’” The words ring clear and true. She sees them in her mind once again, feels the soft, foxed page at her fingertips.

Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads—They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come. Caroline pulls the book out of her purse. Of course, she bought it. When earlier she had triumphantly returned from her shopping excursion to the bookstore, she thrust a bag of brandy snaps at Gillian, ordered her to wait outside by the Jeep, and demanded use of the WC from the bookstore owner, who stammered consent in the face of this wild, dungeon-owning lesbian deviant schoolteacher. And here Gillian thought it had taken her so long inside the store because she was doing number two. The grass murmurs protest under Gillian’s feet and she winces when something sharps bites into the ball of her right foot, so as she stands there in front of Caroline she may be bleeding, her foot may become infected and she’ll get gangrene and end up spending the rest of her days gimping around as Yorkshire’s One and Only Peg-Legged Sheep Farmer, but none of that matters now because she can hardly get past stating the obvious. “You bought the book,” she says to Caroline. “Yep.” “You know that—that quote.” “Yep.” As words continue to fail her in a way they never quite did for Virginia Woolf, she kneels upon the blanket, cradles Caroline’s face in her hands, and lays on the kissing equivalent of a Woolf sentence: long, glitteringly complex, sustained and full and magnificent and, in its aftermath, leaving one breathless and lingering sweetly over every fine detail, every bright facet. Everything rushes by in splendid sensate tandem: the light that fades and glows all the same, the whishing of the river, the wine limning her mouth, the corner of the book digging into her knee, her thumb caressing Caroline’s cheek, the star of Venus blessing the entire enterprise.

“God.” Caroline finally manages speaking. “If I’d known you’re going to kiss me like that over one old book, I would have bought out the entire bloody store.” It is nearly dark, it will rain very soon, and Gillian is quite certain that her bare, dirty foot is bleeding. “Don’t need a book for that. In fact, you should know—I’ll kiss you like that anywhere, any time you want, for as long as you want, every day for the rest of your life.” “Go on then,” Caroline says.

#last tango in excessive woolf quotes #ltih #are we cool vincent

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kittensjonsa · 7 years

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Mr and Mrs ( Room Service part 2)

For Valentine’s Day 6: Pretend relationship. This is a continuation from Day 2: Sharing a bed fic - Room Service as requested by @sagittariaschik (I tagged you if that’s okay) 😀 Thank you so much for your likes and reblogs, it humbles me so much that such awesome writers such as you lot Jonsa cruisers, actually read the bad-grammary crappy cheesy stuff I write! I’m such trash for Jonsa and I just want to give a shout out to @jonxsansafanfiction for starting this Valentine’s theme and allowing my imagination to run wild with Jonsa. I hope you all enjoyed reading them as much as I had fun writing them! Thank you once again and Kudos to all of you for all your awesome fics!

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Sansa rubbed her sleepy eyes and squinted when she saw it was already bright and sunny. Her ears detected a faint thumping and it barely registered to Sansa till she laid her head back down again, that it was someone’s warm and firm chest grazing her cheek. Sansa sat up and wondered if she was dreaming. She reached out to grab her phone and checked the time. It was seven and somehow Sansa remembered there was somewhere she had to go.

The wedding, she finally realised and scrambled out of bed, pulling the covers down with her. Jon sat up startled and bare chested. Sansa didn’t recall Jon being half naked in bed with her when she had invited him to sleep beside her. She looked down and sighed with relief when she saw herself still fully dressed. Sansa couldn’t remember the conversation they had last night, all she knew was they were both tired from the drive to the motel.

“Jon we’re going to be late for the wedding! Wake up!”

Jon reached out for his phone on his nightstand and seeing the time, he too leapt out of bed. Sansa had the shower turned on when she heard the door open slightly and the toilet seat move. Sansa peered from behind the curtain and was horrified to see Jon standing over the toilet bowl. While she was in the shower.

“Oh my God Jon! Boundaries! What the hell?” Sansa screamed at him, suddenly feeling exposed.

“I’m sorry I had to go Sans! I couldn’t wait for you! It’s too bloody cold,” Jon explained sheepishly, his back still turned to her. Sansa glared at him and gave up in the end. She needed to get ready quickly or they’ll miss the entire wedding. It was still a two hour drive to the farm.

“Well quickly get out then. I’ll finish up in ten minutes and I’ve already packed last night. Get the car ready why don’t you?” Sansa suggested, finishing up her shower and waited for Jon to leave. She heard him grunt his agreement and closed the door behind him.

Sansa put on her coat and scarf while she waited for Jon to finish his turn in the bathroom. He was right it was indeed freezing. It was no wonder both of them reached out for each other’s warmth during the night. Sansa recalled how hot his skin felt against hers. It felt nice and a familiar tingle found its way deep within her. Sansa brushed it off, dismissing it as just another one of those days. I need to get laid, she thought to herself, sighing.

“All right, all right, stop sighing, I’m done. The bags are all packed in the trunk and we’re good to go if you’re ready.”

Jon held the door open for her as they exited their room and checked out. Sansa walked over to the vending machine and grabbed some snacks for both her and Jon for the drive ahead. She didn’t remember if she had checked for a diner stop along the way but figured since it was a short drive, they could do with some light sustenance.

“Cheetos for breakfast, yum,” Jon griped sarcastically when Sansa dropped the packs in front of them as they got in the car.

“Well, don’t be picky. It’s either that or a dried up chocolate bar, which I’m sure had been there since the 1970s,” Sansa retorted. The car started without much trouble despite the ice weather. Sansa sighed with relief when they finally got on the road heading towards Winterton Farm. The drive was fairly silent, both Sansa and Jon weren’t really morning people.

“I have you to thank for a restful sleep last night. Thanks for letting me sleep with you.” Jon started but then paused when he realised it wasn’t what he meant.

“I mean sleep on the bed. I wasn’t thinking of sleeping with you.. I mean of course nothing wrong with you, I-”

“Jon, stop talking. God, it’s too early for this. Now I know why you’ve haven’t had a date in years,” Sansa groaned. Sansa fully knew what he meant, she just wished he didn’t thank her every day for it.

“Ouch.” Jon feigned a sob, although his ego felt a slight sting from her words. He accepted that he wasn’t as charming as her brother Robb or smooth as Theon but he wasn’t completely clueless when it came to women. He needed advice that much he knew, from whom though, he didn’t know.

“I’m sorry, that was a low blow. I shouldn’t have said that.” Sansa regretted the moment the words left her lips. She wasn’t a very good conversationalist at 8 in the morning. Plus, she was also hungry. Not a good combination.

“Well, there must be some truth in there somewhere so I appreciate the honesty. But umm.. Do I sound that bad?”

Sansa turned from the window and looked at Jon, whose eyes were focused on the road. Maybe this trip with Jon was something more. Not just a short trip to the beautiful North in winter, not just a wedding of friends, perhaps to catch up and spend time with bumbling and socially awkward Jon. He needed company, female company after Ygritte.

He’s lonely, Sansa figured. That was probably why he had asked her to be his date for the wedding in the first place. It was easier than scoring an actual date with someone new. Sansa said yes the moment she heard the wedding was going to be held at the famously elegant locale of Winterton Farm. She had always wondered how the farmhouse and boutique hotel was like, if it really was the stuff of magazines. To her, it was just another road trip and a short getaway from the hustle and bustle of Winterfell. She didn’t think of it as anything more.

“You were rambling, Jon. It’s not a good look if you want to show a girl you’re confident.”

Jon chuckled. He found it amusing that he was asking Sansa for dating advice. Maybe it might just work, since the ladies know other ladies best.

“Right so tell me how I should speak then, if I want a girl to go out with me?”

Sansa rolled her eyes at Jon’s mocking tone. Why men ask other men for dating advice, and then wonder why they failed at relationships, was a mystery to her.

“You want me to give you dating advice? So you can try it on the single ladies you’ll meet at the wedding? Typical.”

“Well, you did say I make a good cuddling partner right, so maybe I’m looking for one right now.”

Sansa had to laugh at the reference. It all came back to her now, the hilarious conversation they had before both of them drifted off to sleep. Jon grinned when he heard Sansa’s giggle. The morning tension has eased up somehow now.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll give advice that makes most sense seeing that you too are a woman. And you would know how other women think. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Sansa frowned, trying to think what would make sense to someone like Jon.

“Just be yourself.”

“You see, easier said than done. And that’s what they always tell you though. Doesn’t always work.”

“Be yourself, yourself. Not the macho Jon Targaryen, not the broody bad boy Jon, just you. You, right now. You’re fine like this.”

“You mean be myself, myself like how I am around you?”

Jon paused for a thought as he let the revelation of his words run through him. He never realised how easy it was to be himself around Sansa. Not just because they were cousins but there was something about her that put him at ease.

“Yeah, like how you are around me or like, you know, my family. My parents adore you so I guess nothing wrong with you. But then again they like and welcome everyone.”

“Gee Sansa thanks. I adore your mom and dad too by the way. And my parents love all of you Stark kids, always going on and on about you and Robb, Arya blah blah,” Jon rebutted.

“I know. We Stark kids are a great bunch. But Jon, why can’t you be yourself around these women? You’re single, you love your job, you practically worship the women you date so what’s stopping you?”

It was Jon’s turn to glance at Sansa, who was now scrutinising him. He turned back to the road quickly, her intense ocean blue eyes causing a little involuntary stirring in him.

“Not sure. Maybe they don’t like the real me. It’s strange that you do.”

Sansa huffed in disapproval and was now certain Jon desperately needed an overhaul in the romance department if he was ever going to be a partner for someone. It was a cry for help.

“OK what about this.. Why don’t you do it on me? Pretend that I’m a girl you want to date, what would you say to me or do with me on our dates?”

Jon’s eyebrows went up in surprise, he didn’t think the conversation was going to veer in this direction. He was even more stunned that it was Sansa herself who suggested.

“What? No I couldn’t. I mean it would be weird.. okay maybe a little but not that you’re-”

“See you’re doing it again. Stop rambling and just talk to me like how you would talk to a someone you’d fancy,” Sansa stopped him before he could continue. Jon inhaled and took a moment to think as he drove straight on the road.

“Okay. Okay. So you’re going to pretend to be my date, a girl I’m going out with and all that?”

“Yes, just pretend that I’m her. Besides I’m already your date for the wedding so you can practice on me. Come on, just do it, we don’t want to keep you away from the actual dates you might score after the wedding. Wow, imagine.. Jon Targaryen, the next Bachelor,” Sansa teased. She liked seeing Jon blush and smile. He looked so laid back and mellow whenever he did.

Jon paused before he could answer and looked down the road and made a right turn. He peered out his window to look for a road sign, suddenly remembering how Sam had told him to look out for one and found a large sign pointing towards the farm.

“Well, that would have to wait because it would seem we have arrived.”

Sansa couldn’t help but gawk in awe and wonder at the sprawling estate that housed the famous farmhouse and the rustic charming boutique hotel a short distance away. In the winter, flanked by the snow dusted lanes and fields, it looked better than it had in the magazines. Sam and Gilly were extremely fortunate in getting a date for their nuptials and reception to be held here.

Jon grabbed their bags from the trunk and was greeted by a smiling valet who led them into the hotel to check in. Jon looked at his watch, it was almost 9.30 am. Jon was glad he made it in time.

“Jon! There you are!” Jon turned to the familiar voice that called out his name. Sam reached out to hug him and Sansa, his face beaming with joy. Jon couldn’t be happier for him.

“Was the drive okay? Sorry but it wasn’t actually 2 hours away, it was much shorter apparently. So you guys must be hungry! Go get checked in and I’ll get you both some food.”

Sansa could kiss Sam as he said those words like a dream. Just two days ago, she was tired and sore from sitting in the car for ten hours and now that she was here, she was so hungry she could eat a horse. Some getaway.

“Oh hey Jon, thought I should tell you.. The hotel is fully booked for today and I’m running around like a madman and I had last minute guests flying in last night so I kind of had to give away a room and now we’re short of one. I was thinking, could you and Sansa double up? I’m sorry to do this to you but you’re my best buddy, I’m sure you’d understand,” Sam rambled apologetically, his words hard and fast like a bullet train. It was obvious Sam was under duress.

All Jon could do was laugh, it was just funny to him now. First the motel and now Winterton Farm. It was just ironic. Sansa wandered over to the both of them seeing how wonderful it was to see Jon and Sam together again.

“But it’s a really nice room, a suite actually and it’s one on my floor.”

“Let me guess, it’s the largest one too?” Jon wondered.

“Sure thing, there are only three suites on my floor so yeah, one of the largest ones I guess. How do you know that?” Sam looked at him puzzled by his question.

“Never mind, another story for another day. But now let’s get you married, brother!” Jon brushed it off and gave Sam on pat his shoulder.

Sam waved his goodbyes and scrambled away, leaving Jon and Sansa at the reception counter to check in. Jon gave his details to the staff at the desk and turned to Sansa who was admiring the hotel’s interiors.

“Hey Sans, wanna hear something funny? We got a suite.”

Sansa was puzzled. What was so funny about a suite, she wondered. She loved to stay in a suite in a pretty hotel such as this. Jon explained to her what Sam had told him and watched her face as her mouth crinkled slightly as if in deep thought.

“Might be funny to you but what can we about it? Plus, it’s a freaking suite, Jon! I would sleep in the bath tub even if that was the only room available. This place is amazing. I’ve always wanted to come here,” Sansa waved her hand to show Jon the elegant and stylish lobby they were standing in.

“So you don’t mind? I mean I think they have a sofa bed I can lay on.” Jon asked, although he was secretly hoping Sansa didn’t mind him sharing the bed again. He had to admit, having someone in his arms felt wonderful. He loved the feel of soft silky tresses splayed on his bare chest. The rhythmic breathing and pulse thrumming on his skin. He didn’t mind having that again. Plus the atmosphere and ambience surrounding them was just the right kind of romantic. He only wished he didn’t have to pretend.

“So, your room is on the Swan Suites floor. This is your room number and we’ll have your bags sent right up. Mr Tarly had already ordered some food for you and it will be ready in about 15 minutes. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr and Mrs Targaryen?” the gentleman smiled as he handed Jon and Sansa their key cards. Jon almost raised his finger to correct him when he felt an arm loop around his elbow.

“Oh maybe a bottle of champagne if you can. And no that will be all. By the way, you have a lovely hotel, it’s beautiful,” Sansa interjected sweetly before Jon could say anything.

“Thank you Mrs Targaryen, I hope you and Mr Targaryen will enjoy your stay here. We look forward to seeing you later at the ceremony. If there’s anything else, do give us a call. In the meantime, Paul here will show you to your suite,” the man nodded politely and Jon and Sansa followed Paul, walking behind him. Jon noticed her hands were still on his arm.

“Umm.. Sansa. What are you doing?”

“Shh, don’t ruin it. Just play along. Besides, we’re pretending remember?”

#jonsa #jonsa fic #jon x sansa #jonsansaff #cheesy #campy #fun #road trip #modern au

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malemblogs · 7 years

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Media Interviews

The final component of our ‘It’s not all Rock‘n’Roll’ module was in the form of a media interview, the preparation for this involved research into scenarios much like the ones we had been presented with, the scenarios we had involved an artist performing late, having BP as a sponsor for a countryside festival, drug use and dealing outside of a venue we manage and a crisis management scenario wherein my artist claimed the pope knew about alleged child abuse within the church. For example, my research into the timing scenario involved looking at different artists who had broken curfew by starting their performance late including the likes of Madonna, who took to the stage 30 minutes later than she had advertised and ended up playing 40 minutes after curfew in Wembley Stadium, she was fined £50,000 for every 15 minutes beyond curfew she played and ended up with a fine of £135,000, I also looked into how consumer rights and compensation work under circumstances such as these and came across a piece determining that this can be covered under the T&Cs when purchasing the ticket and I went with that approach, that I had premeditated this was a possibility.

Moving onto the second of the four scenarios, I spent a lot of time looking into BP and the environmental damages they have caused throughout the years, I also spent time researching what they have done to make up for the damages they have caused with cases such as the Deepwater Horizon oil spill in 2010, BP were fined $4 billion for this catastrophe and several company officials and employees have been charged. BP now have more extensive oil spill preparedness and response plans in place and are trying to reduce the amount of gas they burn, I took this as an opportunity for BP to show the general public that they are trying to make up for the mistakes made in the past as my festival was going to run off of as much renewable energy as possible and be very eco-conscious, all of which would be thanks to BP who were underwriting all the costs of the festival, which would hopefully help quell the concerns of the environmental groups.

The third scenario was drug use and dealing outside of my venue, this scenario focused on syringes as opposed to pills or other drugs so I looked into syringes found in public spaces as well as inside venues, finding information about syringes in clubs proved to be difficult as the common ‘club drugs’ are often pills or powders however I did find several articles outlining syringes found in public spaces such as toilets and in alleyways as well as cases where the public including children had been stabbed with these needles, in these cases the local councils advised the public to call them with the location the syringes were found so that they could remove them as opposed to the public trying to do it themselves, there are also towns and cities such as Brighton where they have installed a needle deposit units and drug centres so users can dispose of the syringes safely and stop having to inject in public places. I also looked into venues where drugs have been a problem such as the Ministry of Sound and Fabric, both venues have had turbulent histories when it comes to drugs, for example the Ministry of Sound had trouble keeping drugs out of the venue as the security working were involved with gangs and helped to get drugs into the venue, after a complete security overhaul they have been able to cut down on the amount of drugs entering and being sold in the venue. Fabric very famously had a young man die within the venue last year due to taking a pill he bought in the venue, this ultimately led to the closure of the club. Unfortunately, this isn’t something that can be prevented completely, but with extra security and security cameras surrounding venues, as well as police present you could cut down on the amount of drugs taken or dealt within a venue definitely. I suggested keeping staff trained on spotting someone who is under the influence of drugs and to be able to spot suspicious behaviour such as frequent bathroom trips, or a suspicious exchange between two parties.

The final scenario was crisis management, for this scenario I spent time looking into different artists who had said or done regrettable things on stage or on a public platform such as social media, and how they recovered from it, one case I was familiar with and looked at in more detail was the Dixie Chicks, who very famously slated President Bush live on stage in the UK, which absolutely ruined their careers for a long time, they famously didn’t apologise and stood by what they had to say, other cases I looked at included Sinead O’Connor who ripped of a photo of the pope live on TV in 1992, she also did not apologise and has since been quoted as saying she would do it again. As for social media the likes of Adele has to have her twitter monitored at all times as she is known to get drunk and post things, I looked at hoe each artists management dealt with their actions and how the fans of the artists reacted. My approach for this particular scenario was to be very apologetic and try to get the public to empathize with my artist, claiming this was a subject very close to his heart and in the heat of the moment after hearing of the alleged abuse he lost his cool, due to how furious he was that this had been happening, a feeling that I imagine the majority of the public would be able to relate to.

For each scenario myself and my classmates would questions one another to imitate the interview process, we would ask questions not scripted to make it feel as much like a real media interview as possible, I also had my flatmates help me with this, as they aren’t on my course they were able to get really into each scenario and ask me out of the box questions that really got me thinking and had me prepared for the unexpected.

As for my performance in the actual interview with my lecturer, I felt as though I presented myself well, I opted for a blouse and jeans instead of my casual clothing, however I was very nervous as speaking publicly isn’t something I am very comfortable with and occasionally when I’m nervous or flustered I’ll develop quite a bad stutter, so I was nervous that especially whilst being recorded I was going to forget everything I’d learned, however when I sat down my lecturer made me feel comfortable and ensured me if anything was going wrong or if I felt overwhelmed we could stop recording at any time. The scenario I was presented with was timing, this is one of two scenarios I wanted to get. I feel like I answered the first two questions decently though I know I struggled getting across my justifications for not compensating everyone who had to leave early, I had stated that because the concert was due to end at 11.30 if it had started when it was advertised to have started, that there would have been a number of punters who would have had to have left anyway, so those people would not be compensated under any circumstances, looking back I see why it didn’t come across well as it isn’t a great answer and doesn’t make much sense, however my argument was still that I would not be compensating all fans however we would take a look at each individual claim for compensation as it came and make decisions that way. I felt as though even though at times I wasn’t as confident in my answers, I stood my ground and didn’t waver, there were times my interviewer, especially with the extra questions, was trying to trip me up but I knew exactly what my stance was on the compensation and how I wanted to answer the questions, there were certain points I vaguely remembered but couldn’t remember specific details, and looking back over my research afterwards I fudged some of the numbers I quoted, however I tried not to falter and carry on with what I was saying. There were certain acts I forgot to mention when I was trying to back up my arguments such as Justin Bieber and Bruce Springsteen. However in the end I think I done a decent job when it came to thinking of answers on the spot and remaining calm. I had answers for all the questions that came my way and think I answered them in a professional manner.

In terms of what I could have done to better prepare myself for the interview, more revision would have helped, while I felt I knew a lot of what I had looked over, as I was being questioned there were certain things that I didn’t know as thoroughly as I would have liked, I didn’t put too much effort into learning or researching points to make for each scenario as I should have over the Christmas holidays especially, and I feel like it showed in my interview. If I were to do this again I would prepare more thoroughly by looking at different cases for each scenario in more detail and spending more time looking at it from a manager’s perspective rather than just what I thought myself, as I know that how I feel about something isn’t necessarily how the public would also feel about it. There were points I knew before I entered the room that just up and eft my brain as soon as I sat down and the camera turned on, I feel like more intense revision and testing would have helped that and I would have been able to better present my arguments. As for my presentation in the interview I feel as though while I was wearing a blouse and had my makeup done, my natural hair is very wavy and sometimes looks unkempt, so it might have helped to straighten my hair and to have it in a more professional updo, I also feel like wearing a blazer or cardigan would have helped to make it look more professional. However I am relatively happy with the outcome of my media interview.

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